“God knows!” replied Ivanoff. “He was always a bit queer.”
At that moment Riasantzeff drove up, and meeting Sina Karsavina on the doorstep, they came upstairs together. Her voice, high-pitched and anxious, could be heard, and also his jovial, bantering tones that talk with pretty girls always evoked.
“Anatole Pavlovitch has just come from there,” said Sina excitedly.
Riasantzeff followed her, laughing as usual, and endeavouring to light a cigarette as he entered.
“A nice state of things!” he said gaily. “If this goes on we soon shan’t have any young people left.”
Sina sat down without speaking. Her pretty face looked sad and dejected.
“Now then, tell us all about it,” said Ivanoff.
“As I came out of the club last night,” began Riasantzeff, “a soldier rushed up to me and stammered out, ‘His Excellency’s shot himself!’ I jumped into a droschky and got there as fast as I could. I found nearly the whole regiment at the house. Sarudine was lying on the bed, and his tunic was unbuttoned.”
“And where did he shoot himself?” asked Lialia, clinging to her lover’s arm.
“In the temple. The bullet went right through his head and hit the ceiling.”