ket camera, two packets of photographic plates, some soiled
handkerchiefs, collars and cuffs, a box of fancy note-paper, a bottle of
scent, a pair of embroidered pantoufles, and a lot of patent brass studs
and cuff links.

With the exception of the soiled linen, everything was seized, for all
were liable to duty, and some sharp words of reprimand were used by the
officer to my now subdued French neighbours for attempting to smuggle.

The officer moved on to me.

"Monsieur," mournfully remarked the Frenchman, "now _you_ will be done
for."

I declared everything and produced a special permit, which had been very
courteously given me by the Russian Ambassador, and handed it to the
officer. Having eagerly read it, he stood with his heels together and
gave me a military salute. With a profound bow he begged me to point out
to him all my luggage so that he could have it stamped without giving me
further trouble. He politely declined to use the keys I handed him, and
thinking that I might feel uncomfortable in the hustling crowd of people
he conveyed me to a chair in order that I might sit down.

I turned round to look at the Frenchmen. They had altogether collapsed.

"I thought you said that Englishmen were hated in Russia, and that they
would confiscate all my things? You see they have confiscated nothing," I
meekly remarked to the Frenchmen, when they returned to the sleeping car.
"I do not think that I have met with more polite Customs officials
anywhere."

"_Oui, oui_," muttered the stouter Frenchman, who was evidently in no
mood to enter into further conversation. "_Et nous autres betes_," he
soliloquized, "_qui avons fait l'alliance avec ces sauvages la! On m'a
tout pris meme le papier a lettres!_"

He removed his coat and waistcoat and the many interesting patent
appliances for holding his tie in the correct position--where it never
remained--then he threw himself violently on the berth, face towards the
wall, and grumbled the greater part of the night on the stupid mistake of
the Franco-Russian Alliance. On his return to France he would write a
letter to the Ministre des Affaires Etrangeres. After a long and tedious
soliloquy he fortunately fell asleep.

Warsaw on the Vistula, the old capital of Poland, was reached in the
morning.

The quickest way to Baku would have been to proceed to Moscow and then by
the so-called "petroleum express," which leaves once a week, every
Tuesday, for Baku. Unluckily, I coul