Everybody wept.Ivan Petrovitcb, Atbanase Georgevitch, Thaddeus Tchitchnikoff were standing up, stamping their feet and clapping their hands like enthusiastic boys.The students, who could be easily distinguished by the uniform green edging they wore on their coats, uttered insensate cries.And suddenly there rose the first strains of the national hymn.There was hesitation at first, a wavering.But not for long.Those who had been dreading some counter-demonstration realized that no objection could possibly be raised to a prayer for the Tsar.All heads uncovered and the Bodje Taara Krari mounted, unanimously, toward the stars.
Through his tears the young reporter never gave up his close watch on Natacha.She had half risen, and, sinking back, leaned on the edge of the box.She called, time and time again, a name that Rouletabille could not hear in the uproar, but that he felt sure was "Annouchka! Annouchka!" "The reckless girl," murmured Rouletabille, and, profiting by the general excitement, he left the box without being noticed.He made his way through the crowd toward Natacha, whom he had sought futilely since morning.The audience, after clamoring in vain for a repetition of the prayer by Annouchka, commenced to disperse, and the reporter was swept along with them for a few moments.When he reached the range of boxes he saw that Natacha and the family she had been with were gone.He looked on all sides without seeing the object of his search and like a madman commenced to run through the passages, when a sudden idea struck his blood cold.He inquired where the exit for the artists was and as soon as it was pointed out, he hurried there.He was not mistaken.
In the front line of the crowd that waited to see Annouchka come out he recognized Natacha, with her head enveloped in the black mantle so that none should see her face.Besides, this corner of the garden was in a half-gloom.The police barred the way; he could not approach as near Natacha as he wished.He set himself to slip like a serpent through the crowd.He was not separated from Natacha by more than four or five persons when a great jostling commenced.
Annouchka was coming out.Cries rose: "Annouchka! Annouchka!"Rouletabille threw himself on his knees and on all-fours succeeded in sticking his head through into the way kept by the police for Annouchka's passage.There, wrapped in a great red mantle, his hat on his arm, was a man Rouletabille immediately recognized.It was Prince Galitch.They were hurrying to escape the impending pressure of the crowd.But Annouchka as she passed near Natacha stopped just a second - a movement that did not escape Rouletabille - and, turning toward her said just the one word, "Caracho." Then she passed on.Rouletabille got up and forced his way back, having once more lost Natacha.He searched for her.He ran to the carriage-way and arrived just in time to see her seated in a carriage with the Mourazoff family.The carriage started at once in the direction of the datcha des Iles.The young man remained standing there, thinking.He made a gesture as though he were ready now to let luck take its course."In the end," said he, "it will be better so, perhaps," and then, to himself, "Now to supper, my boy."He turned in his tracks and soon was established in the glaring light of the restaurant.Officers standing, glass in hand, were saluting from table to table and waving a thousand compliments with grace that was almost feminine.
He heard his name called joyously, and recognized the voice of Ivan Petrovitch.The three boon companions were seated over a bottle of champagne resting in its ice-bath and were being served with tiny pates while they waited for the supper-hour, which was now near.
Rouletabille yielded to their invitation readily enough, and accompanied them when the head-waiter informed Thaddeus that the gentlemen were desired in a private room.They went to the first floor and were ushered into a large apartment whose balcony opened on the hall of the winter-theater, empty now.But the apartment was already occupied.Before a table covered with a shining service Gounsovski did the honors.
He received them like a servant, with his head down, an obsequious smile, and his back bent, bowing several times as each of the guests were presented to him.Athanase had described him accurately enough, a mannikin in fat.Under the vast bent brow one could hardly see his eyes, behind the blue glasses that seemed always ready to fall as he inclined too far his fat head with its timid and yet all-powerful glance.When he spoke in his falsetto voice, his chin dropped in a fold over his collar, and he had a steady gesture with the thumb and index finger of his right hand to retain the glasses from sliding down his short, thick nose.
Behind him there was the fine, haughty silhouette of Prince Galitch.
He had been invited by Annouchka, for she had consented to risk this supper only in company with three or four of her friends, officers who could not be further compromised by this affair, as they were already under the eye of the Okrana (Secret Police) despite their high birth.Gounsovski had seen them come with a sinister chuckle and had lavished upon them his marks of devotion.
He loved Annouchka.It would have sufficed to have surprised just once the jealous glance he sent from beneath his great blue glasses when he gazed at the singer to have understood the sentiments that actuated him in the presence of the beautiful daughter of the Black Land.
Annouchka was seated, or, rather, she lounged, Oriental fashion, on the sofa which ran along the wall behind the table.She paid attention to no one.Her attitude was forbidding, even hostile.
