“Eloquent for the right, you mean! Nicol Patoff was my friend, and incapable of crime, unless it was that of detesting your atrocious government, which I do most heartily. I am glad I am an American, and not a Russian, subject to your laws!”
Womanlike, I was half crying, and my voice sounded croaky, and I hated myself for it, and hated the gendarme, who was certainly laughing at me, while my companions stood aghast, wondering what would be the result of my outburst. We had nothing to fear, for however stern and uncompromising the gendarme might be in the discharge of his duty, he was very kind to us, and, after I ceased speaking, he said: “If I ever find Patoff, and I may do so, I will tell him your opinion of him and our government. It will please him vastly, if all I know of him is true.”
“What do you know of him?” I demanded. “You have questioned us about him, and now I ask you, what has he done?”
“Nothing which I can tell you now,” was the good-humored reply. “I can only tell you what you probably know—that this is the house you are looking for, but no Patoffs live here now.” He hesitated a moment, then added: “It belongs to my family—to me! Would you like to go in?”
We had stood upon the sidewalk so long that the few passers-by began to look at us curiously and with suspicion, as if the presence in our midst of a gendarme boded evil to some of us, and one or two stopped to see what would follow. It was to me that Michel had addressed his invitation, and before I could answer and decline, as I meant to do, although I wished very much to see Nicol’s old home, he said: “It is perfectly proper for you to do so. Tourists not infrequently visit private houses when the owner is gone—for a compensation, of course. In this case there is no compensation. The owner is here, and invites you to enter. Will you come?”
“Yes, Miss Lucy, do. It will be something to tell at home,” Mary entreated, while Chance leaped upon me and then ran ahead, as if he were adding his invitation to his master’s.
I could not well resist, and gave a rather unwilling assent, wondering whom we should meet inside—what woman, I meant. This question was soon settled by the gendarme, who said, as he ushered us into a long reception room, which, to my Yankee eyes, looked untidy and uncared for: “You must excuse whatever is amiss, and I am afraid there is a great deal out of order, according to your code of housekeeping. I am just now living a bachelor’s life, as my mother has gone into the country for the summer, and Russian servants are not like the Yankees. I don’t suppose the house has all been swept since she went away. Now, what would you like to see most?” he asked, as we stood looking around us rather awkwardly.
“Oh, everything,” Mary replied; “the bedrooms and the kitchen. I’ve heard the latter was awful; not yours, especially, but everybody’s.”
She was certainly irrepressible and rude, and I tried to stop her, but the gendarme, who seemed pleased with her sprightliness, laughed good-naturedly, and said: “You are right, I think, and a Russian kitchen is a terror, particularly when the mistress is gone, and Chance and I keep house. As to bedrooms, my mother and I are civilized enough each to have one, but in some grand houses the master and mistress ignore such trivial things as bedrooms, and sleep on couches improvised as beds, while the servants sleep on the floor, or where they can find a place.”
“Horrible!” was Mary’s exclamation, as she held up her short dress, as if fearful of contamination.