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The rifle fell out of Pashinsky's hands and, silent and tamed, with half-closed eyes, he was waiting for another smash. Then Derevenko saw me and thought I was going to shoot him, but I made no such move. I slipped away and went innocently towards the big gate.
Slowly, and hypnotising Pashinsky, he approached the scamp, took him by the collar and pulled him towards the fence. Then, losing his breath, Derevenko said, "Leave the boy alone, you scoundrel! You, you call yourself a Russian sailor? You? Have this...." and the slap on Pashinsky's face sounded to me like Chopin's First Nocturne. What divine music! I expected a clash. But no!
Every time he would be near the garden, he would cough in such a noisy and sardonic way that the Heir, who was sitting with Derevenko on the bench would turn his long, pensive face, and his old sailor guardian would look with hatred on the rascal. When Pashinsky was away, the window behind me opened very cautiously and a lady's voice said to me, "Don't turn.
Contemplating my scratchings, I went over to the window; somebody was patiently waiting and looking around, for the voice said: "I am so glad Derevenko slapped this awful man." "I am too, your Highness. Now there is a letter. I'll put it on the bayonette and stay still; you take it." Pashinsky passed near me talking with another Red. He felt badly I am sure, he did not look at me.
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