“Oui, galleria. But a railway under a town—mon Dieu!” said Marko, appalled. “’Ow do the people descend to it?”
“In lifts—ascenseurs. From the street.”
Stefan nodded assent. “I ’ave seen ascenseurs at Sofia,” he said.
“In these tunnels,” continued Arthur, visibly warming to his work, “trains go to all parts of the town every three minutes, and the cost is only twenty statinki. The streets above are paved with wood.”
“With wood! Kolossal!” said Marko, forgetting our prejudice against Bosch idiom in his wonder at this crowning marvel.
To what lengths of veracity Arthur would have gone I never knew, for at that moment a trampling of feet and a hoarse command outside announced the arrival of our escort, and Marko, still in a sort of walking swoon of amazement, went out to give them their orders.
Stefan regarded us with twinkling eyes.
“Ah, farceur!” he remarked, shaking his finger waggishly at Arthur. “I know all the time you make the joke, but poor Marko, you ’ave deceived ’im absolument. Railway under the ground, streets of wood, ’e swallow it all. Oh, naughty Baroutchik!”
The wolves did not come near us and our escort on our way home, but they could have had Arthur for the taking. At the moment he had nothing left to live for.