Chapter 8 - Page 2

transparent on earth. No, no; no one knows the joy of
mere breathing if he has not breathed the air there, the finest in
the north of the world, which gives food and drink of beautiful
white eau-de-vie and yellow pivo, and strikes the blood and makes
one a beast vigorous and joyful and fatalistic, and mocks at the
Nihilists and, as well, at the ten thousand eyes of the police
staring from under the porches of houses, from under the skulls of
dvornicks - all police, the dvornicks; all police, also the joyous
concierges with extended hands. Ah, ah, one mocks at it all in
such air, provided one has roubles in one's pockets, plenty of
roubles, and that one is not besotted by reading those extraordinary
books that preach the happiness of all humanity to students and to
poor girl-students too. Ah, ah, seed of the Nihilists, all that!
These poor little fellows and poor little girls who have their heads
turned by lectures that they cannot digest! That is all the trouble,
the digestion. The digestion is needed. Messieurs the commercial
travelers for champagne, who talk together importantly in the
lobbies of the Grand Morskaia Hotel and who have studied the Russian
people even in the most distant cities where champagne is sold, will
tell you that over any table of hors-d'oeuvres, and will regulate
the whole question of the Revolution between two little glasses of
vodka, swallowed properly, quickly, elbow up, at a single draught,
in the Russian manner. Simply an affair of digestion, they tell
you. Who is the fool that would dare compare a young gentleman who
has well digested a bottle of champagne or two, and another young
man who has poorly digested the lucubrations of, who shall we say?
- the lucubrations of the economists? The economists? The
economists! Fools who compete which can make the most violent
statements! Those who read them and don't understand them go off
like a bomb! Your health! Nichevo! The world goes round still,
doesn't it?

Discussion political, economic, revolutionary, and other in the
room where they munch hors-d'oeuvres! You will hear it all as you
pass through the hotel to your chamber, young Rouletabille. Get
quickly now to the home of Koupriane, if you don't wish to arrive
there at luncheon-time; then you would have to put off these serious
affairs until evening.

The Department of Police. Massive entrance, heavily guarded, a
great lobby, halls with swinging doors, many obsequious schwitzars
on the lookout for tips, many poor creatures sitting against the
walls on dirty benches, desks and clerks, brilliant boots and
epaulets of gay young officers who are telling tales of the Aquarium
with great relish.

"Monsieur Rouletabille! Ah, yes. Please be seated. Delighted,
M.