allows himself to be rude: he hands a lady a chair at the right minute, he doesn't eat crayfish with his fork, he doesn't spit on the floor, but . . . there's not the same spirit in him! not the spirit in him! I don't know how to explain it to you but, however one is to express it, there's nothing in a Frenchman of . . . something . . . (the speaker flourishes his fingers) . . . of something . . . fanatical. I remember I have read somewhere that all of you have intelligence acquired from books, while we Russians have innate intelligence. If a Russian studies the sciences properly, none of your French professors is a match for him.'
'Perhaps,' says Champoun, as it were reluctantly.
'No, not perhaps, but certainly! It's no use your frowning, it's the truth I am speaking. The Russian intelligence is an inventive intelligence. Only of course he is not given a free outlet for it, and he is no hand at boasting. He will invent something—and break it or give it to the children to play with, while your Frenchman will invent some nonsensical thing and make an uproar for all the world to hear it. The other day Iona the coachman carved a little man out of wood, if you pull the little man by a thread he plays unseemly antics. But Iona does not brag of it. . . . I don't like Frenchmen as a rule. I am not referring to you, but speaking generally. . . . They are an immoral people! Outwardly they look like men, but they live like dogs. Take marriage for instance. With us, once you are married, you stick to your wife, and there is no talk about it, but goodness knows how it is with you. The husband is sitting all day long in a cafe, while his wife fills the house with Frenchmen, and sets to dancing the can- can with them.'
'That's not true!' Champoun protests, flaring up and unable to restrain himself. 'The principle of the family is highly esteemed in France.'
'We know all about that principle! You ought to be ashamed to defend it: one ought to be impartial: a pig is always a pig. . . . We must thank the Germans for having beaten them. . . . Yes indeed, God bless them for it.'
'In that case, monsieur, I don't understand. . .' says the Frenchman leaping up with flashing eyes, 'if you hate the French why do you keep me?'
'What am I to do with you?'
'Let me go, and I will go back to France.'
'Wha-at? But do you suppose they would let you into France now? Why, you are a traitor to your country! At one time Napoleon's your great man, at another Gambetta. . . . Who the devil can make you out?'
'Monsieur,' says Champoun in French, spluttering and crushing up his table napkin in his hands, 'my worst enemy could not have thought of a greater insult than the outrage you have just done to my feelings! All is over!'
And with a tragic wave of his arm the Frenchman flings his dinner napkin on the table majestically, and walks out of the room with dignity.
Three hours later the table is laid again, and the servants bring in the dinner. Kamyshev sits alone at the table. After the preliminary glass he feels a craving to babble. He wants to chatter, but he has no listener.
'What is Alphonse Ludovikovitch doing?' he asks the footman.
'He is packing his trunk, sir.'
'What a noodle! Lord forgive us!' says Kamyshev, and goes in to the
Frenchman.
Champoun is sitting on the floor in his room, and with trembling hands is packing in his trunk his linen, scent bottles, prayer-books, braces, ties. . . . All his correct figure, his trunk, his bedstead and the table—all have an air of elegance and effeminacy. Great tears are dropping from his big blue eyes into the trunk.
'Where are you off to?' asks Kamyshev, after standing still for a little.
The Frenchman says nothing.
'Do you want to go away?' Kamyshev goes on. 'Well, you know, but . . . I won't venture to detain you. But what is queer is, how are you going to travel without a passport? I wonder! You know I have lost your passport. I thrust it in somewhere between some papers, and it is lost. . . . And they are strict about passports among us. Before you have gone three or four miles they pounce upon you.'
Champoun raises his head and looks mistrustfully at Kamyshev.
'Yes. . . . You will see! They will see from your face you haven't a passport, and ask at once: Who is that? Alphonse Champoun. We know that Alphonse Champoun. Wouldn't you like to go under police escort somewhere nearer home!'
'Are you joking?'
'What motive have I for joking? Why should I? Only mind now; it's a compact, don't you begin whining then and writing letters. I won't stir a finger when they lead you by in fetters!'
Champoun jumps up and, pale and wide-eyed, begins pacing up and down the room.
'What are you doing to me?' he says in despair, clutching at his head. 'My God! accursed be that hour when the fatal thought of leaving my country entered my head! . . .'
'Come, come, come . . . I was joking!' says Kamyshev in a lower tone. 'Queer fish he is; he doesn't understand a joke. One can't say a word!'
'My dear friend!' shrieks Champoun, reassured by Kamyshev's tone.
'I swear I am devoted to Russia, to you and your children. . . .
To leave you is as bitter to me as death itself! But every word you
utter stabs me to the heart!'
'Ah, you queer fish! If I do abuse the French, what reason have you to take offence? You are a queer fish really! You should follow the example of Lazar Isaakitch, my tenant. I call him one thing and another, a Jew, and a scurvy rascal, and I make a pig's ear out of my coat tail, and catch him by his Jewish curls. He doesn't take offence.'
'But he is a slave! For a kopeck he is ready to put up with any insult!'
'Come, come, come . . . that's enough! Peace and concord!'
Champoun powders his tear-stained face and goes with Kamyshev to the dining-room. The first course is eaten in silence, after the second the same performance begins over again, and so Champoun's sufferings have no end.
