During the drive, we arrived at the conclusion
that our driver was also drunk, as evidenced,
not from carelessness, but from overcare
in driving. In Russia, the laws on hackney
drivers are very strict, and the penalties on
accidents very severe. Droschky-drivers are
therefore educated to a normal state of intoxication,
during which they ply their trade with
much more accuracy than when in their
exceptional moods of sobriety. Our driver was
very drunk, and we were perfectly secure
against danger.

On arriving at M. Douboff's house, we learnt
from his secretary that he was in the country,
at a place called Petroffski Park, a summer
suburb of Moscow. It was only about flve in
the afternoon, so we determined to continue
our researches. We accordingly requested the
secretary to explain to our coachman the
whereabouts of M. Douboff's house.

On reaching the court-yard, we found the
carriage where we had left it; but the driver,
while holding the reins, was kneeling with his
face on the box, his back naturally to the
horse, fast asleep.

We poked him with our sticks, shouted in
his ears, but all in vain. At last a poke more
violent than the others aroused him. He got
up, seated himself on the box, stared at us for
a moment, then fell forward, his head on the
splashboard—still holding the reins mechanically,
but according to the rules of his art. Once
again we continued Ihe poking process, until
he really seemed alive, not only to the necessity
of keeping awake, but of driving to the place
indicated to him. We expressed ourselves
doubtful as to the result, but our friend's
secretary reassured us by telling us that, drunk
or sober, these men invariably found their
way.

We started at a good pace, and as we knew
the way to Petroffski Park, and found we were
going in a right direction, we resigned ourselves
confidently to our guide. At length, the fast-
trotting horses brought us to a small town of
scattered villas, each surrounded, very much as
in England, with a garden, and a sweep
enclosed by a railing and gateway. Up one of
these sweeps, of which the gateway was open,
we drove, but no Monsieur Douboff. Next
door, nothing of the kind. The driver, in tones
that imitated sobriety, inquired if the inhabitants
knew where Monsieur Douboff resided.
Whether they did or not I cannot tell, but we
were driven to some other house, and then to a
fourth and fifth, always finding the gate open.
At last, we were getting tired; it was beginning
to be dark, and we determined that if the next
inquiry were unsuccessful, we would return to
Moscow. Scarcely had we formed this resolution
when we arrived at the first gateway which
we found closed. The driver made signs of
satisfaction, repeating the words, "Dom Douboff."
We therefore alighted in good faith,
opened the gate, and walked up to the house,
some few yards distant. We knocked and rang
some tune, meanwhile hearing the sound oi
the wheels of our carriage as it turned round.
After some minutes, a servant appeared.

"Monsieur Douboff?" we asked.

"Non," answered the servant, who spoke a
little French.

"Where does he live?"

"Sais pas," was the rejoinder.

We returned to the gate just in time to see
the last of our carriage, which was galloping at
the top of its speed to Moscow.

It is useless to relate the wrathful expressions
of my comrade. Although he had on the whole
enjoyed his Russian trip, he condemned Russia
and its whole population to be drawn by rapid
droschkies to a climate anything but northerly.

"We must go to the right," I said.

"No—to the left," he replied.

So, though I knew I was in the right, we
went the other way.

Then my friend abused me.

"It's all your fault, coming this wild-goose
chase. If we had only brought the valet-de-place,
we shouldn't have been four miles from home,
without a carriage, in a country we don't know,
and where we can't speak a word of the
language."

Now it was he who had dismissed the valet-
de-place, as the reader knows; and if this story
had only begun a little sooner, it would have
shown that the proposal to visit M. Douboff
originated in the wish of my friend to obtain
some sketches from that well-known source.

However, a soft answer, or no answer at all,
turneth away wrath; so, strong in my position,
I trudged by his side in silence, knowing that
we were lengthening the distance from the
town.

At length, turning a corner, we saw a
gentleman and two ladies walking, the former
smoking, and all evidently going home for the
evening.

"Here are some natives," said my friend, who
does not trust his French; "ask them the
road."

The gentleman lifted his hat, and with an
admirable accent asked in English, "Can I be
of service to you, gentlemen?"

"You are too kind. We came here to find
Monsieur Douboff. We have not found him,
and our coachman has disappeared with the
carriage. Could you tell us where Monsieur
Douboff lives, or any place where we could
obtain a droschky?"

"I do not think Monsieur Douboff lives
here, but I will ask," answered the stranger
politely; and turning up a corner, he left us
with his two ladies,

"It is a long time that you are in Russia?"
said one of them, frankly, but with more of a
foreign accent than the gentleman.

"No, only a few days," answered my friend;
and he could not resist adding, "how well
you speak English!"

"No, we do not," was the reply; "but my
brother, he speak it very well. He live three
years in England, and travel in America."

"I have inquired at every likely place,"