His eyes were sunken—he had not been to bed.
Slop basin, tray, and saucers were filled with cigarette ends.
Every now and then he took out a broken comb and passed it through the grey curls over his forehead.
A summons to the performance of his ministerial duties might be expected at any moment.
He suddenly realized that he was infernally ambitious.
Wounded soldiers filed past his windows along Dvoryanskaya Street.
They seemed to be passing through a city of the dead.
Some sank on to the pavement, leaning against the walls, bandaged up after a fashion with bloodstained rags.
They gazed up at the empty windows— there was no one from whom to beg a drink of water and a crust.
The street, which the storm of the night before had failed to cool, lay burning beneath the sun.
From the other side of the river came the hellish music of the artillery.
A car dashed by, filling the street with clouds of white dust, and affording a glimpse of the distorted face and darkened lips of the military commissar.
The car went downhill, and over the wooden bridge, where it was afterwards said to have been blown up by a shell with all its passengers.
Time came to a standstill, the battle seemed endless.
The town held its breath.
Society women, already attired in white dresses, lay covering their heads under cushions.
The Committee of the Constituent Assembly was taking its morning tea, served by the proprietor of the flour mill.
In the light of the cellar the faces of the ministers showed an unearthly pallor.
And there was a perpetual booming and banging from the Czech artillery on the other side of the river.
At twelve noon, Dmitri Stepanovich went to the window and, panting with the effort, opened it, unable to endure the blue haze of tobacco smoke any more.
There was no longer a single wounded soldier to be seen in the street.
Many windows were opened a crack—here an eye peeped out from behind a curtain, there a perturbed face showed itself for a moment.
Heads were thrust out from porches, and withdrawn.
It looked as if there really were no more Bolsheviks left.... But what did the rapid firing from the other side of the river mean?
Oh, how wearing it all was!
And suddenly, as by a miracle, a long-legged officer in a snow-white, high-waisted tunic came round the corner, stood still a moment, and proceeded down the middle of the street.
His sword knocked against his boot tops.
On his shoulders, like the sun at noon, blazed the old-regime bliss of gilt shoulder straps....
Something long forgotten stirred in Dmitri Stepanovich's heart, as if he had just remembered some cause of indignation....
He thrust his head out of the window with unaccountable animation, and shouted to the officer:
"Long live the Constituent Assembly!"
The officer winked at the chubby-faced doctor and replied enigmatically:
"We'll see about that!"
And now heads were leaning out of all the windows, calling to the officer.
"Captain! Captain! Well?
Have we been taken?
Have the Bolsheviks gone?"
Dmitri Stepanovich put on his white peaked cap, seized his walking stick, cast a glance at the mirror, and went out of the house.
People were pouring into the street, as after a church service.
And in the distance church bells were pealing merrily.
The crowd jostled one another with joyful noise at the street corner.
Dmitri Stepanovich's sleeve was seized by one of his patients, a lady with a triple chin, the flowers on whose heavily trimmed hat smelled of camphor balls.
"Look, doctor—the Czechs!"
At the street corner, surrounded by women, stood two Czechs, their rifles atilt. One of them had a blue, shaven chin, the other, an enormous black moustache.
They smiled nervously and glanced rapidly at the roofs, the windows, and the faces of the passers-by.
Their smart caps, the leather buttons on their tunics, the shields sewn on to their left sleeves, their sturdy pouches and cartridge cases, their resolute countenances— all evoked enthusiasm and respectful astonishment.
The two of them seemed to have tumbled into Dvoryanskaya Street from some other planet.
A few officials in the crowd cheered: "Hurrah for the Czechs!
Toss them!"
Dmitri Stepanovich, sniffing as he pushed his way through the crowd, tried to utter a suitable greeting, but his throat had gone dry with emotion, and he hastened to the secret place where his high duties awaited him.