“Niet!” replied Rouletabille, laughing. “That is nothing. Nitchevo! His Majesty’s eider downs are of the finest eider, as one of the feathers that you have shown me demonstrates. Well, open them now. They are a cheap imitation, as the second feather proves. The return of the false eider downs, before evening, proves then that they hoped the substitution would pass undetected. That is all. Caracho! Collapse of the hoax. Your health! Vive le Tsar!”
“Caracho! Caracho!”
The locomotive was puffing when a couple were seen running, a man and a woman. It was Monsieur and Madame Gounsovski.
Gounsovski stood on the running-board.
“Madame Gounsovski has insisted upon shaking hands. You are very congenial.”
“Compliments, madame.”
“Tell me, young man, you did wrong to fail for dinner at my house yesterday.”
“I would have certainly escaped a disagreeable little journey into Finland. I do not regret it, monsieur.”
The train trembled and moved. They cried, “Vive la France! Vive la Russe!” Athanase Georgevitch wept. Matrena Petrovna, at a window of the station, whither she had timidly retired, waved a handkerchief to the little domovoi-doukh, who had made her see everything in the right light, and whom she did not dare to embrace after the terrible affair of the false poison and the Tsar’s anger.
The reporter threw her a respectful kiss.