if I only had at least a regiment! But I am not involved in the action, Fandorin. You need to go to headquarters, to the commander-in-chief. I have to complete my reconnaissance, but I'll provide you with an escort to Tsarevitsy. Perhaps you will be my guest this evening, Varvara Andreevna? It can be quite jolly at times in the war correspondents' marquee.'
'With pleasure’ said Varya, casting a nervous glance towards the spot where the freed prisoner had been laid on the grass. Two Cossacks were squatting on their haunches beside the officer and doing something to him.
'That officer is dead, isn't he?'
'Alive and kicking,' replied the general. 'The lucky devil, he'll live for a hundred years now. When we started chasing the Bashi-Bazouks, they shot him in the head and high-tailed it. But everyone knows you can't trust a bullet. It shot off at a tangent and only tore off a little scrap of skin. Well then, my lads, have you bandaged up the captain?' he shouted loudly to the Cossacks.
The Cossacks helped the officer to get up. He swayed, but stayed on his feet and stubbornly pushed away the Cossacks, who were trying to support him by the elbows. He took several jerky, faltering steps on legs that seemed about to buckle under him at any moment, stood to attention and wheezed in a hoarse voice: 'Captain of General Headquarters Eremei Pere-pyolkin, Your Excellency. I was proceeding from Zimnitsa to my posting at the headquarters of the Western Division, where I had been appointed to Lieutenant-General Kriedener's operations section. On the way I was attacked by a unit of hostile irregular cavalry and taken prisoner. It was my own fault ... I simply did not expect anything of the kind in our rear ... I did not even have a pistol with me, only my sword . . .'
Varya was able to get a better look at the poor victim now. He was short and sinewy, with dishevelled chestnut hair, a narrow mouth with almost no lips and stern brown eyes - or rather, one brown eye, because the second one was still not visible,- but at least the captain's gaze was no longer full of anguish or despair.
'You're alive, and that's splendid’Sobolev said magnanimously. 'But an officer must always carry a pistol, even a staff officer. Otherwise it's like a lady going out into the street without a hat - she'll be taken for a loose woman.' He laughed, then caught Varya's angry look and hemmed as if he were clearing his throat. 'Pardon, mademoiselle.'
A dashing Cossack sergeant approached the general and jabbed with his finger, pointing to something. 'Look, Your Excellency, I think it's Semyonov!'
Varya turned to look and suddenly felt sick: the bandit's bay on which she had made her recent inauspicious gallop had reappeared beside the bush. The horse was nibbling on the grass as if nothing had happened, with the loathsome trophy still suspended, swaying, on its flank.
Sobolev jumped down and walked over to the horse with his eyes screwed up sceptically and turned the nightmarish sphere this way and that. 'That's not Semyonov, surely?' he said doubtfully. 'You're talking nonsense, Nechitailo. Semyonov's face is quite different.'
'It certainly is Semyonov, Mikhal Dmitrich,' the sergeant said heatedly. 'See, there's his torn ear, and look here' - he parted the dead head's purple lips - 'the front tooth's missing as well. It's Semyonov all right!'
'I suppose so,' said the general, nodding thoughtfully. 'He must have had a pretty rough time of it. Varvara Andreevna,' he said, turning to Varya to explain, 'this is a Cossack from the Second Cavalry Squadron who was abducted by Daud-bek's Meskhetians this morning’
But Varya was no longer listening: the earth and the sky somersaulted, exchanging places, and Paladin and Fandorin were only just in time to catch the suddenly limp young lady as she fell.
Chapter Three
WHICH IS DEVOTED ALMOST ENTIRELY TO ORIENTAL GUILE
La Revue Parisienne (Paris) 15 (3) May 1877
The double-headed eagle that serves the Russian
'With pleasure’ said Varya, casting a nervous glance towards the spot where the freed prisoner had been laid on the grass. Two Cossacks were squatting on their haunches beside the officer and doing something to him.
'That officer is dead, isn't he?'
'Alive and kicking,' replied the general. 'The lucky devil, he'll live for a hundred years now. When we started chasing the Bashi-Bazouks, they shot him in the head and high-tailed it. But everyone knows you can't trust a bullet. It shot off at a tangent and only tore off a little scrap of skin. Well then, my lads, have you bandaged up the captain?' he shouted loudly to the Cossacks.
The Cossacks helped the officer to get up. He swayed, but stayed on his feet and stubbornly pushed away the Cossacks, who were trying to support him by the elbows. He took several jerky, faltering steps on legs that seemed about to buckle under him at any moment, stood to attention and wheezed in a hoarse voice: 'Captain of General Headquarters Eremei Pere-pyolkin, Your Excellency. I was proceeding from Zimnitsa to my posting at the headquarters of the Western Division, where I had been appointed to Lieutenant-General Kriedener's operations section. On the way I was attacked by a unit of hostile irregular cavalry and taken prisoner. It was my own fault ... I simply did not expect anything of the kind in our rear ... I did not even have a pistol with me, only my sword . . .'
Varya was able to get a better look at the poor victim now. He was short and sinewy, with dishevelled chestnut hair, a narrow mouth with almost no lips and stern brown eyes - or rather, one brown eye, because the second one was still not visible,- but at least the captain's gaze was no longer full of anguish or despair.
'You're alive, and that's splendid’Sobolev said magnanimously. 'But an officer must always carry a pistol, even a staff officer. Otherwise it's like a lady going out into the street without a hat - she'll be taken for a loose woman.' He laughed, then caught Varya's angry look and hemmed as if he were clearing his throat. 'Pardon, mademoiselle.'
A dashing Cossack sergeant approached the general and jabbed with his finger, pointing to something. 'Look, Your Excellency, I think it's Semyonov!'
Varya turned to look and suddenly felt sick: the bandit's bay on which she had made her recent inauspicious gallop had reappeared beside the bush. The horse was nibbling on the grass as if nothing had happened, with the loathsome trophy still suspended, swaying, on its flank.
Sobolev jumped down and walked over to the horse with his eyes screwed up sceptically and turned the nightmarish sphere this way and that. 'That's not Semyonov, surely?' he said doubtfully. 'You're talking nonsense, Nechitailo. Semyonov's face is quite different.'
'It certainly is Semyonov, Mikhal Dmitrich,' the sergeant said heatedly. 'See, there's his torn ear, and look here' - he parted the dead head's purple lips - 'the front tooth's missing as well. It's Semyonov all right!'
'I suppose so,' said the general, nodding thoughtfully. 'He must have had a pretty rough time of it. Varvara Andreevna,' he said, turning to Varya to explain, 'this is a Cossack from the Second Cavalry Squadron who was abducted by Daud-bek's Meskhetians this morning’
But Varya was no longer listening: the earth and the sky somersaulted, exchanging places, and Paladin and Fandorin were only just in time to catch the suddenly limp young lady as she fell.
Chapter Three
WHICH IS DEVOTED ALMOST ENTIRELY TO ORIENTAL GUILE
La Revue Parisienne (Paris) 15 (3) May 1877
The double-headed eagle that serves the Russian