'Oh God, of course - it's my fault ...
I told you to report at this time. . . .
Obviously you stayed at home all day and haven't heard . . .
Well, no time to go into all that.
There's only one thing for you to do now - remove your shoulder-straps, get out of here and hide.'
'What's happened?
For God's sake tell me what's happened?'
'What's happened?' Malyshev echoed his question with ironical jocularity. 'What's happened is that Petlyura's in the City.
He's reached Pechorsk and may even be on the Kreshchatik now for all I know.
The City's taken.' Suddenly Malyshev ground his teeth, squinted furiously and began unexpectedly to talk like the old Malyshev, not at all like an amateur actor. 'Headquarters betrayed us.
We should have given up and run this morning.
Fortunately I had some reliable friends at headquarters and I found out the true state of affairs last night, so was able to disband the mortar regiment in time.
This is no time for reflection, doctor-take off your badges!'
'. . . but over there, at the museum, they don't know all this and they still think. . . .'
Malyshev's face darkened.
'None of my business', he retorted bitterly. 'Not my affair.
Nothing concerns me any longer.
I was there a short while ago and I shouted myself hoarse warning them and begging them to disperse.
I can't do any more.
I've saved all my own men, and prevented them from being slaughtered.
I saved them from a shameful end!' Malyshev suddenly began shouting hysterically. Obviously his control over some powerful and heavily-suppressed emotion had snapped and he could no longer restrain himself. 'Generals - huh!' He clenched his fists and made threatening gestures.
His face had turned purple.
Just then a machine-gun began to chatter at the end of the street and the bullets seemed to be hitting the large house next door.
Malyshev stopped short, and was silent.
'This is it, doctor.
Goodbye.
Run for your life!
Only not out on to the street. Go out there, by the back door, and then through the back yards.
That way's still safe.
And hurry.'
Malyshev shook the appalled Alexei Turbin by the hand, turned sharply about and ran off through the dark opening behind a partition.
The machine-gun outside stopped firing and the shop was silent except for the crackling of paper in the stove.
Although he suddenly felt very lonely, and despite Malyshev's urgent warnings, Alexei found himself walking slowly and with a curious languor towards the door.
He rattled the handle, let fall the latch and returned to the stove.
He acted slowly, his limbs oddly unwilling, his mind numb and muddled.
The fire was dying down, the flames in the mouth of the stove sinking to a dull red glow and the shop suddenly grew much darker.
In the graying, flickering shadows the shelves on the walls seemed to be gently moving up and down.
As he stared around them Alexei noticed dully that Madame Anjou's establishment still smelled of perfume.
Faintly and softly, but it could still be smelled.
The thoughts in Alexei's mind fused into a formless jumble and for some time he gazed completely senselessly towards the place where the newly-shaven colonel had disappeared.
Then, helped by the silence, his tangled thinking began slowly to unravel.
The most important strand emerged clearly: Petlyura was here.
'Peturra, Peturra', Alexei repeated softly to himself and smiled, not knowing why.
He walked over to a mirror on the wall, dimmed by a film of dust like a sheet of fine taffeta.
The paper had all burned out and the last little red tongue of flame danced to and fro for a while, then expired at the bottom of the stove.
It was now almost quite dark.
'Petlyura, it's crazy. . . .
Fact is, this country's completely ruined now', muttered Alexei in the twilit shop. Then, coming to his senses: 'Why am I standing around like this and dreaming?
Suppose they start breaking into this place?'
He jumped into action, as Malyshev had done before leaving and began tearing off his shoulder-straps.