“But, if gentlemen had asked for us we would have got other tickets,” the man persisted.
“What does it matter?” laughed the apparently tipsy Duke. “Come, let us drink!”
“But please to understand, the situation is such — it is not good that gentlemen come to such a place alone, it is not of good reputation. The police do what they can, but there is bad quarter in every city, it is not safe for gentlemen.”
“We have come to no harm.” De Richleau lifted his glass, as the woman set more drinks upon the table. “Good harvests — and prosperity to all!” he cried loudly in Russian.
The guides bowed solemnly, and drank. It is a toast that no Russian ever refuses; the great mass of the people — whether under Tsar or Soviet — are too near the eternal struggle with the soil.
“We are only anxious for safety of gentlemen,” the guide who acted as spokesman protested. “When we learn that gentlemen were not at theatre, we worry much; the situation is such because we are responsible.”
“Good feller!” Simon let his chair come forward with a crash, and patted the man on the back affectionately.
“Let’s have another drink; you shall see us all safe home!”
The two guides exchanged a swift glance — they seemed relieved. It was evident that their charges were harmless people, out on the spree and mildly drunk; they accepted a further ration of the fiery spirit.
After that things became easier — they drank: To the Russian People — To the British Socialist Party — To Kommissar Stalin — To Ramsay Macdonald — To each other — To the President of the Spanish Republic — To the King of England — and, finally, for no shadow of reason — To the ex-Emperor of Germany!