“Engrave it for ever on your red nose. All right!
But this is the last time.
Remember now! The last time!
Do you hear?
If it ever comes to my ears that you have been drunk, the—silence!—I know what you intend to say, but I won’t hear any more of your promises.
In a week’s time I shall inspect your company.
You understand?
And as to the troops’ pay, that matter must be settled to-morrow.
You hear?
To-morrow.
And now I shall not detain you longer, Captain.
I have the honour——”
The last words were interrupted by a scraping on the floor, and a few tottering steps towards the door; but, suddenly, the Colonel’s voice was again heard, though this time its wrathful and violent tone did not sound quite natural.
“Wait a moment! Come here, you devil’s pepper-box! Where are you off to? To the Jews, of course—to get a bill signed.
Ah, you fool—you blockhead! Here you are!
One, two, three, four—three hundred.
I can’t do more.
Take them and be off with you. Pay me back when you can.
What a mess you have made of things, Captain!
Now be off with you!
Go to the devil—your servant, sir!”
The door sprang open, and into the hall staggered little Captain Sviatovidov, red and perspiring, with harassed, nay, ravaged, features.
His right hand grasped convulsively his new, rustling bundle of banknotes.
He made a sort of pirouette directly he recognized Romashov, tried, but failed miserably in the attempt, to assume a sportive, free-and-easy look, and clutched tight hold of Romashov’s fingers with his hot, moist, trembling hand.
His wandering, furtive glances rested at last on Romashov as if he would ask the question: “Have you heard anything or have you not?”
“He’s a tiger, a bloodhound!” he whispered, pointing to the door of the Colonel’s room; “but what the deuce does it matter?”
Sviatovidov twice crossed himself quickly.
“The Lord be praised! the Lord be praised!”
“Bon-da-ren-ko!” roared Shulgovich from his room, and his powerful voice that moment filled every nook and corner of the house.
“Bondarenko, who is out there still?
Bring him in.”
“Hold your own, my young lion,” whispered Sviatovidov with a false smile.
“Au revoir, Lieutenant.
Hope you’ll have a good time.”
Bondarenko glided through the door. He was a typical Colonel’s servant, with an impudently condescending look, hair pomaded and parted in the middle, dandified, with white gloves.
He addressed Romashov in a respectful tone, but eyed him, at the same time, in a very bold way.
“His Excellency begs your Honour to step in.”
He opened the door and stepped aside.
Romashov walked in.
Colonel Shulgovich sat at a table in a corner of the room, to the left of the door.
He was wearing his fatigue tunic, under which appeared his gleaming white shirt.
His red, sinewy hands rested on the arm of his easy chair.
His unnaturally big, old face, with short tufts of hair on the top of his head, and the white pointed beard, gave an impression of a certain hardness and coldness.
The bright colourless eyes gleamed almost aggressively at the visitor, whose salutation was returned with a brief nod.
Romashov at that moment noticed a crescent-shaped ring in the Colonel’s ear, and thought to himself:
“Strange that I never saw that ring before.”
“This is very serious,” began Shulgovich, in a gruff bass that seemed to proceed from the depths of his diaphragm, after which he made a long pause.
“Shame on you!” he continued in a raised voice.
“Because you’ve served a year all but one week you begin to put on airs.
Besides this, I have many other reasons to be annoyed with you.