tions around Easter. The rest of the year they looked too natural as waiters, bootblacks or cab drivers to be taken seriously as nobility. The Colonel was different.
His beard had a square trim that practically screamed "Imperial Guards." Slashes of cartridges on his chest and the fourragere around his shoulder made him look like a real Cossack, even in the artificial atmosphere of the dingy cafe. The Colonel walked like a man who had always worn boots.
"What will the end of the war mean for you?" I asked.
"Who knows?" he said, cocking an eyebrow. "Many things, perhaps. Perhaps nothing. Who would want to know?"
"You don't care?" I asked, avoiding his eyes.
The Colonel filled my glass and then his own. He poured the liquor carefully until it raised a meniscus above the edge, then quickly swept it to his lips. He accepted a cigarette and blew the smoke slowly through his nostrils.
"It is possible, my young friend," he said dryly, between drags, "to know more than one would care to."
We sat in silence in the smoke filled room. A faded blonde torch singer nodded goodnight as she passed us on her way out. Two of the musicians left. The third switched to some melancholy tune of his own making. The scrubwoman moved methodically toward us. As she drew near the Colonel nodded to her and she spoke a few words of Russian to him.
The Colonel carefully stamped out his cigarette and poured us more Cognac. He looked over his shoulder and saw that the woman was out of earshot.
"I will tell you, if you like," the Colonel said, raising his glass slowly, "of an incident—a Kismet, if you prefer—that may cure you of wanting to know too much."
I edged my stool closer and turned to offer him a fresh cigarette. He drew sharply on it, letting the smoke trail out of his mouth as he spoke.
"That woman," he said, inclining his head toward the scrubwoman, "before the trouble in Russia she was a . . . never mind, a woman of consequence, at least."
"We were neighbors," he said. "Though not so close as we are now," he added with a smile. "After the revolution—before you were even born—she was in an awkward position. Thrown from her lands, a widow with an only son, she did not get far before the authorities had her."
"The Kerensky trouble was not so bad, you understand. They did not shoot old ladies, at least. For the present regime I do not care to commit myself." The Colonel smiled faintly again.
"But the son, that was a different matter. When the people and their court had finished with him, he had a day to live."
"Fortunately, the old woman was not without friends. I myself was a sergeant in the army at that time. A change in circumstances," he explained, gesturing with his long fingers.
"The Lieutenant in charge of our company was the son of this woman's former steward. All right, in his way, but inclined to drink. However," the Colonel said resignedly, "he kept my little secret, so I should not speak ill of him."
"The officials left the executions up to the military, naturally. What scribbler has the courage of his convictions?" he asked with a snort.
"The Lieutenant agreed to do what he could—for a price. So the woman sent the last of her jewelry, and he managed to get permission for her to take the body after the execution. Holy ground was cheap in those days—even a widow could afford it. So the boy was assured a decent burial, instead of being tossed into the lime pits which dissolved the heart and soul of Russia." The Colonel stared off into the distance for some minutes, then resumed.
"Beyond this," he explained, "we arranged to have the execution faked. It was a simple enough matter. One of my menWatch out for ! WEIRD TALES
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