When M. Chevalier, who had been up-stairs to look after his guests,
returned to his room and gave the benefit of his observations on the
newcomers to his life companion, in laces and a silk garment, who in
Parisian fashion was sitting back of the counter, several habitual
visitors of the establishment were sitting in the room. Serézha, who had
been down-stairs, had taken notice of that room and of its visitors. If
you have been in Moscow, you have, no doubt, noticed that room yourself.
If you, a modest man who do not know Moscow, have missed a dinner to
which you are invited, or have made a mistake in your calculations,
imagining that the hospitable Muscovites would invite you to dinner, or
simply wish to dine in the best restaurant, you enter the lackeys' room.
Three or four lackeys jump up: one of them takes off your fur coat and
congratulates you on the occasion of the New Year, or of the
Butter-week, or of your arrival, or simply remarks that you have not
called for a long while, though you have never been in that
establishment before.
You enter, and the first thing that strikes your eyes is a table set, as
you in the first moment imagine, with an endless quantity of palatable
dishes. But that is only an optical illusion, for the greater part of
that table is occupied by pheasants in feather, raw lobsters, boxes with
perfume and pomatum, and bottles with cosmetics and candy. Only at the
very edge, if you look well, will you find the vódka and a piece of
bread with butter and sardines, under a wire globe, which is quite
useless in Moscow in the month of December, even though it is precisely
such as those which are used in Paris. Then, beyond the table, you see
the room, where behind a counter sits a Frenchwoman, of extremely
repulsive exterior, but wearing the cleanest of gloves and a most
exquisite, fashionable gown. Near the Frenchwoman you will see an
officer in unbuttoned uniform, taking a dram of vódka, a civilian
reading a newspaper, and somebody's military or civilian legs lying on a
velvet chair, and you will hear French conversation, and more or less
sincere, loud laughter.
If you wish to know what is going on in that room, I should advise you
not to enter within, but only to look in, as though merely passing by to
take a sandwich. Otherwise you will feel ill at ease from the
interrogative silence and glances, and you will certainly take your tail
between your legs and skulk away to one of the tables in the large hall,
or to the winter garden. Nobody will keep you from doing so. These
tables are for everybody, and there, in your solitude, you may call Dey
a garçon and order as many truffles as you please. The room with the
Frenchwoman, however, exists for the select, golden Moscow youth, and it
is not so easy to find your way among the select as you imagine.
On returning to this room, M. Chevalier told his wife that the gentleman
from Siberia was dull, but that his son and daughter were fine people,
such as could be raised only in Siberia.
"You ought just to see the daughter! She is a little rose-bush!"
"Oh, this old man is fond of fresh-looking women," said one of the
guests, who was smoking a cigar. (The conversation, of course, was
carried on in French, but I render it in Russian, as I shall continue to
do in this story.)
"Oh, I am very fond of them!" replied M. Chevalier. "Women are my
passion. Do you not believe me?"
"Do you hear, Madame Chevalier?" shouted a stout officer of Cossacks,
who owed a big bill in the institution and was fond of chatting with the
landlord.
"He shares my taste," said M. Chevalier, patting the stout man on his
epaulet.
"And is this Siberian young lady really pretty?"