“Then we must get off at Sverdlovsk!”
“You must see the officials, then — it is the only way.”
“Bah! the Tchinovinks!” De Richleau cried. “The officials, what use are they? All your life you have lived under the Tchinovinks, and what have they done for you? Tsarist or Bolshevist — they are all the same — delay, delay, delay, and in the meantime my poor friend dies. It must not be!”
“No, it must not be —” echoed the steward, fired by the Duke’s harangue. “The Tchinovinks are either rogues or fools. I have it! Always before we arrive at Sverdlovsk we draw into the goods-yard. You shall descend there!”
“Is it possible?” exclaimed the Duke.
“But yes, it shall be done!”
“My brother!” cried De Richleau, flinging his arms round the fat man’s neck!
“Little father!” exclaimed the steward, using in his emotion an expression that must have been foreign to his lips for many years.
“Come, let us dress him,” said the Duke, and without warning Simon found himself seized; he played up gallantly, letting his head loll helplessly from side to side, and groaning a little. It was a longish job, but at last they had him dressed and propped up in a corner.
De Richleau packed for both of them — gathering their few belongings together in the two suitcases the steward had left them.