After some difficulty I discovered the whereabouts of the Hôtel Michaeli, and entering a likhac was driven to a small, and rather uninviting hotel under the shadow of the gilded dome of the Izak Church.
The proprietor, a tall, black-bearded Russian, greeted me warmly in French, exclaiming:
“M’sieur Burgoyne, n’est ce pas?”
“That is my name,” I replied.
“The apartments ordered for you are in readiness.”
“Who ordered them?” I asked.
“M’sieur must be aware that a gentleman secured his rooms a week ago?”
“No, I did not know that arrangements had been made for my reception,” I said.
“Will m’sieur have the kindness to sign the register before ascending?” he said, politely handing me a book and pen.
Those who have not travelled in the dominions of the Czar know nothing of the strict police regulations, the many formalities the foreigner has to undergo, and the questions he must answer before he is allowed to take up even a temporary residence in the Venice of the North.