Mass was over.
A crowd of sunburnt cadets and officers poured out of the church.
Famous generals, with the customary stern expression in their eyes, in pressed and cleaned uniforms, adorned with orders and crosses, stepped out with leisurely steps: the tall, slender Adonis, with his beard parted and his cap set rakishly sideways on his head was Erdeli; the unkempt individual in the soiled fur cap was the caustic Markov; the short one, snub-nosed, stocky, pig-eyed, was Kutepov; and the one with the waxed and curled moustache was the Cossack Bogayevsky.
After them, chatting as they walked, came Denikin and the aloof Romanovsky, with his handsome intelligent face,—the "enigma" they called him in the army.
When the Commander in Chief appeared all stood erect, the smokers beneath the birch trees flinging away their cigarettes.
Denikin was no longer the wheezy old fellow in civilian clothes and worn boots, hanging about in the wake of the army without his baggage.
He had straightened out, and was even smartly attired; his silvery beard inspired filial respect, and his eyes, no longer sunken, were suffused with a stern moisture, like an eagle's.
Of course he was no Kornilov, but he was the most experienced and practical of all the generals.
Raising two fingers to the peak of his cap, he passed with dignity through the church gate, and seated himself in the carriage beside Romanovsky.
The loose-limbed Teplov sauntered up to Roshchin. His left arm was in a sling and a creased cavalry greatcoat was thrown over his shoulders.
He had shaved in honour of the Sabbath, and was in excellent spirits.
"Heard the latest, Roshchin?
The Germans and Finns are on the eve of taking Petersburg.
Mannerheim's in command—remember him?
A staff general, a fine fellow and a brave soldier.... In Finland he had all the Socialists' throats cut.
And the Bolsheviks—think of that—are slinking out of Moscow with their valises, through Arkhangelsk....
It's a fact, upon my word it is! Lieutenant Sedelnikov told us, he's just come from Novocherkassk. He says the women there are marvellous....
Ten of them to each man...." He straddled his lean, knock-kneed legs and laughed till the Adam's apple showed over the collar of his tunic.
Roshchin did not encourage the description of the beauties of Novocherkassk, and Teplov turned to the political news, on which the army in the remote steppe lived.
"They say the whole of Moscow is mined—the Kremlin, the churches, the theatres, all the best buildings, whole streets—electric cables have been extended to Sokolniki —there's a mysterious house there, watched day and night by the Cheka men.... We approach, you know, and bang-bang-bang!
Moscow goes up into the air." (He bent over Roshchin, and lowered his voice.) "It's a fact, upon my word it is!
The Commander in Chief has taken the proper measures: special scouts have been sent to Moscow to look for these wires and to prevent an explosion when we approach Moscow. But what a hanging we'll have!
On the Red Square!
Oh, my!
Publicly, with drums beating...."
Roshchin rose, frowning.
"You'd better stick to your stories about girls, Teplov."
"So you don't like this sort of talk!"
"I do not."
Roshchin looked steadily into Teplov's witless red-brown eyes.
The other's long mouth moved to one side.
"Aha, you don't seem to be able to forget the Red rations."
"What?"
Roshchin raised his brows, astonished.
"What's that you said?"
"I said what the whole regiment is saying. It's time you gave an account of your work in the Red Army."
"You blackguard!"
Nothing but the fact that Teplov had his arm in a sling, and was still considered an invalid, saved him from a blow.
Instead of striking him, Roshchin put his hand behind his back, turned sharply, and, rigid, his shoulders raised, walked off among the graves.
Teplov hitched up his slipping greatcoat and looked after the erect back with a mortified smile.
Captain von Mecke came up at that moment, with his inseparable companion—Valerian Onoli, the son of a Simferopol tobacco magnate—a freckled youth with big, light, dreamy eyes, wearing a shabby, stained student's greatcoat with the shoulder straps of a noncommissioned officer.
"What's up—have you two quarrelled?" asked von Mecke, in the harsh voice common to people who are slightly deaf.
Teplov, still seething with indignation, tugged at his drooping moustache as he retailed the conversation he had had with Colonel Roshchin.
"It's strange you can still be surprised, Captain," said Onoli.
"I saw from the very first that Colonel Roshchin was a spy."
"Chuck it, Valka!"
Von Mecke winked, the whole left side of his face twitching—the result of concussion.
"General Markov knows him personally, you see.
One has to handle him with kid gloves. But I'll bet anything you like Roshchin's a Bolshevik and a louse...."
Things were comparatively quiet in the North Caucasus down till the end of May.