the house at the corner,
investigated the monument, went inside, examined all its details, came
out marveling, and finally went once again to the residence of the
Mourazoffs, was told that they had not yet returned from the Finland
town, then went and shut himself in his room at the hotel, where he
smoked a dozen pipes of tobacco. He emerged from his cloud of smoke at
dinner-time.

At ten that evening he stepped out of his carriage before the
Krestowsky. The establishment of Krestowsky, which looms among the Isles
much as the Aquarium does, is neither a theater, nor a music-hall, nor a
cafe-concert, nor a restaurant, nor a public garden; it is all of these
and some other things besides. Summer theater, winter theater, open-air
theater, hall for spectacles, scenic mountain, exercise-ground,
diversions of all sorts, garden promenades, cafes, restaurants, private
dining-rooms, everything is combined here that can amuse, charm, lead
to the wildest orgies, or provide those who never think of sleep till
toward three or four o'clock of a morning the means to await the dawn
with patience. The most celebrated companies of the old and the new
world play there amid an enthusiasm that is steadily maintained by the
foresight of the managers: Russian and foreign dancers, and above all
the French chanteuses, the little dolls of the cafes-concerts, so long
as they are young, bright, and elegantly dressed, may meet their fortune
there. If there is no such luck, they are sure at least to find every
evening some old beau, and often some officer, who willingly pays
twenty-five roubles for the sole pleasure of having a demoiselle born
on the banks of the Seine for his companion at the supper-table. After
their turn at the singing, these women display their graces and their
eager smiles in the promenades of the garden or among the tables where
the champagne-drinkers sit. The head-liners, naturally, are not driven
to this wearying perambulation, but can go away to their rest if they
are so inclined. However, the management is appreciative if they accept
the invitation of some dignitary of the army, of administration, or of
finance, who seeks the honor of hearing from the chanteuse, in a private
room and with a company of friends not disposed to melancholy, the
Bohemian songs of the Vieux Derevnia. They sing, they loll, they talk
of Paris, and above all they drink. If sometimes the little fete ends
rather roughly, it is the friendly and affec