The old man stirred, and burbled.
"He's waking up," said Storm. "You take my bed. Well, daddy?" He spoke in Kutenais. "Want your back scratched?"
"Come here, my son."
"Here, daddy. What's up?"
"Secrets, my son, secrets. Bend your head down, listen. Don't tell these women."
"Not a word."
"Speak French. I'm going to leave them. I shall be wafted, wafted, like a thistledown, to my brother's palace at Irkutsk. Then we go, he and I, to Peterborg, to the winter palace, to the court ball—the Bal Masque, my brother as Puncinello—so fat—ho! ho! He is too fat to be good form. But I—don't breathe a word—I go as the Sansculotte, the Revolutionary of the Red Terror, with wild hair, and the tricolor sash. Yes, even the pantaloons—to terrify the Court. Her Imperial Majesty the Tsarevna will faint at the sight of a Sansculotte. Ah! there's the practical joke, to make our Court of Russia expect Madame Guillotine, the madam who thinks us all too tall to be quite in the mode, too tall by a head.
"A Sansculotte, yes, but not without a shirt—no—no. That would be too immoral. Get out a dress shirt with my Mechlin ruffles. And really the striped waistcoat does make most subtle suggestion of a graceful figure. Tatata—quel horreur! Not the rude breeches with iron buckles. Wheu! And these so scratchy, disgustingly coarse gray stockings. Take them away! Burn them! Yes, dove-colored stockinette, and for a graceful contrast the egg-blue swallow-tails with salmon-colored revers. And comme la mode my diamond fob, of course—tut tut tut—to illustrate the complexion of a patch here—as though by accident, carelessly, sans gêne. Ah! this black cocked hat with its tricolor plume, and gold tassels above the shoulders—oh, very saucy! Ivan! My quizzing glass! of course. Beast! Why, they'll be the rage next season! Not Sansculotte? Pig! Am I not Orthodox? Noblesse oblige!
"Hark, Storm! Violin, 'cello, harpischord, and flute. Why, 'tis the Herr Professor Beethoven's new minuet! Mad'moiselle in homage, adorable! Thy bridal crown, Pavlova! My wife! My darling—thy love pours through me as Neva bathes her isles. No star dare shine where thy light gleams. Rose of the nightless summer. Oh, petal fingers thrill my hand! Am I not shadow to enhance thy sunshine? And in my reverent homage bow before thee.
"The music changes. 'Tis the Emperor's hymn. A most fatiguing homemade tune. And here come their Imperial Majesties the Tsar and Tsarevna, advancing through the lane of courtiers. She wears the Orlov diamond en corsage, but don't you think this old Russian court dress rather dowdy? Nicholas has the new side-whiskers. I must remember. I really must ask my barber if—— What fun, what a joke! Olga, my Little Fur Seal, I shall present you as my wife—my bride in hairy sealskin breeches—Eskimo! The Tsarevna and the Grand Duchesses will faint in heaps, and order my head chopped off. All Peterborg convulsed at my last joke. Now, don't you scratch my face, dear. No. Not here! Why, these insipid dolls in diamonds and starch are not real flesh and blood, passion and tenderness, as you are, my little savage. But really you shouldn't scratch my face at a court ball. Démodé, my dear, outré. You hold my gloves instead, for the zakouska. We will have cognac and one red mushroom, eh?