"I am a Russian gentleman." "A gentleman--and a Russian," said the policeman, slowly, as though putting no faith in the first statement and very little in the second.

"I think I can provide you with a lodging for the night," he added, facetiously.
"Slip past me, jump out of the window and run!" whispered the Cossack in the Count's ear, in Russian.
"What are you saying in your infernal language ?" asked the official.
"My friend advised me to run away," said the Count, coolly sitting down, as though he were master of the situation.

"Unfortunately for me, I was not taught to use my legs in that way when I was a boy." "I was," said the Cossack.

"Good-evening, Master Policeman." He took his hat from the peg on the wall where it had hung undisturbed throughout the confusion, and bowing gravely to the man in uniform made as though he would go out of the room.
"So, so, not quite so fast, my friend," said the policeman, putting himself in the way.

"Heigh! heigh! Stop him! Don't let him go," he bawled, a second later.
Schmidt had paused a minute, watching his opportunity, then, taking a quick step backwards, he had vaulted through the open window with the agility of a cat, and was flying down the empty street at the speed only attainable by that deceptive domestic animal when pressed for time and anxious for its own safety.
"Sobaka!" growled Domnoff, disgusted at his companion's defection.
"Either talk in a language that human beings can understand, or do not talk at all," said one of the two men who guarded him.
Seeing that pursuit was useless, the spokesman of the police turned to the Count, twice as blustering and terrible as before.
"This settles the question," he said.