"...the serpent's sting has been removed.
This phenomenal fact, in itself marking a turning point, has not been sufficiently taken into account.... I speak of the six hundred million gold rubles at present in our hands...." (The ends of M. Janeau's moustache stood upright.
"Bravo!" he cried, waving his glass; Piccolomini's eyes burned diabolically.) The golden sting has been removed from the Bolsheviks, gentlemen.... They can still bite, but their bite is no longer fatal.
They can threaten, but people fear them no more than they would fear a beggar shaking his crutch.... They have no more gold—nothing but a printing press."
Brikin, the merchant from Omsk, suddenly opened his mouth in a loud laugh, mopping his neck with his napkin, and muttering:
"What a business, my God!"
"You, gentlemen, representatives of foreign countries," continued Dr. Bulavin, and a metallic note came into his voice which had not been there before. "You, gentlemen, our allies ... remember—friendship is one thing, and money is another.... Only yesterday we were merely a comic-opera organization in your eyes, a kind of temporary growth, like the swelling which is bound to follow a blow...." (Cecek frowned, M. Janeau and Piccolomini made indignant gestures.... Dmitri Stepanovich gave a sly smile.) "Today the whole world knows that we are a solid government, that we are the guardians of a State gold fund.... Now we can come to an understanding, my friends the foreign representatives...." (He rapped his knuckles sharply on the table.) "I now speak as a private individual to private individuals, in an atmosphere of intimacy.
But I fully realize the gravity of the ideas I have expressed.... I foresee the movements of ships bearing munitions and textiles to Russian ports... the formation of vast White armies... the sword of heavy retribution descending on the band of rascals now lording it over Russia. Six hundred million is enough for that.... Foreign representatives!
Aid, comprehensive, generous aid to the legitimate representatives of the Russian people!"
He put his lips to the rim of his glass and sat down again, frowning and breathing heavily. Those round the table applauded warmly.
The merchant Brikin shouted:
"Thanks, friend.... That's right, friend, that's right— our way, no socialism...."
Cecek rose, settling his belt over his stomach with a quick tug.
"I will be brief, " he said. "We have given and will continue to give our lives for the well-being of our blood brothers, the Russians. Long live Russia, the great, the mighty.... Hurrah!"
At this the whole table thundered with applause, the outstretched hands of the ladies clapping frantically among the flowers.
M. Janeau rose to speak.
His head was tossed backward in a noble gesture, and his luxuriant moustache lent virility to his countenance:
"Mesdames et Messieurs!
We were all sure that the gallant Russian army, lost in dreams of its glorious forefathers, has been cunningly deceived by the gang of Bolsheviks.
They imposed upon it unnatural ideas and ferocious instincts, and the army ceased to be an army.
Mesdames et Messieurs, I will not attempt to conceal it, there was a moment when the faith of France in the sincerity of the Russian people was shaken.... This nightmare has vanished.... Today we all see that we were wrong —the Russian people are again with us.... The army has already realized its mistake.... Once again the Russian giant is ready to stand up against the attack of our common foe.... I am happy in my newly-gained confidence...."
When the clapping had died down, Piocolomini leaped to his feet, his heavy epaulettes shaking.
Since, however, no one present understood Italian, his goodwill was taken for granted, and the merchant Brikin sidled up to kiss the little swarthy man.
There followed speeches by the representatives of capital.
The merchants expressed themselves in foggy, involved periods—laying great stress on the fact that salvation must come from Siberia.... When everyone had finished speaking, Ataman Dutov was begged to say a few words.
At first he refused:
"No, no, I'm a soldier, I don't know how to speak," but in the end he rose heavily amidst the instantly ensuing silence, and sighed out:
"Well, gentlemen!
If our allies help us—well and good! If they won't—we'll manage to cope with the Bolsheviks on our own.... So long as there's money.... And we trust you will not try to clip our wings in this respect, gentlemen...."
"Take us, Ataman, take us, liver and lights, we grudge nothing!" howled Brikin in an access of ecstasy.
The banquet was a success.
When the speeches were over, black coffee was served, with foreign brandy and liqueurs.
It was very late.
Dmitri Stepanovich took French leave, departing without saying goodbye to anybody.
When, having driven back in a motorcar, he was opening his front door, an officer came rapidly up to him:
"Excuse me—are you Dr. Bulavin?"
Dmitri Stepanovich cast a glance over the stranger.
It was dark in the street and all he could see were the lieutenant colonel's shoulder straps.
The doctor mumbled:
"Yes, I am Bulavin."
"I have come to you on very important business.... I know it's not your receiving hours.... But I've been three times already, without getting an answer."
"Tomorrow from 11 o'clock at the Ministry."
"I implore you to make it today.
I'm leaving by the night steamer."
Dmitri Stepanovich paused before replying.
There was something very insistent and alarming about the stranger.
The doctor shrugged his shoulders.
"I give you fair warning—if you've come about monetary aid it is not within my competency."
"Oh, no, I don't want any aid."
"H'm.... Go in."