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"This I will do," she told me.

Both of us were startled a few minutes later by the sounds of hoarse shouting and whips cracking. The troika lurched, skidded, slid to a halt, causing dishes to rattle in the cabinets and books to spill to the floor. I lifted the curtain.

Pandemonium reigned outside, wild-eyed men in peculiar costumes galloping on fiery steeds, waving their sabres in the air. One of them saw me staring through the window, jerked his steed to a halt beside the troika and yelled savagely, whirling his sabre over his head.

"My God!" I cried. "We're under attack!"

Lucie peered out, utterly calm. "My uncle's cossacks,"

she told me. "There is no cause for alarm."

"Cossacks?"

"Almost every great nobleman has.his own small pri.

vate army. My uncle has only twenty," she added, "but then there are also Vladimir and the others who are personal guards, not cossacks."

I stared, fascinated, as the men charged around like a band of marauding red Indians. They wore high black boots and full blue breeches that belled over boot tops.

Their long-sleeved blue coats were belted at the waist, the flaring skirts hemmed with thick gray fur, and their squat gray fur hats were squashed down low over their brows.

Most of them had beards and long, drooping mustaches that gave an added, devilish look to their tan, weathered faces. They yelled and cavorted, their horses kicking up great clouds of snow. Several of them fired pistols into the air. Never had I seen such wild abandon, such fierce exuberance.

"They-they do carryon, don't they?" I said.

"They are excited to see my uncle again. It has been a long time. They know he is returning, of course, but I wonder why they ride all this way to join us? I am puzzled by this."

Lucie frowned. The soft sable hood fell away from her face, revealing golden brown waves. I let go of the curtain and sat back, listening to' the din that surrounded us.

Horses neighed. Guns fired. Shouts rose, mingling with loud, diabolical laughter. All the demons of hell seemed to be unloosed out there in the snow, and I gave a start when the door of the troika flew open. Count Orlov peered in at us. He smiled, looking like a rowdy schoolboy who has just been joined by his chums.

"Is all right," he said. "No cause for alarm. My men join us. Is a surprise to me."

Flakes of snow blew into the troika, along with freezing gusts of wind. Orlov climbed inside and closed the door, brushing snow from his shoulders. He was able to stand without stooping, although his head almost touched the ceiling, and in the close confines of the troika he seemed larger than ever. His bulky gray fur coat completely enveloped him from shoulder to mid-thigh. His gray kidskin breeches clung snugly to his legs, outlining the strong muscles, and his gray leather boots were crusted with snow. A pair of supple gray leather gloves protected his hands.

"Why have they come?" Lucie asked.

"They are eager to see me. They cannot wait for me to arrive."

His tone was humoring, his manner offhand, but both of us could tell he was hiding something. Lucie adjusted her hood and looked at her uncle with cool eyes.

"They are so eager to see you that they ride hundreds of miles through stormy winter weather? This I do not believe.

They could be snug in their warm barracks with their vodka and their whores. They do not leave that merely because they are eager to see your smiling face."

Orlov scowled, highly displeased. Lucie gave him a defiant look, waiting for his reply. The scowl vanished. He looked extremely uncomfortable. He brushed at the snow clinging to gray fur, took off his hat, brushed it as well, deliberately.

delaying,

"Well?" Lucie demanded.

"Is nothing to worry about," he said, petulant.

"What is this we are not to worry "about?"

"There has been some unrest among the peasants," he confessed. "Some madman has been stirring them up, filling them with seditious ideas. Is nothing new. It happens all the time. Damn! You are much too impudent, Lucie. I do not wish to tell you this. I do not wish you to worry needlessly."

"How serious is' this unrest?"

"Not serious at all. He-this madman has gathered together

'a few followers who believe he is some kind of saint.

He preaches revolt against the landowners. Some serfs have run away. One or two troikas have been stoned and the passengers roughed up. These are isolated incidents, nothing to cause alarm. This madman will be put down quickly enough."

Lucie looked unconvinced. Orlov put his hat back on.

"My men are restless," he said in a conciliatory voice.

"This gives them a reason to leave the barracks where they grow bored and flabby. When they hear I am coming, they take it upon themselves to ride out and act as protective escort for the rest of the trip, though there is no need."

Lucie made no reply. Orlov grinned again.

