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 rosebush!”
“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?”