Glancing stealthily around, as if to make sure no one was listening—a habit I noticed in many of the Russians—he spoke very low, and said: “That! Oh, that is Michel Seguin, one of the very highest of the police. The suspects dread him as they would the plague. He’s a regular sleuthhound, and can detect a criminal and unearth a plot when everyone else has failed. I don’t know why he was sent here to-day, unless they had heard there was a suspect on board. You can’t escape Michel Seguin, when once he is on your track.”
He looked hard at me, as if he thought I might be the suspect Michel Seguin was sent to arrest. He had certainly talked with me longer than with anyone else, and I had been rather saucy to him. But I was not afraid of him, and had a feeling of quiet and safety just because I had talked with him. We were through with the police for the present, and were free to look upon the frowning fort of Cronstadt, bristling with guns and threatening destruction to any enemy’s vessel which might venture near it.
From Cronstadt we could see in the distance the golden dome of St. Isaac’s towering against the sky, and around it the turrets and spires and roofs of the city I had come so far to see, and where I was destined to meet with so many adventures. The sail up the Neva to the wharf was soon accomplished, and we were in the whirl and hubbub of a great town, where Henri, our guide, nearly lost his wits in the confusion, and finally left the ordering of affairs to me, as I could speak the language so much better than he. Most of our party chose to take a large conveyance from the station to our hotel, but I preferred a drosky, as I had heard so much of them from Nicol Patoff, and wished to try one. Half a dozen were ready for me in a moment, and, after my choice was made, I said to the coachman, who looked like a small haystack, or rather like a feather bed with a rope tied around its center: “Don’t drive fast. I shall fall out.”
He nodded that he understood me, gathered up his reins, which looked like two narrow strips of leather, shook them at his horse, and we were off like the wind, jolting over the cobblestone pavement, now in one rut and now in another, while I tried in vain to find something to hold to. There was nothing; neither side nor back was of any use. To clutch the padded garment of the driver was impossible. It was like holding so much cotton wool in my hands. There was no alternative but to pound him with my fists, which I did, in imminent danger of being thrown from the drosky. At last the point of my umbrella reached him, and, slacking his speed, he asked: “What will little madame have?”
“Drive slower,” I said. “You have nearly broken every bone in my body, and I have nothing to hold to.”
“Very well,” he replied, and started again, faster than before, it seemed to me, as I swayed from side to side.
A breeze had blown up from the Neva, and this, added to the motion of the drosky, took my hat from my head and carried it along, with little swirls of dust and dirt, until it was some distance in front of us. The blows I dealt that padded figure in front were fast and furious, but of no avail. Nothing availed, not even my umbrella, till I sprang to my feet and clutched him around his neck, as if about to garrote him. Stopping his horse with a suddenness which drew the beast upon his haunches, he gasped: “In Heaven’s name, what will little madame have now?”
“I’ll have my hat!” I cried, pointing to my crumpled headgear, which some little girls had picked up and were examining, one of them trying it on and turning her head airily.
I think the driver swore, but am not sure.
“Madame shall have her hat,” he said, and was about to plunge on, when I stopped him again, by saying: “Let me out. I will walk the rest of the way. We are almost there,” and I pointed to what I was sure was our hotel, for I had studied St. Petersburg so carefully before coming that it seemed to me I knew every street and alley and public building.