Guiltily pushing away a bowl of emerald-green early grapes, Varya said: 'My God, for their sake I hope everything goes according to plan.'
The colonel drained his glass in a single swallow and immediately filled it again. Still chewing on something, he observed: 'The plan is, of course, a good one. As His Highness's personal representative I am acquainted with it and was even involved to some extent in drawing it up. The outflanking manoeuvre under cover of a range of hills is particularly original. Shakhovsky's and Veliaminov's columns advance on Plevna from the east. Sobolev's small detachment distracts Osman-pasha's attention in the south. On paper it all looks quite beautiful.' Lukan drained his glass. 'But war, Mademoiselle Varvara, is not fought on paper. And your compatriots will achieve absolutely nothing.'
'But why?' Varya gasped.
The colonel chuckled and tapped the side of his head with one finger. 'I am a strategist, mademoiselle, I see further ahead than your general staff officers.' He nodded towards his map case. 'Over there I have a copy of the report which I forwarded yesterday to Prince Karl. I predict a total fiasco for the Russians and I am certain that His Highness will be adequately appreciative of my perspicacity. Your commanders are too arrogant and self-assured; they overestimate their own soldiers and underestimate the Turks. And also their Roumanian allies. But never mind - after today's lesson the tsar himself will ask for our help, you shall see.'
The colonel broke off a handsome chunk of Roquefort and Varya's mood was finally ruined.
Lukan's gloomy predictions proved correct.
In the evening Varya and Fandorin stood at the edge of the Plevna road as the wagons bearing the wounded drove past them in a never-ending line. The tally of casualties was not yet complete, but at the hospital she had been told that the ranks had been reduced by at least seven thousand men. They had also told her that Sobolev had distinguished himself by drawing the thrust of the Turkish counter-attack - if not for his Cossacks, the rout would have been a hundred times more devastating. Amazement had also been expressed at the satanic precision demonstrated by the Turkish gunners, who had shelled columns while they were still making their approach, before the battalions had even been deployed for the attack.
Varya told all this to Erast Petrovich, but he didn't say a word. Either he knew it all already, or he was in a state of shock - she couldn't tell.
The column ground to a halt: one of the wagons had lost a wheel. Varya had been trying to look at the maimed and injured as little as possible, but now she glanced more closely at the lopsided wagon and gasped; she thought she recognised one wounded officer's face, a patch of dull white in the radiant dusk of summer. She went closer and discovered she was right: it was Colonel Sablin, one of the regular visitors to the club. He was lying there unconscious, covered with a blood-soaked greatcoat. His body seemed strangely short.
'Someone you know?' asked the medical assistant accompanying the colonel. 'A shell took both his legs off all the way up. Really bad luck.'
Varya staggered back towards Fandorin and began sobbing convulsively. She cried for a long time, until her tears had dried up and the air had turned cool, and still they kept on bringing back the wounded.
'In the club they take Lukan for a fool, but he turned out to be cleverer than Kriedener,' said Varya, because she simply had to say something.
Fandorin looked at her inquiringly and she explained: 'He told me this morning that the attack would be a failure. He said the dispositions were good, but the commanders were poor. And he said the soldiers weren't very . . .'
'He said that?' Erast Petrovich queried. 'Ah, so that's how things are. That changes . . .' He broke off and knitted his brows.
'Changes what?'
No reply.
'Changes what? Hey?' Varya was beginning to feel angry. 'That's a very stupid habit you have, saying "A" without going on to say "B"! Tell me what's going on, will you?' She really felt like grabbing the titular counsellor by the shoulders and giving him a good shaking. The pompous, ignorant little brat. Trying to act as if he were the Indian chief Chingachgook.
'It is treason, Varvara Andreevna,' Erast Petrovich declared, suddenly forthcoming.
'Treason? What kind of treason?'
'That is precisely what you and I are going to find out.' Fandorin rubbed his forehead. 'Colonel Lukan, by no means a towering intellect, is the only one to predict defeat for the Russian army. That is one. He was acquainted with the troop dispositions and as Prince Karl's representative he even received a copy. That is two. The success of the operation depended on a secret manoeuvre carried out under the cover of a range of hills. That is three. The Turkish artillery shelled our columns by map coordinates, square after square, when they were out of their direct line of sight. That is four. The conclusion?'
'The Turks knew beforehand where to aim and when to fire,' whispered Varya.
'And Lukan knew beforehand that the assault would be a failure. Oh, and by the way - five. In recent days this man has suddenly come into a lot of money.'
'He is rich. Some kind of family fortune, estates. He told me about them, but I wasn't really listening.'
'Varvara Andreevna, not very long ago the colonel tried to borrow three hundred roubles from me and then, in a matter of days, at least according to Zurov, he lost perhaps as much as fifteen thousand. Of course, Hippolyte could have been exaggerating . . .'
'He certainly could,' Varya agreed. 'But Lukan really did lose an awful lot. He told me so himself today, just before he left for Bucharest.'
'He has gone away?'
Erast Petrovich turned away from her and began thinking, from time to time shaking his head. Varya tried approaching him from the side in order to see his face, but she didn't notice anything particularly remarkable. Fandorin was standing with his eyes half-closed, gazing up at the bright star of Mars.
'I tell you what, my d-dear Varvara Andreevna,' he said, speaking slowly, and Varya felt a warm glow in her heart - firstly because he had said 'my dear', and secondly because he had begun to stammer again. 'It appears I shall have to ask for your assistance after all, although I promised . . .'
'Why, I'll do anything at all!' she exclaimed rashly, then added quickly, 'in order to save Petya.'
'Well, that's splendid.' Fandorin looked into her eyes searchingly. 'But it is a very difficult task, and not a very pleasant one. I want you to go to Bucharest as well, to look for Lukan and try to investigate him. Shall we say, try to find out if he really is so rich. Exploit his vanity, boastfulness and foolishness. After all, he has told you more than he should once already. He is sure to spread his plumage for you to admire.' Erast Petrovich hesitated. 'You are, after all, a young and at-t-tractive individual . . .'
At this point he coughed and broke off, because Varya had whistled in amazement. She had finally won a compliment from the Commendatore's statue after all. Of course, it was a feeble sort of compliment - 'a young and attractive individual' - but even so, even so . . .
Then Fandorin immediately had to go and spoil everything. 'Naturally, you cannot travel on your own, and it would 1-look strange. I know that Paladin is planning to go to Bucharest. He will certainly not refuse to take you with him.'
No, he is definitely not a human being, he is a block of ice, thought Varvara. Imagine trying to thaw out someone like that! Could he really not see that the Frenchman was already circling round her} Of course he could - he saw everything; it was simply, as foolish Lusaka would put it, that he couldn't give a tinker's damn.
Erast Petrovich apparently interpreted her dissatisfied expression in his own way. 'Don't worry about money. There is a salary due to you, with travelling expenses and so forth. I shall issue it to you. You can buy something while you are there, amuse yourself a little.'