“How about him?”
“Bad,” answered Musya, also in a soft voice. “He is dead already. Werner, tell me, is there such a thing as death?”
“I don’t know, Musya, but I think that there is no such thing,” replied Werner seriously and thoughtfully.
“That’s what I have thought. But he? I was tortured with him in the carriage—it was like riding with a corpse.”
“I don’t know, Musya. Perhaps there is such a thing as death for some people. Meanwhile, perhaps, but later there will be no death. For me death also existed before, but now it exists no longer.”
Musya’s somewhat paled cheeks flushed as she asked:
“It did exist, Werner? It did?”
“It did. But not now any longer. Just the same as with you.”
A noise was heard in the doorway of the car. Mishka Tsiganok entered, stamping noisily with his heels, breathing loudly and spitting. He cast a swift glance and stopped obdurately.
“No room here, gendarme!” he shouted to the tired gendarme who looked at him angrily. “You make it so that I am comfortable here, otherwise I won’t go—hang me here on the lamp-post. What a carriage they gave me, dogs! Is that a carriage? It’s the devil’s belly, not a carriage!”