"Twenty ... twenty-one ... and twenty-two," read the Russian from a
paper he carried, and threw open the door of twenty-two.
"This is yours, mademoiselle"; he bowed and waved her toward it. Fanny
entered the room, which, from his manner, might have been the gilded
ante-chamber of his Tzar.
She heard him enter his own room, and through the partition the very
sighing of his breath was audible as it rustled upon his lips! He tried
to give her the illusion of privacy, for, wishing to speak to her, he
left his room again to tap at her door, though his voice was as near her
ear whether at door or wall.
"I hope you are content, mademoiselle?" he said through the woodwork.
"Delighted, monsieur."
"You will sleep here," he continued, as though he suspected her of
sleeping anywhere but there, "and dine with us in the officers' mess at
seven. Until then, please stay in the _citadelle_ in case I need you."
She heard his footsteps go up the corridor, the lieutenant following
him. "I will unpack," she thought, and from her knapsack drew what she
had by chance brought with her. Upon the shelf she arranged a tin of
_singe_--the French bully beef--a gilt box of powder, a toothbrush, a
comb, a map, a packet of letters to be answered, and a magneto spanner.
There was an hour yet before dinner and she wandered out into the
corridors to explore the _citadelle_.
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