A cave man?  An ex-soldier?  A sick man?  A fat butcher?  A sentimental, but dirty druggist?  Of all the men in the world,—­and while coming here I imagined all possible types,—­that I should have met you, Alex!  You have always meant so much to me.  I have always liked you.  When I saw you last in Petrograd I tried to get you into my affairs.  Why?  I don’t know.  You have no ambitions, you have no character,—­nothing.  And still, I tried to get you, only to be with you.  You refused—­for you never cared:  perhaps once in Marseilles, when you wanted to kiss me (you see I did not forget)—­and even at that time you were drunk....  And here in Tumen—­you were the man, with whom as they told me, I had to go as far as was necessary to get his good services....”

“Strange life, this one of mine,” she ended her remark and again turned to look into the flames.

“Lucie, you never told me you cared, I thought you were for your own affairs much more than for anything else; now I see it in a different light.”

“You do?  It is late.  I am going.  I am leaving you—­this time for good.  A week—­or so, and I am far away from here, from you—­with all of your good and bad qualities.  The time in which we live—­does not allow any speculations.  One must get what he sees.”

What do you mean by ’going away’?”

“Just what I say.  I received orders to move to another place.  No, I cannot tell you.  That’s all.  You, and this little house, and some hopes I had here,—­all, all, must be forgotten.  Other people, and other scenery.  A radical change again.  Heavens knows how soon I can forget this little white cold town....”

“Yes,” she continued, looking at me, “yes, this cold town, with you; and you—­with your double-crossings, with your reports on me, with your bad behavior, with your treason.  Alex—­love is a strange thing.  I don’t mind it at all!  You never knew it.  You never loved your poor Maroossia:  she was your comfort—­that’s all.  You never thought of Lucie de Clive as such:  for you—­she was a little girl that possibly might have been in your way, but you let her stay because she comforted you.  Now—­she is going, and very likely you won’t see her any more.  In your life—­she was a page of a book; now you’ve read it!...”

She was crying, really crying!  Such an actress!

36

I came home at seven from the village—­nobody in there!  Nobody to give me my tea.  All looks empty, abandoned.  On the bed pinned to the pillow,—­a note:  “Good-by.”  My companion left me—­today.  And I had so much to say to her....

She did not forget to look in my bag before leaving, as I see.  I thought so.

My diary has been censored: many pages are missing and some rough hand-made corrections in the text have been made leaving greasy spots on the paper.  Some of my documents are stolen.  I don’t see the letter from Marchenko to Schmelin, the chart with Mamaev’s stations, and a few others.  Fortunately, Kerensky’s letter to Grimm was not taken, as I had put it under the floor of the barn with my money and watch.