"Caviare!" cried Sernine. "Now, that's too sweet of you. . . . You remembered that you were entertaining a Russian prince!"
They sat down facing each other, with the baron's greyhound, a large animal with long, silver hair, between them.
"Let me introduce Sirius, my most faithful friend."
"A fellow-countryman," said Sernine. "I shall never forget the one which the Tsar was good enough to give me when I had the honor to save his life."
"Ah, you had that honor . . . a terrorist conspiracy, no doubt?"
"Yes, a conspiracy got up by myself. You must know, this dog—its name, by the way, was Sebastopol. . . ."
The lunch continued merrily. Altenheim had recovered his good humor and the two men vied with each other in wit and politeness. Sernine told anecdotes which the baron capped with others; and it was a succession of stories of hunting, sport and travel, in which the oldest names in Europe were constantly cropping up: Spanish grandees, English lords, Hungarian magyars, Austrian archdukes.
"Ah," said Sernine, "what a fine profession is ours! It brings us into touch with all the best people. Here, Sirius, a bit of this truffled chicken!"
The dog did not take his eyes off him, and snapped at everything that Sernine gave it.
"A glass of Chambertin, prince?"