g and cold
when I took off his clothes; the wound which I saw was not in keeping
either with his shivering nor the expression on his face. It was a
trifling one. The bullet had passed between the fifth and sixth
ribs on the left side, only piercing the skin and the flesh. I found
the bullet itself in the folds of the coat-lining near the back
pocket. Stopping the bleeding as best I could and making a temporary
bandage of a pillow-case, a towel, and two handkerchiefs, I gave
the wounded man some water and covered him with a fur coat that was
hanging in the passage. We neither of us said a word while the
bandaging was being done. I did my work while he lay motionless
looking at me with his eyes screwed up as though he were ashamed
of his unsuccessful shot and the trouble he was giving me.

"Now I must trouble you to lie still," I said, when I had finished
the bandaging, "while I run to the chemist and get something."

"No need!" he muttered, clutching me by the sleeve and opening his
eyes wide.

I read terror in his eyes. He was afraid of my going away.

"No need! Stay another five minutes . . . ten. If it doesn't disgust
you, do stay, I entreat you."

As he begged me he was trembling and his teeth were chattering. I
obeyed, and sat down on the edge of the sofa. Ten minutes passed
in silence. I sat silent, looking about the room into which fate
had brought me so unexpectedly. What poverty! This man who was the
possessor of a handsome, effeminate face and a luxuriant well-tended
beard, had surroundings which a humble working man would not have
envied. A sofa with its American-leather torn and peeling, a humble
greasy-looking chair, a table covered with a little of paper, and
a wretched oleograph on the wall, that was all I saw. Damp, gloomy,
and grey.

"What a wind!" said the sick man, without opening his eyes, "How
it whistles!"

"Yes," I said. "I say, I fancy I know you. Didn't you take part in
some private theatricals in General Luhatchev's villa last year?"

"What of it?" he asked, quickly opening his eyes.

A cloud seemed to pass over his face.

"I certainly saw you there. Isn't your name Vassilyev?"

"If it is, what of it? It makes it no better that you should know
me."

"No, but I just asked you."

Vassilyev closed his eyes and, as though offended, turned his face
to the back of the sofa.

"I don't understand your curiosity," he muttered. "You'll be asking
me next what it was drove me to commit s