"There were too many of them. Which one do you mean?"
"The tall man, Mr. Osborne—never mind trying, it does not matter, I just happened to think of him."
"Anything identical with our six weeks of life?" I asked, and immediately regretted my bad temper—I am getting impossible.
"Very much," she said sadly. "Very much; only under other circumstances, other climates, other people. Not so inconsiderate."
When I looked at her my heart filled with pity. Who is this woman? I don't know her. Perhaps she has something in her heart—the very existence of which I had oftentimes doubted. Perhaps, in her life of adventures, she has had more hardships, more of tragedy than I,—with all of my selfish sufferings of a man who used to be rich and prominent, and is now humble and poor? Perhaps she has more of self-control not to show it,—nevertheless the amount of her bitterness of life must be the same, if not deeper, than mine?
We have been here for six weeks…. I have no place to go. So I am here. But she? I am sure she could be somewhere else, in better surroundings, amongst people better than I am. And during these six weeks—we were not friends. We were only plotters, joined under one roof, and secretly hostile to each other—"I am ashamed," I said to her, "honestly I am. You must think that I have never cared to know what is in your mind. We have always been distant and mysterious, always absorbed in our own affairs. Why should I trouble you with my questions? Especially, if I knew beforehand that you wouldn't answer. Yes, we have been together six weeks—more than that—we live under the same roof, eat the same food, have our life as close as two human beings can,—and yet—here we are,—apart from each other. You are a woman, it's up to you to break this distance and build a bridge over it."
"Well," she said, putting her small hand on mine, "you approach the question evidently from another angle. I am not speaking of our business, which may, and which may not, be the same. Why am I so sad and so blue? It is that I feel I am all alone here. I can tell you and I think that you have already understood it, that I came to Tumen with orders to see a certain Syvorotka. I had to be with him, use his house, use his protection, use his connections. I did not know who this Syvorotka was.
A cave man? An ex-soldier? A sick man? A fat butcher? A sentimental, but dirty druggist? Of all the men in the world,—and while coming here I imagined all possible types,—that I should have met you, Alex! You have always meant so much to me. I have always liked you. When I saw you last in Petrograd I tried to get you into my affairs. Why? I don't know. You have no ambitions, you have no character,—nothing. And still, I tried to get you, only to be with you. You refused—for you never cared: perhaps once in Marseilles, when you wanted to kiss me (you see I did not forget)—and even at that time you were drunk…. And here in Tumen—you were the man, with whom as they told me, I had to go as far as was necessary to get his good services…."
"Strange life, this one of mine," she ended her remark and again turned to look into the flames.
"Lucie, you never told me you cared, I thought you were for your own affairs much more than for anything else; now I see it in a different light."