“Gentlemen,” said Yulia Mihailovna, addressing the crowd which was pressing round them, as she drew her husband away—“gentlemen, excuse Andrey Antonovitch. Andrey Antonovitch is unwell … excuse … forgive him, gentlemen.”
I positively heard her say “forgive him.” It all happened very quickly. But I remember for a fact that a section of the public rushed out of the hall immediately after those words of Yulia Mihailovna’s as though panic-stricken. I remember one hysterical, tearful feminine shriek:
“Ach, the same thing again!”
And in the retreat of the guests, which was almost becoming a crush, another bomb exploded exactly as in the afternoon.
“Fire! All the riverside quarter is on fire!”
I don’t remember where this terrible cry rose first, whether it was first raised in the hall, or whether someone ran upstairs from the entry, but it was followed by such alarm that I can’t attempt to describe it. More than half the guests at the ball came from the quarter beyond the river, and were owners or occupiers of wooden houses in that district. They rushed to the windows, pulled back the curtains in a flash, and tore down the blinds. The riverside was in flames. The fire, it is true, was only beginning, but it was in flames in three separate places—and that was what was alarming.
“Arson! The Shpigulin men!” roared the crowd.
I remember some very characteristic exclamations:
“I’ve had a presentiment in my heart that there’d be arson, I’ve had a presentiment of it these last few days!”
“The Shpigulin men, the Shpigulin men, no one else!”