“Ever see the bloodsucker before?  Did you see how I treat him?”

“Never saw him.  Where in the hell could I?...  As for you—­you certainly are some boy!”

I was so near to the Emperor that for a moment I feared he could recognize me.  But he did not, for he glanced twice at me and—­passed by.  When they were on the stairs, Botkin said something to him, and the Emperor turned around, his eyes resting for a moment on my figure.  I brought up my hand,—­so, that for the Emperor—­it was a salute; for Pashinsky—­a mosquito which I killed on my forehead.  Both Emperor and Botkin immediately turned away and entered the Mansion.

“You watch him closer, Syva,” Pashinsky said, “I think we’ll take him away for good pretty soon.”

Today,—­during my watch hours I had time to make observations, especially, when the evening came and the night began.

In the house silent figures were walking; these delicate shadows of yesterday; later—­Princess Tatiana sat near the window with a book.

... (line illegible).... has not changed much.  From time to time she would stop turning the pages,—­and look—­without expression, without moving—­down at Pashinsky and me, and at the quiet city, at clear skies, at the distant golden crosses shining under the moon.

There was something natural,—­and yet not ordinary, in this dark figure behind the curtain.

Did she think of our black ingratitude, she who did so much for the wounded soldiers and for the families of those killed?  Did she think of the capricious Fate, which played with her young life so nastily?  Did she pray—­crushed, humble, and lost?  Did she cry for the past, or dream of the future?...  Or, perhaps, in her mind was the present,—­and behind those noble eyebrows, were thoughts and plans to fight still....  Perhaps there was hope?

This dark figure and the other frightened silhouettes of the endangered ladies in the Mansion, surrounded by their jailers, keep me turning from side to side each night.

I see crooked smiles full of rotting teeth; I see perspiring low foreheads and piercing oily eyes; and I know that New Russia has no compassion.

44

Nachman invited me to a dinner.  Later Dutzman came and brought a smirking girl with him.  Nothing very interesting.  A girl.  She sang gypsy songs accompanied by a guitar.  Good voice—­and bad manners.  We had champagne, caviar and cigars,—­real Uppman.

“Eh,” he said, “After all—­this life is good!  Much better even than when I was secretary of the ‘Courier of Moscow.’  Of course, it is transitory....  Won’t you take some more, please?... and we all will be out.  Perhaps those of us who will not, by that time, hang, will have already some money put aside.  Not I—­I am a spender.  I can’t keep this money.”

He was happy and therefore talkative and sincere.

He continued....  “You ask how we get this money?  Easily, comrad, very easily, indeed.  Besides what we receive from Petrograd, we have other incomes.  For instance, here, take this case of the Emperor.  Why do you think we intend to send him to Ekaterinburg?  Why should we send him towards the approaching Czechs?”