Before long a discreet knock announced the arrival of the expected visitor.
“Entrez!” cried Vassili; and De Chauxville stood before him, with a smile which in French is called crbne.
“A pleasure,” said Vassili, behind his wooden face, “that I did not anticipate in Tver.”
“And consequently one that carries its own mitigation. An unanticipated pleasure, mon ami, is always inopportune. I make no doubt that you were sorry to see me.”
“On the contrary. Will you sit?”
“I can hardly believe,” went on De Chauxville, taking the proffered chair, “that my appearance was opportune—on the principle, ha! ha! that a flower growing out of place is a weed. Gentlemen of the—eh—Home Office prefer, I know, to travel quietly!” He spread out his expressive hands as if smoothing the path of M. Vassili through this stony world. “Incognito,” he added guilelessly.
“One does not publish one’s name from the housetops,” replied the Russian, with a glimmer of pride in his eyes, “especially if it happen to be not quite obscure; but between friends, my dear baron—between friends.”
“Yes. Then what are you doing in Tver?” enquired De Chauxville, with engaging frankness.
“Ah, that is a long story. But I will tell you—never fear—I will tell you on the usual terms.”
“Viz?” enquired the Frenchman, lighting a cigarette.