The eyes of the man with the pointed beard prodded her more and more" insistently.
The tiny metal death's-head in his crimson tie told her that this was the one she had to meet, but when she made as if to rise, he gave a brief shake of the head, indicating that she must stay where she was.
Dasha frowned, trying to think what she should do.
He looked significantly at Zhirov.
She understood, and asked Zhirov to go and get her something to eat.
As soon as he left, the man with the pointed beard went up to her table and said, scarcely opening his lips:
"God speed you on your way!"
Dasha opened her bag and displayed the half of the triangle.
He fitted it to the other half, and then tore both halves into bits.
"How is it you know Zhirov?" he asked in rapid tones.
"I've known him for ages—in Petersburg."
"That suits us very well.
People must be led to think that you belong to his set.
Agree to all his proposals.
And this time tomorrow—don't forget!—be at the Gogol monument at the end of Prechistenski Boulevard.
Where are you spending the night?"
"I don't know."
"Stay anywhere you like, for tonight. Go with Zhirov...."
"I'm terribly tired."
Dasha's eyes filled with tears, and her hands shook, but a glance at his cold face, and at the death's-head in his tie, made her look down abashed.
"Remember—absolute secrecy!
If you let fall a single word, even by accident, you'll have to be got rid of. These are perilous times."
He stressed the words "got rid of."
Dasha felt her very toes shrink.
Zhirov was pushing his way to the table with two plates in his hands.
The man with the death's-head tiepin went up to him, his thin lips twisted in a grimace, and Dasha heard him say:
"Who's the pretty girl?"
"Now, now, Yurka, hands off!" said Zhirov, sending after the other a smile which seemed to veil a threat, and which revealed his decaying teeth. He set before Dasha black bread, sausages, and a glass full of some brownish concoction.
"What about tonight?"
"I don't care," replied Dasha, biting off a piece of sausage with poignant enjoyment.
Zhirov invited her to come to his room at the Hotel Luxe, across the road.
"You can have a. sleep and a wash, and I'll come for you about ten o'clock."
He bustled about, seeing to everything, still retaining a certain wholesome fear of Dasha.
His room had brocade curtains and a pink carpet, but the bed inspired so little confidence that he himself told Dasha she had better lie down on the sofa. Moving from it books, manuscripts and newspapers, he spread a sheet and a strip of dark fur, evidently once the lining of an expensive coat. Then he went out of the room, giggling.
Dasha took off her shoes.
Her back, her legs, her whole body were aching.
She fell asleep the moment she lay down, snuggling into the thick fur, which had a faint animal smell beneath the odour of scent and moth balls.
She did not hear Zhirov come in and bend over to look at her, nor the deep voice of a tall, clean-shaven man, with a Roman cast of countenance, calling out from the door:
"Take her there, then— I'll give you a note."
The evening was already far gone when she heaved a profound sigh and woke up.
A yellowish moon rising from behind the roof of a house opposite was reflected brokenly in the uneven surface of the windowpane.
A strip of light from an electric bulb showed beneath the door.
At last Dasha remembered where she was; hastily pulling up her stockings, and setting her hair and dress to rights, she went over to the washing-stand.
The towel was so filthy that Dasha, after hesitating for a moment with outspread, dripping fingers, turned back the hem of her skirt and dried her hands on it.
She felt all this squalor keenly, and her throat contracted with disgust: if only she could run back to her home, to the clean window, with the swallows outside.... Turning her head she caught sight of the moon, a refracted, ominous sickle, suspended limply above Moscow.
No, no! There was no going back! She could not die in solitude in her armchair at the window, overlooking the deserted Kameno-Ostrov Street, listening to the sound of doors and windows being boarded up.... No.... Come what might, there should be no going back....
There was a knock at the door, and Zhirov entered on tiptoe.
"I've got a permit, come on, Darya Dmitrevna!"
Dasha did not ask him what permit he had got and where they were to go, she merely pulled on her homemade cap and pressed the bag containing the two thousand rubles to her side.
They went out.