He spread out his hands: "Ah, she is beautiful, I know. I saw her at the Mariínski. She stared at you as if she were bewitched. You had every excuse; but get down on your knees, Velasco, and give thanks. It is no fault of yours that you are not tramping through the snow to Siberia now, just as she is. A lesser man, one whose career was less marked! By heaven, Velasco, what is it?—You are choking me!"
"Say it again!" cried the Musician, "You know where she is? Tell me! By God, will you tell me, or not?—I'll force it out of you!"
"Let go of my throat!" gasped the Manager. "Sit down, Velasco! Don't be so excitable, so violent! No wonder you play with such passion; but I am not a violin, if you please. Take your hands off my throat and sit down."
"Where is she?"
Galitsin straightened his collar and necktie before the mirror of the mantel-piece. "What is the matter with you, Velasco? Any one would suppose you were in love with her! Better not; she is doomed—she is practically dead."
"Dead!"
"Don't fly up like that!—Sit down! I saw the Chief of Police yesterday, and he gave me some advice to hand on to you."
"Is she dead, Galitsin?"
"No, but she will be. She is sent with a gang to the Ékaterinski Zavad. They are gone already, chained together, and marching through the snow and the cold. It is thousands of miles. A Countess, who has undoubtedly never taken a step in her life without a maid—who knows! She is frail, she won't live to get there."
The room was still for a moment and suddenly a coal fell from the fire to the hearth with a thud, flaring up. Then it broke into ashes. Presently the Manager continued: