Our young Heroine’s Mysterious Mentor meets her and suffers a Collapse of Hopes

After the reading, Darya, without waiting for applause (for the audience was silent and hostile to bourgeois habits), suddenly announced:

"And now - the violin!"

Sergei, enlightened and pleased, as if after a good dinner, nodded:

"That's right. After a good play you always need a little... Well, how do you say... A snack. Musically."

"Just be quiet," Vyacheslav said, smiling crookedly. "This is not Madame Viardot's salon."

"Calm down, my dear," answered Darya, sitting down. "We're not arresting ministers here - we're relaxing."

"Until we ourselves are arrested," someone muttered from the corner.

Sergei chuckled and added:

"Well, if anything, I have a uniform. I'll say that we're here with the military commission checking... The musical mood of the population."

Darya began to play. Something lyrical, touching. It seemed to Sergei that it was Glinka. Or maybe Bach. Or Khlebnikov himself, only in notes. He nodded enthusiastically to the beat - until suddenly a sharp knock-knock-knock was heard through the window.

Everyone froze. It was a prearranged signal. 'Policemens!' whispered Motya.

It was as if something had burst: coats, books, leaflets - everything flew up, as if the house had become a chicken coop, where a fox had broken in. People were rushing about, whispering, pushing. Someone had already climbed into the stove - not to warm up, but, as it turned out later, to hide a brochure.

Sergei stood up, brushed himself off, straightened his uniform and declared:

"The officer doesn't run."

"And the young lady?" Darya asked quietly, already squeezing his hand.

"The young lady with the officer," he said with pathos.

Lyasya shouted:

"God, how stubborn!"

Motya added:

"Oh my God, how handsome..."

And they both disappeared through the door. And Darya remained with him. Pale, but stubborn. She did not let go of the violin. She stood there with it, as if it were a weapon.

When three gendarmes burst into the room with lanterns and boots shaking snow onto the carpet, the first thing they saw was an officer, a beauty and... And a suitcase with sandwiches. No leaflets, no meetings, no demonstrations.

"Ah..." the chief said, stretching out, "H-h... Hi... Hello..."

"Good day," Sergei said politely. "What's the matter, gentlemen?"

"A denunciation... Ahem... Information... We... We came to check..."

"Have you checked?" said Sergei. "In front of you is an officer, a young lady, and bread and lard. Are you spying on dinners?

"There was a denunciation," he repeated, looking at the open suitcase. "Supposedly, a meeting... Agitation... Leaflets... But I... I didn't know that... That the officer..."

"You decide," said Sergei, smiling wryly. "Either an officer or rebels. Otherwise, my dear sir, your logic is like a weather vane - now one way, now the other!"

"Forgive me... W-w-wrong denunciation, Your Honor!"

Sergei waved his hand, as if he were dismissing the infantry battalion from training:

"Go before the cold chills your vigilance."

The gendarmes, not believing their luck, backed away and poured out...

When the door slammed behind them, Darya exhaled.

"It was... It was brilliant," she whispered."

"Yeah," he muttered. "I was not only brilliant, but also hungry, and fortunately no one guessed that the suitcase didn't contain sandwiches, but..."

"Shh!" Darya laughed. "Better not say it. Let them write in the report: officer, young lady, and sandwiches. The perfect trinity."

They went out onto the porch. The snow fell lazily, as if it had forgotten where it was supposed to fall. Sergei, still holding Darya's arm, watched the last lights trembling in the forest - the participants of the meeting had disappeared there. It was as if a curtain had fallen, separating the noise and worries from the night's peace. Darya pointed to a house that stood not far from the upper room - small but sturdy, with warm light in the windows and a wooden sign "Bread and Peace" above the entrance. Sergei grinned - the inscription was clearly a joke, but that made it doubly cozy.

"Here," she said quietly. "I live here. With my nanny and my aunt."

"Alone?"

"And who is with us, Tzar?"

She laughed. And he did too. Laughter brought them closer together than their previous words.

The house was clean and smelled of bread, as it should. In the entryway they took off their shoes carefully so as not to wake the old ladies. But before they could enter, a grey, wrinkled, but lively face appeared from behind the curtain. It was the nanny.

"Oh my God, Darya! It's so late! Who's with you?"

"The groom," Darya answered easily, without blinking. "Sergei Alekseevich."

Sergei almost choked on air.

"What?" he croaked, but Darya pinned his elbow. He realized it was too late to object.

The nanny, meanwhile, threw up her hands:

"My dear groom, oh my God... It's clear: your soul is pure!" She lightly touched his cheek and added: - You are a holy man, you'll see, everything will be fine with you."

"Well, well," he muttered, "I must admit, I collect butterflies..."

The nanny's eyes widened in delight:

"Wow! We once had a swallowtail sitting in our pantry! I thought it was a mouse, but he went - slap-slap!

But a stern voice was heard behind her:

"Who brings grooms here at night?"

An aunt came out from behind the curtain - a woman with a stern look and a folding apron. She measured Sergei with her gaze from head to toe.

"Look at him... He collects butterflies. And tell me he admires the stars through a telescope!"

"Sometimes," he admitted honestly. "I even have a collection of beetles at home..."

"Well..." the aunt drawled. "Out of his mind, then.

"Auntie!" Darya was indignant. "He's wonderful!

"Yes, I see, he is wonderful", she grumbled. "Okay, if he is a groom, let him stay. But sleep in the closet! And my maiden will have no sweetness until the wedding!