"Mostly they wish to ride and yell and carry on like men of action. For too long they have been cooped up. I am happy to see them, though this means twenty more stomachs to fill. We will have to buy provisions at the next village."

He adjusted his cap and shifted restlessly, eager to join his playmates.

"We will continue on our way now. You make me tell you these things against my will. You are not to worry for a moment. No handful of peasants with pitchforks will dare to throw stones at our troikas. There will be a celebration tonight when we get to the posthouse."

He left then, moving out of the troika like a great gray bear, icy flurries of snow blowing in before he slammed the.

door. The din continued, as riotous as before, and it was several minutes before the troika began to move again, gliding easily over the ice. The cossacks rode up and down the line on either side, making a terrible racket, thoroughly enjoying themselves. Orlov and his other men were no doubt having a jolly time, too, I reflected, placing my feet on the brazier. I wrapped the fur lap robe more closely around me and shook my head in dismay.

"They will wear down after a while," Lucie said. "Now they indulge in high spirits."

She picked up the books that had tumbled to the floor, replaced them on the seat beside her and then, selecting one, settled back to read. I tried to concentrate on a Russian grammar book, but it was extremely difficult. After a while I put the book aside and resigned myself, wondering what on earth I was doing in this luxurious but bizarre vehicle, riding through a snow storm in a strange country with seemingly crazed ruffians charging about outside. It was utterly improbable. Only three months ago Russia had been merely a name on a map to me, a country I had absolutely no interest in, and now here I was, swathed in fur, my feet on a brazier, heading deeper into the snowy wasteland. Somehow it all seemed unreal, so unreal that I could hardly believe it was happening.

It had stopped snowing when, three hours later, we finally reached the posthouse. The sky, black before, was now a dark pewter gray smeared with orange and pink blotches that gradually blurred. There was a deepening blue haze in the air and the dazzlingly white snow was spread with long blue-gray shadows, glistening in the fading light. The posthouse was a dilapidated two-story structure of weathered brown wood, the slanting roof threatening to collapse under the weight of snow. Great mounds of snow surrounded it, reaching the ice-glazed windows. Lucie and I stayed inside the troika until Vladimir and his men had cleared a pathway to the front door. While they did so, the cossacks busily set up heavy tents in the courtyard beside the stables.

"It looks as bad as the last one," Lucie said, pulling her fur cloak closely about her. "I only hope there are no fleas and ticks."

Orlov himself helped us out of the troika, holding -the door open, giving us his hand. His cheeks were flushed, his dark blue eyes gleaming in anticipation of the celebration.

Vladimir gave Lucie his arm and helped her up the wet, already icing path just cleared to the door, and Orlov gripped my right arm just above the elbow. Wrapping his free arm around my waist, he guided me slowly up the path. I slipped. He supported me, pulling me closer, tightening his grip.

"We must get you some fur-lined boots," he told me.

"These silly shoes you wear are no good for walking on
ice."
~

"I'll try to do as little walking as possible," I said wryly.

"Me, I will be here to see that you do not fall."

He gave my waist a friendly squeeze, and his strong fingers curled more tightly around my arm, squeezing the

.flesh with bruising power meant to be reassuring. I winced. Orlov chuckled, clutching me as I slipped again.

The physical contact was disconcerting, and I was acutely aware of his nearness. Lucie was already inside now, and Vladimir held the door open for us. Orlov led me inside, released

me. I was surprised to find myself a bit unsteady on my feet. My knees seemed curiously weak.

"It's heaven," Lucie said, leading me over to the huge black iron stove that stood in the middle of the large, incredibly squalid room. "The worst yet. Brace yourself, Marietta."

Filthy straw littered the bare wooden floor. Chickens squawked angrily, running freely about the room, and a loud, nasty snorting proclaimed the presence of a pig. He burrowed in a pile of rags in one corner, not at all pleased with this invasion. Oil lamps burned smokily, casting pools of ugly yellow light, intensifying shadows. The few pieces of furniture were utterly decrepit, coated with dirt and grime, and there was dust everywhere. Orlov was speaking sharply to the man in charge, an emaciatedlooking fellow with thin brown hair and sunken gray eyes filled with alarm. He wore cracked black boots, baggy blue breeches and a loose gray smock that had once been white, and he was clearly terrified as Orlov vented his displeasure at the conditions confronting us.

