Gods heed the Prayer from Father of our young Heroine, after which Suspicions are Raised

Meanwhile, at the Vitebsk station, smelling of coal, fresh newsprint and coffee from the buffet, Gene York and Jake Madison, having jumped out of a cab, slowly headed for the ticket office. Their route lay to Tsarskoe Selo, and despite the Spartan nature of the upcoming trip, both were in good spirits: Jake from the anticipation of a country feast and hunting, and Gene from the opportunity to escape, at least for a day, from the St. Petersburg whirlpool of affairs and visiting cards.

"We're not going to save the empire," said Gene, squinting, "we're just shooting partridges. But I must admit, I'd prefer these birds to the Duma sessions. At least they don't interrupt."

They approached the third-class ticket office, where there was no line. Gene, not considering it necessary to demonstrate his status, pulled out his wallet and bought two tickets to Tsarskoe Selo. Jake bowed playfully:

"This is true equality. A general, a lawyer, a high school student - all are riding in the same carriage, if they are riding without their wives.

"And most importantly, without governesses," Gene chuckled, taking a ticket. "In a carriage with governesses, the conversation isn't about pheasant, but about handkerchiefs and ladies' gossip. And here we have fresh air and Baron Buher with rifles."

They walked onto the platform, where the coal stack of a short train was already smoking under a canopy. Employees in greatcoats scurried past with teapots and newspaper stacks. Somewhere in a distant booth a barrel organ was playing. Gene and Jake climbed into the carriage and took their seats by the window. The train shuddered, lay still, and a minute later, smoothly but steadily moved forward, breaking away from the platform like a man who had decided to have a long conversation.

The carriage rocked rhythmically, and the heavy rhythm of the wheels, as if coming from the very earth, lulled the passengers, but did not allow them to fall silent. There was a smell of felt boots, uniform wool, cheap tobacco and - barely perceptible - the scent of women's scarves, although there were no women in the carriage. The officials, having taken off their gloves, rubbed their palms and, lounging on the seats, carried on a conversation, not so much among themselves as for themselves, in a half-voice, but with the expectation of being heard. Someone drank tea from a travel mug, someone chewed dried toast, fishing crumbs out of his pocket.

"The Count had a special gun back then, I remember," one of them said, crumpling a handkerchief in his hands. "A French one, with an engraving, a gift... Either from the Duke or from the Minister. And everything would have been fine, but there was a meaning to it - like a stick in a swamp. You know, he went out to the edge of the forest, thinking - now it's going to hit. And the snow was falling, like in the story - no den, no trace. The huntsman said to him: "Your Excellency, wait, we'll go around now and have a look." And the Count said: 'No,' he said, 'I feel it. Here it is, the beast.'"

The officer with the moustache, who had been listening in silence until then, nodded.

"So he shot at the pine tree. They say that tree sap splashed his collar, and he later told everyone that he saw the bear run away in fear. And what happened next - it was no longer a hunt, but a war. The beaters were driven from all over the area, like a recruiting party. They rode in a cart, some with pitchforks, some with shafts - as best they could. They walked for two hours, waist-deep in snow, their feet were stuck, their hands were bleeding."

"Yes, yes", the third one, with high cheekbones, in a uniform jacket without insignia, picked up. "I was in those parts then. Towards evening - there was a roar, as if an army was coming. They were shouting, blowing the whistle, shooting. They lured that bear out, but he... How can I say... He turned out to be smart. Not smart in our way. He flashed once, and that was it. Where did he go - as if through the ground. And the count at that time was already sitting by the fireplace, with Burgundy. They served him jellied meat, veal aspic, black caviar - as if at a reception. His fast, you see, was only in words."

"They caught the bear after all," someone responded from the far corner. "The next day. In the village. He came straight to the cattle barn, looking for something to eat, apparently. The peasants surrounded him, and he roared like a man, not understanding what was happening. So they shot him. Then they carried him away like a hero, on a sledge, his paws spread out, his muzzle all bloody and frosty. And the Count... Well, what about the Count? He didn't even bat an eyelid. He just raised his glass and said, "Well, finally."

"Well, finally," Gene repeated thoughtfully, as if out of place, and then, frowning, he turned to Jake: "And what did you say about Buher?"

He leaned a little closer, shielding himself from the other passengers with a half-turned shoulder, and lowered his voice, as one does when talking not about something forbidden, but about something ticklish. His lips barely moved, but there was a special tone in his voice - not condemnation, not admiration, but that strange respect that a person has for those who have managed to get along in life in spite of circumstances, and not because of them.

"The Baron", he began quietly, "you know, a figure in his own way is exceptional. He did not start with high birth. A Protestant from the Baltic Germans, and even those, they say, not of the first line. But his head is like a merchant at auction. He moved to Russia before Menshikov's resignation, made his way through the services, maneuvered, converted to Orthodoxy - and suddenly became one of them. Not right away, of course. First as a translator, then as a sworn attorney, and then he reached the noble class. But the most interesting thing is not that."

Gene didn't interrupt, he just nodded occasionally, as if prompting: continue, I'm listening.