The recollection of the man covered with the blood of so many innocent victims, and the thought of the punishment awaiting him, never left me any peace.
"Eméla,"[69] I said to myself, in vexation, "why did you not cast yourself on the bayonets, or present your heart to the grapeshot. That had been best for you."
(After advancing as far as the gates of Moscow, which he might perhaps have taken had not his bold heart failed him at the last moment, Pugatchéf, beaten, had been delivered up by his comrades for the sum of a hundred thousand roubles, shut up in an iron cage, and conveyed to Moscow. He was executed by order of Catherine II., in 1775.)
Zourine gave me leave.
A few days later I should have been in the bosom of my family, when an unforeseen thunderbolt struck me. The day of my departure, just as I was about to start, Zourine entered my room with a paper in his hand, looking anxious. I felt a pang at my heart; I was afraid, without knowing wherefore. The Major bade my servant leave us, and told me he wished to speak to me.
"What's the matter?" I asked, with disquietude.
"A little unpleasantness," replied he, offering me the paper. "Read what I have just received."
It was a secret dispatch, addressed to all Commanders of detachments, ordering them to arrest me wherever I should be found, and to send me under a strong escort to Khasan, to the Commission of Inquiry appointed to try Pugatchéf and his accomplices.
The paper dropped from my hands.
"Come," said Zourine, "it is my duty to execute the order. Probably the report of your journeys in Pugatchéf's intimate company has reached headquarters. I hope sincerely the affair will not end badly, and that you will be able to justify yourself to the Commission. Don't be cast down, and start at once."