The telegram he showed me read: "Michael Mikhalovsky's body found on the track near Vyborg station four in the morning suicide presumed." "There is no need for explanations," he said, in putting the message back in his pocket, "nor sorrow—all is over. But it would be an excellent idea to appreciate this mere fact properly, don't you think so?"
"So," continued Frank, "to come closer to our own affairs, I must say that a young and charming lady is leaving for Stockholm on a special mission—I know not exactly what it is—and I must give her some information, some of which could be furnished by you. Before I ask you for this little information, however, I must clearly apprehend one thing: do you feel sufficiently interested in anything closely connected with the old régime? And if so,—how deep is your interest? You understand?"
"I understand," I said, after a second of thinking. "I also get your threat. Now—my answer will be clearer than your insinuations, as I fear nothing that I cannot see." (what a liar I am!)
Then I assumed my best poker face and calmly continued:
"I don't know, and do not care to know, what you are after, Frank. Personally—I cannot find anything in the old régime that I would regret to any important extent. On the other hand—I honestly do not see anything attractive, or particularly elegant, about the new régime. Practically there is no régime whatsoever in this present concoction of kuvaka and elevated ideas. So, finally, damn it all! I would be grateful to a friend who would advise me how to get out of any activity, and of course, would not consider any suggestion leading me into it. My decision is plain. I resign. Then I realize all I can and disappear from this rich field of political life. That's all, Frank."
He looked at me. He was very grave. And then suddenly his face changed and he again became the chap that amused Maroossia and myself in Marienbad a few years ago.
"So I feel, old man, exactly so," he laughed,—"aren't all of them the rottenest types one ever saw? Trash, my dear sir, trash. And I greet your decision."
The tension which I felt at the beginning of the dinner disappeared completely, and we began to talk about different things, remembering the time when we met, and recollecting our mutual impressions of 1912-1913, when things and people seemed to be so very different. I could not help, however, asking Frank at the end of our dinner:
"Are there any especial reasons to try and be foxy with me, or any reasons to frighten me with mysteries?"
He answered:…