'Shooting?' Lukan exclaimed with an unpleasant laugh. 'Oh no, Mister Cardsharp, the choice of weapons is mine. I know perfectly well that you and Monsieur Scribbler here are crack shots. But this is Roumania, and we'll fight our way - the Wallachian way.'
He turned towards the watching crowd and shouted something, and several Roumanian officers promptly drew their sabres from their scabbards and held them out with the hilts forward.
'I choose Monsieur Journalist,' said the colonel, cracking his knuckles and laying a hand on the handle of his sabre. He was growing more sober and more elated even as they watched. 'Choose any of these swords you like and be so kind as to follow me out into the yard. First I'll skewer you, and then I'll slice off this brawler's ears.'
There was a murmur of approval in the crowd and someone even shouted, 'Bravo!'
Paladin shrugged and took hold of the sabre that was nearest.
McLaughlin pushed his way through the idle onlookers: 'Stop this! Charles, you must be insane! This is barbarous! He'll kill you! Fighting with sabres is the Balkan national sport; you don't have the skill.'
'I was taught to fence with a spadroon, and that's almost the same thing,' the Frenchman replied imperturbably, weighing the blade in his hand.
'Gentlemen, don't!' said Varya, at last recovering her voice. 'This is all because of me. The colonel had taken a little drink, but he did not mean to offend me, I am sure. Stop this immediately; it's absolutely absurd! Think of the position you are putting me in!' Her voice trembled piteously, but her entreaty fell on deaf ears.
Without even glancing at the lady whose honour was the reason for all the commotion, the knot of men trooped off down the corridor, talking excitedly, in the direction of the small internal courtyard. Varya was left alone with McLaughlin.
'This is stupid,' he said angrily. 'Spadroons, he says! I've seen the way the Roumanians handle a sabre. They don't assume the third position and say "en garde". They slice you up like blood pudding. Oh, what a writer will be lost, and all because of that idiotic French conceit. And it won't do that turkey-cock Lukan's prospects any good either. They'll stick him in jail and there he'll stay until the victory's won and an amnesty's signed. Back in Britain . . .'
'My God, my God, what can I do?' Varya muttered in dismay, not listening to him. 'I'm the one to blame for everything.'
'Flirting, madam, is certainly a great sin,' the Irishman unexpectedly agreed. 'Ever since the Trojan war . . .'
She heard a throng of male voices howl in the courtyard. 'What's happening? Surely it can't be over already?' Varya cried, clutching at her heart. 'So quickly! Go and take a look, Seamus. I beg you!'
The correspondent said nothing. He was listening, his genial features set in a mask of alarm. McLaughlin clearly did not wish to go out into the yard.
'Why are you wasting time?' said Varya, trying to stir him into action. 'Perhaps he needs medical assistance. Oh, you're useless!' She darted into the corridor and saw Zurov coming towards her with his spurs jangling.
'Oh, what a terrible shame, Varvara Andreevna,' he shouted out to her from a distance. 'What an irreparable loss!'
She slumped against the wall in black despair and her chin began to tremble.
'How on earth could we Russians have allowed ourselves to abandon the tradition of duelling with sabres,' Hippolyte continued with his lament. 'Such brilliance and pageantry, such elegance! Not just a bang and a puff of smoke and that's the end of it. Why it's a ballet, a poem, the Fountain of Bakhchisarai!'
'Stop babbling, Zurov!' Varya sobbed. 'Tell us what's going on!'
'Oh, you should have seen it!' said the captain, gazing excitedly at Varya and McLaughlin. 'It was all over in ten seconds. Just imagine the scene: a dark, shady courtyard. The broad flagstones lit by lanterns. We spectators are up on the gallery with only Paladin and Luke down below. The Roumanian vaults to and fro, brandishing his sabre and tracing out a figure eight in the air, tosses up an oak leaf and slices it in half. The audience applauds in delight. The Frenchman simply stands there, waiting for our peacock to stop his strutting. And then Luke bounded forward, embellishing the atmosphere with a treble clef, but without even moving from the spot Paladin leaned his trunk backwards to dodge the blow and then, with such lightning speed that I couldn't even see how he did it, he flicked the cutting edge of his sword right across the Roumanian's throat. Luke gurgled a little, fell flat on his face, jerked his legs a couple of times and that was it, retired without a pension. End of the duel.'
'Did they check? Is he dead?' the Irishman asked quickly.
'Dead as dead can be’ the hussar assured him. 'The blood would have filled Lake Ladoga. Why, Varvara Andreevna, you're upset! You look as pale as a ghost! Here, come lean against me' - and he promptly slipped his arm round Varya's waist, which in the circumstances was entirely appropriate.
'What about Paladin?' she murmured.
Zurov edged his hand a little higher as though inadvertently and said casually: 'What about him? He's gone to the commandant's office to hand himself in. That's the way it goes, you know; nobody's going to give him a pat on the back for this. That was no junior cadet he killed: he was a colonel. They'll pack him off back to France at the very least. Why don't I unfasten one of your buttons so that you can breathe more easily?'
Varya couldn't see or hear a thing. I'm disgraced, she thought. She had forfeited the name of a respectable woman for ever. She had bungled her spying, played with fire, and now look where it had got her. She was far too frivolous - and men were all beasts. Someone had been killed because of her. And she would never see Paladin again. But the worst thing of all was that the thread leading into the enemy's web had been snapped.
What would Erast Petrovich say?
Chapter Eight
IN WHICH VARYA SEES THE ANGEL OF DEATH
The Government Herald (St Petersburg) 30 July (11 August) 1877
Defying excruciating bouts of epidemic gastritis and bloody diarrhoea, our Sovereign has spent the last few days visiting hospitals that are filled to overflowing with typhus victims and wounded. His Imperial Majesty's heartfelt sympathy for their suffering is so sincere that these scenes bring an involuntary glow to the heart. The soldiers throw themselves on their gifts with all the naive joy of little children, and the author of these lines has on several occasions witnessed the Emperor's wonderful blue eyes moistened with a tear. It is impossible to observe such occasions without experiencing a peculiarly tender reverence.
What Erast Petrovich said was this: 'You took rather a long time getting back, Varvara Andreevna, and you have missed some very interesting developments. The moment I received your telegram I gave orders for a thorough search to be made of the dead man's tent and personal belongings, but nothing of any particular interest was found. The day before yesterday, however, the papers found on Lukan were delivered from Bucharest. And what d-do you think?'
Varya apprehensively raised her eyes to look the titular counsellor in the face for the first time, but she detected no pity or - which would have been even worse - scorn in Fandorin's expression, only concentration and something very like excitement. Her initial relief was immediately succeeded by a sense of shame: she had drawn things out because she dreaded coming back to the camp, snivelled and moped about her precious reputation and not given a single thought to the cause. What an appalling egotist!
'Tell me, then!' she urged Fandorin, who was observing with interest the tear slowly sliding down Varya's cheek.
'I beg your gracious forgiveness for involving you in such an unpleasant business,' Erast Petrovich said contritely. 'I expected almost anything, b-but not—'
'What have you discovered in Lukan's papers?' Varya interrupted him angrily, feeling that if the conversation did not change direction immediately she was certain to start blubbing.