Varya recalled one of the journalists saying enviously that the source of the Daily Post correspondent's information on life in Plevna was not some Bulgarian, but a Turkish officer or something of the kind. Not many people had really believed it, though. But what if it were true?
'Well, tell me then. Don't keep me in suspense.' 'Remember, not a word to anyone until ten o'clock this evening. You gave me your word of honour.'
Varya nodded impatiently. Oh, these men and their stupid rituals. Of course she wouldn't tell anyone.
McLaughlin leaned right down to her ear. 'This evening Osman-pasha will surrender.'
'I don't believe it!' Varya squealed.
'Quiet! At precisely ten o'clock this evening the commander of the corps of grenadiers, Lieutenant-General Ganetsky, whose forces occupy a position on the left bank of the Vid, will be approached by the truce envoys. I shall be the only journalist to witness this great event. And I shall also forewarn the general - at half past nine and no sooner - so that the patrols do not open fire on the envoys by mistake. Can you imagine what an article it will make?'
'Yes, I can,' said Varya with a nod of delight. 'And I can't tell absolutely anyone at all?'
'It would be the end of me!' McLaughlin exclaimed in panic. 'You gave me your word!'
'Very well, very well,' she reassured him. 'Until ten o'clock my lips are sealed.'
'Ah, here's the fork. Stop here!' said the correspondent, prodding the coachman in the back. 'You're going to the right, Mademoiselle Varya, and I'm going to the left. I can just imagine the scene. There I am, sitting with the general, drinking tea and making idle conversation about this and that, and at half past nine I take out my watch and casually remark: "By the way, Ivan Stepanovich, in half an hour or so you will have visitors from Osman-pasha". Not bad, eh?' McLaughlin began laughing excitedly as he stuck his foot in the stirrup.
A few moments later he was lost to view behind the grey curtain of the intensifying downpour.
In three months the camp had changed beyond recognition. The tents were all gone and in their place stood neat files of planking huts. Everywhere there were paved roads, telegraph poles and neat signposts. It was a good thing for an army to be commanded by an engineer, thought Varya.
In the special section, which now occupied three whole houses, she was told that Mr Fandorin had been allocated a separate cottage (the duty officer pronounced this new foreign word with obvious relish) and shown how to get there.
'Cottage' number 158 proved to be a one-room prefabricated hut on the very edge of the headquarters staff village. The master of the house was at home,- he opened the door himself and looked at Varya in a way that gave her a warm feeling inside.
'Hello, Erast Petrovich, here I am back again,' she said, for some reason feeling terribly anxious.
'Glad to see you,' Fandorin said briefly and moved aside to let her in. It was a very simple room, but it had a set of wall bars and an entire arsenal of gymnastic apparatus. There was a three-vyerst map on the wall.
Varya explained: 'I left my things with the nurses. Petya is on duty, so I came straight to you.'
'I can see you are well.' Erast Petrovich looked her over from head to toe and nodded. 'A new hairstyle. Is that the fashion now?'
'Yes. It's very practical. And what has been happening here?'
'Nothing much. We're still besieging the Turk.' Varya thought the titular counsellor's voice sounded bitter. 'One month, t-two months, three months now.
The officers are taking to drink out of boredom, the quartermasters are p-plundering the supplies, the public coffers are empty. In short, everything is perfectly normal. War the Russian way. Europe has already heaved a sigh of relief and is happily watching as Russia's 1-lifeblood drains away. If Osman-pasha holds out for another t-two weeks, the war will be l-lost.'
Erast Petrovich sounded so peevish that Varya took pity on him and whispered: 'He won't hold out.'
Fandorin started and looked into her eyes inquisitively. 'Do you know something? What? Where from?'
And so she told him. She could tell Erast Petrovich, surely - he wouldn't run off to tell every Tom, Dick and Harry.
'To Ganetsky? Why to G-Ganetsky?' the titular counsellor said with a frown when he had heard her out.
He walked across to the map and muttered under his breath: 'It's a long way to G-Ganetsky. Right out on the flank. Why not go to command headquarters? Wait! Wait!' A resolute expression appeared on the titular counsellor's face; he tore his greatcoat down from its hook and dashed towards the door.
'What? What is it?' Varya screeched, running after him.
'A trap,' Fandorin muttered curtly without stopping. 'Ganetsky's defences are thinner. And beyond them lies the Sophia highway. They are not surrendering; they are trying to break out. They have to dupe Ganetsky so that he won't fire.'
'Oh!' she gasped. 'And they won't really be envoys at all. Where are you going? To the headquarters building?'
Erast Petrovich halted. 'It is twenty to nine. At headquarters things take a long time. From one chief to another. It would take too long. We can't reach Ganetsky in time. We'll go to Sobolev! Half an hour at a gallop. Sobolev won't waste time asking permission from headquarters. He'll take the risk. Strike the first blow. Engage the enemy. If he can't help Ganetsky, at least he'll be able to strike at the flank. Trifon, my horse!'
My goodness, he has an orderly now, thought Varya, bewildered.
The rumbling in the distance went on all night long, and at dawn news came that Osman had been wounded in the battle and surrendered with his entire army: ten pashas and forty-two thousand fighting men had laid down their arms.
It was the end, the siege of Plevna was over.
There were many killed: Ganetsky's corps, caught off guard by the unexpected attack, had been almost completely wiped out. But the name on everyone's lips was that of the White General, the invulnerable Russian Achilles, Sobolev the Second, who at the decisive moment had taken the risk of striking through Plevna, already deserted by the Turks, straight into Osman's unprotected flank.
Five days later, on the 3rd of December, the emperor, who was leaving the theatre of military action, held a farewell parade for the guards in Paradim. Individuals close to the throne and heroes who had distinguished themselves in the final battle were invited. Lieutenant-General Sobolev himself sent his carriage for Varya. His star might have soared directly to its zenith, but the resplendent Achilles had apparently not forgotten his old friend.
Never before had Varya found herself in such distinguished society. She was positively blinded by the glitter of all the epaulettes and medals. To be quite honest, she had never suspected that there were so many generals in the Russian army. The senior military commanders stood in the front row, waiting for the members of the imperial family to appear, among them Michel, who looked quite offensively young standing there in his customary white uniform with no greatcoat even though the day had turned out bright but frosty. All eyes were fixed on the saviour of the Fatherland, who seemed to Varya to have become much taller and broader across the shoulders, with a much graver expression than he had before. The French were obviously right when they said the finest yeast of all was fame.
Close by, two ruddy-cheeked aides-de-camp were conversing in low voices. Varya found it pleasant that one of them kept glancing across at her with his rakish black eyes.
'. . . and the emperor said to him: "As a mark of respect for your valour, mushir, I return to you your sabre, which you may wear here in Russia, where I trust you will have no cause for any dissatisfaction." Such a fine scene - what a pity you were not there.'