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26
When I returned from the Princess, tired and worried about the absence of news from Moscow and about the whole "organization" so badly and unsystematically managed, I found a dark figure sitting on my bed. A woman was attempting to light a candle. But even before I understood who was on my bed, the odor of a woman, fine perfume, burned hair and soap—struck me very strongly. I had quite forgotten during all this time of hardships this side and these agreeable ingredients of civilized life. I took my pistol, closed the door, and always sharply following the movements of the dark figure, approached her, pointing the Browning. She put her hands up.
When I finally saw the woman,—I almost fainted: it was the Baroness
B., friend or enemy, but she.
She did not recognize me at first. Then:
"For God's sake!" she muttered, as if to herself, and swallowing the words, "you are Syvorotka? My God, what a horror!… How are you?"
"Madame," I said, kissing her hand,—"it certainly is a surprise,—I hope for both of us! How can I explain your presence here? Who and what brought you here?"
"It does not matter—they went away," she answered. She was looking at me with wide-open eyes, in which I noticed the sincerest amazement, if not stupefaction. "Syvorotka, you! How perfectly crazy you look with this beard! If you only knew!" and silvery laughter unexpectedly sounded in my poor quarters—in this place of mourning and sorrow—for the first time since I have come here.
"Oh, you must shave it!"
"Let my beard alone, pray," I said. "It really is not the time for any personal remarks. Besides—look at yourself; there is more paint on your cheeks than flesh. And this wig! To tell the truth I like your own hair far better. Your wig is outrageous. You look like a bad girl."