Thank God . . .
But we're not so lucky . . .' She sobbed and pointed to the door of Alexei's room. 'His temperature's forty . . . badly wounded . . .'
'Holy Mother', said Myshlaevsky, pushing his cap to the back of his head. 'How did he get caught?'
He turned to the figure at the table bending over a bottle and some shining metal boxes.
'Are you a doctor, may I ask?'
'No, unfortunately', answered a sad, muffled voice.
'Allow me to introduce myself: Larion Surzhansky.' #
The drawing-room.
The door into the lobby was shut and the portiere drawn to prevent the noise and the sound of voices from reaching Alexei.
Three men had just left his bedroom and driven away - one with a pointed beard and gold pince-nez, another clean shaven, young, and finally one who was gray and old and wise, wearing a heavy fur coat and a tall fur hat, a professor, Alexei's old teacher.
Elena had seen them out, her face stony.
She had pretended that Alexei had typhus, and now he had it.
'Apart from the wound - typhus . . .'
The column of mercury showed forty and . . .
'Julia' ...
A feverish flush, silence, and in the silence mutterings about a staircase and a telephone bell ringing . . . #
'Good day, sir', Myshlaevsky whispered maliciously in Ukrainian, straddling his legs wide.
Red-faced, Shervinsky avoided his look.
His black suit fitted immaculately; an impeccable shirt and a bow tie; patent-leather boots on his feet.
'Artiste of Kramsky's Opera Studio.'
There was a new identity-card in his pocket to prove it. 'Why aren't you wearing epaulettes, sir? Myshlaevsky went on. '
"The imperial Russian flag is waving on Vladimirskaya Street . . .
Two divisions of Senegalese in the port of Odessa and Serbian billeting officers . . .
Go to the Ukraine, gentlemen, and raise your regiments" . . . Remember all that, Shervinsky? Why, you mother- .. .'
'What's the matter with you?' asked Shervinsky. 'It's not my fault is it?
What did I have to do with it?
I was nearly shot myself.
I was the last to leave headquarters, exactly at noon, when the enemy's troops appeared in Pechorsk.'
'You're a hero', said Myshlaevsky, 'but I hope that his excellency, the commander-in-chief managed to get away sooner.
Just like his highness, the Hetman of the Ukraine . . . the son of a bitch ...
I trust that he is in safety.
The country needs men like him.
Yes - perhaps you can tell me exactly where they are?'
'Why do you want to know?'
'I'll tell you why.' Myshlaevsky clenched his right fist and smashed it into the palm of his left hand. 'If those excellencies and those highnesses fell into my hands I'd take one of them by the left leg and the other by the right, turn them upside down and bang their heads on the ground until I got sick of it.
And the rest of your bunch of punks at headquarters ought to be drowned in the lavatory . . .'
Shervinsky turned purple.
'See here - you be more careful what you're saying, if you please', he began.
'Don't forget that the Hetman abandoned his headquarters staff too.
He took no more than two personal aides with him, all the rest of us were just left to our fate.'
'Do you realise that at this moment a thousand of our men are cooped up as prisoners in the museum, hungry, guarded by machine-guns . . .
And whenever they feel inclined, Petlyura's men will simply squash them like so many bed-bugs.
Did you know that Colonel Nai-Turs was killed?
He was the only one who . . .'
'Keep your distance!' shouted Shervinsky, now genuinely angry. 'What do you mean by that tone of voice?
I'm as much a Russian officer as you are!'
'Now, gentlemen, stop!' Karas wedged himself between Myshlaevsky and Shervinsky. 'This is a completely pointless conversation.
He's right, Viktor - you're being too personal.
Stop it, this is getting us nowhere . . .'
'Quiet, quiet,' Nikolka whispered miserably, 'he'll hear you . . .'