'Yes, do come . . .'
'Tell me, why are you alone and whose picture is that on the table?
The dark man with sideburns.'
'That's my cousin', replied Julia, lowering her eyes.
'What is his name?'
'Why do you want to know?'
'You saved me ...
I want to know.'
'just because I saved you, does that give you the right to know?
His name is Shpolyansky.'
'Is he here?'
'No, he's left.
Gone to Moscow.
How inquisitive you are.'
Something stirred within Alexei and he stared for a long time at the black sideburns and black eyes.
A gnawing, uncomfortable thought refused to leave him as he stared at the mouth and forehead of the chairman of the Magnetic Triolet club.
But the thought was confused and indistinct . . .
The forerunner.
That wretched man in the mohair coat . . .
What was it that was worrying him, nagging him?
Still, who cares.
To hell with him ...
As long as Alexei could come again to this strange, silent little house with its portrait of a man wearing epaulettes . . .
'It's time you were going.' *
'Nikolka?
Is that you?'
The brothers met face to face on the lowest terrace of the mysterious garden behind Malo-Provalnaya Street.
Nikolka seemed embarrassed, as though he had somehow been caught red-handed.
'Alyosha! Yes, I've been to see the Nai-Turs family', he explained, with a look as though he had been found climbing the fence after stealing apples.
'Very right and proper.
His mother is still alive, I hear.'
'Yes. And his sister. You see, Alyosha . . . well, that's how it is.'
Alexei gave Nikolka a sideways glance and did not ask any more questions.
The brothers walked half of the way home without saying a word.
Then Alexei broke the silence:
'Obviously fate, in the person of Petlyura, has brought both of us to Malo-Provalnaya Street.
Well, I expect we'll both be going back there again.
And who knows what may come of it.
Eh?'
Nikolka listened to this enigmatic remark with great interest and asked in his turn:
'Have you been taking some news to somebody on Malo-Provalnaya too, Alyosha?'
'M'hm', answered Alexei. Turning up his coat collar, he buried his face in it and said no more until they reached home. *
They were all at the Turbins' for lunch on that historic day -Myshlaevsky, Karas and Shervinsky.
It was their first meal together since Alexei had been lying in bed wounded.
And everything was as before, except for one thing - there were no more brooding, full-blown roses on the table, because the florist's shop no longer existed, its owner having vanished, probably to the same resting-place as Madame Anjou.
There were no officers' epaulettes on the shoulders of any of the men sitting at table, because their epaulettes too had faded away and melted in the snowstorm outside.
With mouths wide open, they were all listening to Shervinsky, even Anyuta, who had come from the kitchen and was leaning against the door.
'What sort of stars?' asked Myshlaevsky grimly.
'Little five-pointed stars, like badges, in their caps', said Shervinsky.
'There were hordes of them, they say.