Her voice was soft and rich, even melodious.
“Are you comfortable—and well?” I asked—with awkwardness, I must confess.
“Je suis très malade.”
The prison-master interrupted.
“Speak only in Russian,” he said.
We knew it would be difficult to talk freely in a language which he and the soldiers understood, and so Luboshitz began at once to photograph her. While he was doing this I stood near her, and as frequently as seemed expedient we exchanged sentences in French.
“Did you come to Tamboff expressly to see me, monsieur?”
“Yes, mademoiselle. Of course.”
“Then people are talking about me?”
“They are, indeed. And not in Russia only, but in other countries. In France there is a Spiradonova League.”