I must admit that I often pulled one out of my pocket-book and gazed at it. I feasted my eyes on it. The longer I looked at it, the more I began to believe in its genuineness. I saw myself in this false visiting card, somewhat as a woman sees herself in a mirror which makes her appear more charming than she is. And as though I did not know that my passport was a false one, I would sometimes take it out and reassure myself by its official statement that my visiting card had not lied.
So stupid and vain was I at that time, my friends, although a far greater force held me in thrall. But even that force, namely my love, fed itself on my vanity and my stupidity.
We finally stayed two days in Moscow, and the society ladies came from near and far. On both afternoons in the hotel, there was a short and, so to speak, condensed display. The fashionable dressmaker did not trouble to put on his tail suit. He wore a violet morning coat, a pale pink silk shirt, and a pair of brown patent leather shoes. The ladies were enchanted by him. He welcomed them all in a long speech. And they replied by chanting his praises at still greater length. Although at that time my knowledge of French was still negligible, I noticed that the ladies were at pains to imitate the dressmaker’s pronunciation. I myself avoided speaking with them, because one or the other would most likely have recognized that I was not a Krapotkin — if only from my lamentable French. But I was safe enough, for they only took notice of the dressmaker and his “creations.” Mostly of the dressmaker! And how gladly, in spite of all their femininity, would they have worn a violet morning suit and a pale pink silk shirt!
But enough of these fruitless reflections. Every age has its ridiculous dressmakers, its ridiculous fashions, its ridiculous women. The women who today in Russia wear the uniform of the Red Front are the daughters of those same women who had once been prepared to put on a violet morning coat; and the daughters of the Red Front today will some time perhaps wear similar clothes to those of their grandmothers.
We left Moscow. We arrived at the frontier. At the very moment in which the train drew up, there came to me for the first time the sudden realisation that I was in danger of losing Lutetia if I did not do something quickly. But what to do? What does a lost man of my type do, a man who practices the most despicable of all trades? Ah, my friends, he never has the direct, inspired, godlike imagination of those who are simply in love. A man of my cast has a base, distorted imagination. He pursues the woman he loves with every means offered him by his profession. Not even his feelings can ennoble a man of my type. To misuse power is the guiding principle of men like me! And God knows, I misused it.
At the frontier I gave one of my colleagues a sign, and he understood it immediately. You will remember, my friends, what the Russian frontier meant in those days. It was less the boundary of the all-powerful empire of the Czar than the bounds of our despotism; that is, of the despotism of the Russian police. The might of the Czar had its limits, even in his own palace. But our might, the might of the police, only ceased at the frontiers of the empire, and often — as you will soon hear — far beyond the frontiers. Nevertheless it gave a police official inexpressible pleasure, firstly to see a harmless person tremble with fear, secondly to do a favor for a colleague, and thirdly — and this is particularly important — to frighten a pretty young woman. That, my friends, is the peculiar expression of police eroticism.
My colleague immediately understood me. I disappeared for a time and waited in the police bureau. The dressmaker and all his girls were subjected to a most distressing and thorough search — and nothing could avert it, neither his persuasive tongue nor his appeals in the name of all the nobility of Russia. The officials simply did not understand French. In vain he called for me, for Prince Krapotkin. I could, indeed, observe him through the little window set in the wall between the police bureau and the customs room. But he did not see me. I remained invisible. I saw how he fussed round amongst his terrified troupe of girls, important and helpless, self-confident and lost, simultaneously pompous and afraid, as arrogant as a cock, as timid as a hare, as stupid as a donkey. I enjoyed the sight. I admit it. I should really have had no time to watch and despise him. For I was in love with Lutetia. But such was my nature, my friends! Often, indeed, I do not know what to think of myself. …
But that is not the most important thing. The chief thing was that suddenly, thanks to the friendly disposition of my colleague, a revolver was discovered in Lutetia’s trunk. The dressmaker ran helplessly around. Several times he called for me, he invoked my name, as one invokes the names of one’s gods — but still I refused to show myself. From my spy hole I peeped out, evil and contented, a god and a spy, and I saw Lutetia, pale, desperate. She did what all women have to do in such situations: she began to cry. And I remembered that I had watched her through a similar spy hole, scarcely two weeks before, and that I had seen her in the arms of the young Krapotkin, happy and laughing. Oh, I had not forgotten the sound of that laugh. And so vile was I, my friends, that I had an intense feeling of satisfaction. Let the train wait, two hours, three hours! I had time enough.
At last, when matters had got so far that Lutetia, bereft of words, had fallen upon the dressmaker’s neck, and all the other girls had begun to flutter round so that the whole scene looked like a cross between a tragic massacre, an excited chicken yard, and the romantic adventure of a romantic dressmaker — I appeared on the scent. Immediately my colleague bowed before me and said: “Your Highness, at your service!”
I took no notice of him. I called into the room, without looking at any of the numerous people there: “What is the matter here?”
“Your Highness,” began my colleague, “a revolver has been found in a lady’s trunk.”
“That is my revolver,” I said. “The ladies are under my protection.”
“At your command, Highness,” said the official.
We returned to the train.
Of course — as I expected — scarcely had we got into the train than the dressmaker began pouring out his gratitude. “Who is that lady with the revolver,” I asked. “A harmless girl,” he said. “I cannot understand it.” “I would like to speak to her,” I said. “Immediately,” he replied. “I will bring her to you.”
He brought her to me. And he left us forthwith. We were alone, Lutetia and I.
It was already growing dark, and the train seemed to race ever faster through the gathering twilight. It seemed extraordinary to me that she did not recognize me. It was as though everything were in league to prove to me how little time I had to reach my goal. Therefore it seemed to me advisable to say at once: “Where is my revolver now?”
Instead of an answer — which would still have been possible — Lutetia fell into my arms.
I took her on to my lap. And in the twilight of the evening, which came in through the two windows on each side of us — it was no longer one evening, but two — there began those caresses which you all know, and which so often prelude the tragedy of our lives.”