“There are several places in the Kitaigorod where we can get them — that is the old town, where the narrow streets are; many people think it is the Chinatown of Moscow because ‘Kitai’ is China in Russian, but actually it is an old Tartar word meaning Bastion — referring to the walls.”
“And then?”
The next thing is supplies. Luckily I brought certain things in case of such an emergency. We will buy some chocolate here, also some smoked ham and biscuits. Are you having a farewell luncheon with your lovely lady?”
“No, got all that over last night — thought it best.”
“And you were right,” the Duke agreed. Then, suddenly, but very low: “Hush! I think our wall-eyed friend is behind us again.”
Simon allowed a minute to elapse and then glanced round casually; sure enough, it was the same wizened little man. Today he was dressed in the slovenly uniform of a Red Guard, but they knew his face too well to mistake him. They quickened their pace, and in the turning and twisting of the narrow streets, succeeded in shaking him off before they reached the Kitaigorod.
By the time that they got back to the hotel they found that the tickets had been delivered, duly endorsed for Irkutsk. In the afternoon they packed and deposited their luggage with the ever-obliging Señor Rosas. Five o’clock found them standing on the Saverinii Station platform, two suitcases beside them — the principal contents of which were food and the knapsacks into which it was to be transferred at Sverdlovsk.
They found their compartment on the train without difficulty. Being of the “Direct Communication, 1st Category”, it contained two berths only and a private toilette, and, owing to the wide gauge of the Russian railways, when the berths were stowed away it made a large, comfortable coupé.
Punctually at seventeen hours fifty-five, the long train with its powerful engine began, almost imperceptibly, to move, and gradually gathering speed, started on its long, eleven-day journey to Vladivostok at the other end of Asia.
They settled themselves comfortably on the wide seats, and the Duke took out Norman Douglas’s South Wind, which he was reading for the fourth time. The sophisticated humour of the book never failed to amuse him. Simon gazed out into the swiftly moving darkness and thought a little wistfully of these last unforgettable days in Moscow, and the loveliness of the smiling eyes of Valeria Petrovna. He found difficulty in realizing that it was really Simon Aron who was even now speeding towards unknown adventures. His heart gave a little bump as he thought of what might lie before them — rescue, hardship by cold and hunger, flight for life, perhaps, and a little smile curved his lips as he found himself humming a tune. It was: “Malbrouck s’en vat en guerre!”