More and more soldiers, with the red
shoulder-straps of the _yunker_-schools, moved about in a stale
atmosphere of tobacco-smoke and unwashed humanity. One had a bottle
of white Burgundy, evidently filched from the cellars of the Palace.
They looked at us with astonishment as we marched past, through room
after room, until at last we came out into a series of great
state-salons, fronting their long and dirty windows on the Square.
The walls were covered with huge canvases in massive gilt
frames-historical battle-scenes.... "12 October 1812" and "6 November
1812" and "16/28 August 1813." ... One had a gash across the upper
right hand corner.
The place was all a huge barrack, and evidently had been for weeks,
from the look of the floor and walls. Machine guns were mounted on
window-sills, rifles stacked between the mattresses.
As we were looking at the pictures an alcoholic breath assailed me
from the region of my left ear, and a voice said in thick but fluent
French, "I see, by the way you admire the paintings, that you are
foreigners." He was a short, puffy man with a baldish head as he
removed his cap.
"Americans? Enchanted. I am Stabs-Capitan Vladimir Artzibashev,
absolutely at your service." It did not seem to occur to him that
there was anything unusual in four strangers, one a woman, wandering
through the defences of an army awaiting attack. He began to
complain of the state of Russia.
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