M. Chevalier folded his fingers and kissed them.
After that the conversation between the guests became confidential and very jolly. They were talking about the stout officer; he smiled as he listened to what they were saying about him.
“How can one have such perverted taste!” cried one, through the laughter. “ Mlle. Clarisse! You know, Strúgov prefers such of the women as have chicken calves.”
Though Mlle. Clarisse did not understand the salt of that remark, she behind her counter burst out into a laughter as silvery as her bad teeth and advanced years permitted.
“Has the Siberian lady turned him to such thoughts?” and she laughed more heartily still. M. Chevalier himself roared with laughter, as he said:
“ Ce vieux coquin ,” patting the officer of Cossacks on his head and shoulders.
“But who are they, those Siberians? Mining proprietors or merchants?” one of the gentlemen asked, during a pause in the laughter.
“Nikíta, ask ze passport from ze chentleman zat as come,” said M. Chevalier.
“We, Alexander, ze Autocrat—” M. Chevalier began to read the passport, which had been brought in the meantime, but the officer of Cossacks tore it out of his hands, and his face expressed surprise.
“Guess who it is,” he said, “for you all know him by reputation.”
“How can we guess? Show it to us! Well, Abdel Kader, ha, ha, ha! Well, Cagliostro—Well, Peter III —ha, ha, ha, ha!”
“Well, read it!”