The Death of Achilles Read Free Page B

Petrovich’s embrace entered the room with a precisely measured stride, jingling his spurs. He was clean-shaven now, and wearing his Life-Cossack dress uniform with an entire icon-screen of crosses and medals pinned to it.
    “Your Excellency, senior orderly to Adjutant General Mikhail Dmitrievich Sobolev, Captain Gukmasov!” the officer introduced himself. “Woeful news…” He controlled himself with an effort, twitched his black bandit’s mustache, and continued. “The commander of the Fourth Army Corps arrived yesterday from Minsk en route to his estate in Ryazan and put up at the hotel Dusseaux. This morning Mikhail Dmitrievich was very late leaving his room. We became concerned and began knocking, but he did not answer. Then we ventured to enter, and he…” The captain made one more titanic effort and finally managed to complete his report without allowing his voice to tremble. “The general was sitting in an armchair. Dead. We called a doctor. He said that there was nothing to be done. The body was already cold.”
    “Ay, ay, ay,” said the governor, propping his cheek on his palm. “How could it happen? Mikhail Dmitrievich was so young. Not even forty yet, I suppose?”
    “He was thirty-eight, not yet thirty-nine,” Gukmasov replied in the same strained voice on the verge of breaking, and began blinking rapidly.
    “But what was the cause of death?” asked Karachentsev, frowning. “The general was not unwell, was he?”
    “Not in the least. He was perfectly hale and hearty, in excellent spirits. The doctor suspects a stroke or a heart attack.”
    “Very well. You may go now, go,” said the prince, dismissing the orderly. He was shaken by the news. “I’ll see to everything and inform His Majesty. Go.” But when the door closed behind the captain, he sighed mournfully. “Ah, gentlemen, now there’ll be a fine to-do. This is a serious business — a man like that, loved and admired by all of Russia. And not only Russia — the whole of Europe knows the White General… and I was planning to call on him today… Petrusha, you send a telegram to His Highness the Emperor; you can work out what needs to be said for yourself. No, show it to me first. And afterward make arrangements for the period of mourning, the funeral and… well, you know all about that. And you, Evgeny Osipovich, maintain order for me. The moment the word spreads, everyone in Moscow will go rushing to the Dusseaux. So make sure that no one gets crushed in the excitement. I know the people of Moscow. You must maintain discipline and decorum.”
    The chief of police nodded and picked up a folder from an armchair.
    “Permission to leave, Your Excellency?”
    “Off you go. Oho, what an uproar there’ll be now, what an uproar,” said the prince, then he started, struck by a sudden thought. “But it is likely, is it not, gentlemen, that His Majesty himself will come? He is certain to come. After all, this is not just anybody, it is the hero of Plevna and Turkestan who has surrendered his soul to God. A knight without fear or reproach, deservingly dubbed the Russian Achilles for his valor. We must prepare the Kremlin Palace. I shall deal with that myself.”
    Khurtinsky and Karachentsev started toward the door, intent on carrying out their instructions, but the collegiate assessor remained seated in his armchair as though nothing had happened, regarding the prince with a strange air of bafflement.
    “Ah, yes, Erast Petrovich, my dear fellow,” said Dolgorukoi, suddenly remembering the newcomer. “As you can see, I have no time for you just now. You can get your bearings in the meantime. Yes, and stay close at hand. I may have instructions for you. There will be plenty of work for everyone. Oh, what a terrible calamity.”
    “But Your Excellency, surely there will be an investigation?” Fan-dorin asked unexpectedly. “Such an important individual. And a strange death. It ought to be looked into.”
    “Come now, what