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yourself, Ivan Nikolayich!'
'How do you know my name? '
'My dear fellow, who doesn't know you? ' With this the foreigner
pulled the previous day's issue of The Literary Gazette out of his pocket
and Ivan Nikolayich saw his own picture on the front page above some of his
own verse. Suddenly what had delighted him yesterday as proof of his fame
and popularity no longer gave the poet any pleasure at all.
'I beg your pardon,' he said, his face darkening. ' Would you excuse
us for a minute? I should like a word or two with my friend.'
'Oh, with pleasure! ' exclaimed the stranger. ' It's so delightful
sitting here under the trees and I'm not in a hurry to go anywhere, as it
happens.'
'Look here, Misha,' whispered the poet when he had drawn Berlioz
aside. ' He's not just a foreign tourist, he's a spy. He's a Russian emigre
and he's trying to catch us out. Ask him for his papers and then he'll go
away . . .'
'Do you think we should? ' whispered Berlioz anxiously, thinking to
himself--' He's right, of course . . .'
'Mark my words,' the poet whispered to him. ' He's pretending to be
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