The man's wife came trudging slowly into the room with a heavy tin pan filled with peeled potatoes. Her broad, peasant face was pasty-looking and etched with a pitiful hopelessness, her brown eyes blank, like the eyes of a dumb animal. Heavy and big-boned, she had oily black hair pulled severely away from her face and worn in a bun in back. Her white blouse and long green skirt had been darned in a dozen places. Her gray apron was ragged. Oblivious to Lucie and me, oblivious to everything but the job in hand, she set the pan of potatoes down on top of the stove and filled it with water from a tarnished copper keto tle. She reeked of garlic and sweat. When the pan was full of water, she trudged back into the kitchen, chickens squawking in her wake.

Disgusted with the caretaker's stammering, monosyllabic replies, Orlov finally shoved the man aside with surprising brutality. The pig snorted and thrashed about in its pile of rags. The caretaker cringed against a wall, even more terrified as Orlov began to snap orders to Vladimir.

Vladimir nodded and went back outside, and Orlov came over to join us by the stove, his handsome face dark with anger.

"The place is a pigsty!" he declared. "Worse than a pigsty!

Give these people the least responsibility and they let everything go to ruin! The servants will clean the rooms upstairs and make them ready before I allow you ladies to see them. The chef will prepare your food on a stove the men will bring in."

He scowled, an angry blond giant in gray fur, and then he shook his head. The caretaker sidled out of the room, keeping against the wall. His wife trudged back in, dropped two whole garlics into the pan of boiling potatoes, added salt and left. Orlov pulled two rickety chairs over to the stove, dusted them off and told us to sit down. Servants began to pour into the posthouse, heavily laden, rushing upstairs. Orlov went out back to join the cossacks. A few

. minutes later four cossacks burst into the room and, shouting gleefully, began to chase the chickens and brutally wring their necks. The caretaker's wife hurried in, protesting vehemently in a strange dialect, her bovine face showing emotion for the first time. The cossacks ignored her, merrily slaughtering the rest of the chickens. When she attempted to stop them, she was knocked against the wall. Chickens all slaughtered, three of the cossacks left, taking the corpses with them, and the fourth, a brawny ruffian with long black mustache, seized the pig, hoisted it up in his arms and carried it off, laughing as it squealed in outrage.

The chef 'appeared next. When he saw the condition of the room he turned pale and begari to rant, throwing his hands in the air. Vladimir ordered the men to set the huge porcelain stove down and fill it with kindling, told the chef to shut up. Somehow, amidst the chaos, a meal was cooked and served to us on the wooden table that had been covered with a snowy linen cloth. I found it wildly incongruous to be eating magnificent stew with a silver spoon from a Sevres bowl in a squalid room that smelled of rancid grease and chicken dung, but at that point I was too weary to give it much thought. After the stew there were thin potato pancakes folded over savory rarebit cooked in sherry and cream sauce, accompanied by a wonderful white wine.

Vladimir hovered over us throughout the meal.

"Are our rooms ready?" Lucie inquired when we had finished.

Vladimir nodded. He led us upstairs. He showed Lucie into her room and then took me to mine, opening the door, giving me a little shove. In Russian I fervently hoped he understood, I told him to keep his bloody hands to himself.

His face was inscrutable as he pulled the door shut, leaving me alone. The room was small with a rough hardwood floor and bare wooden walls. The bed had been covered with fine linen and satin counterpane and piled with fur rugs. A large silver brazier glowed warmly, filling the room with heat, and on the rickety wooden table beside the bed there was a carafe of hot tea, a pink porcelain cup, a plate of date bars and, surprisingly enough, my Russian grammar and a French novel. Tall yellow candles burned in silver candelabra. We might be in a squalid posthouse in the middle of a frozen wilderness, but all the comforts were provided.

I removed my fur cloak, warm at last, poured myself a cup of tea and picked up the novel. Madame de Scudery kept me entertained for an hour or so, but the flowery, affected style finally began to pall and the shouting and raucous laughter rising from the courtyard was altogether too distracting. I wandered to the window, peering down at the tents and blazing orange campfires. The cossacks were enormous black silhouettes against the glow, lurching about, staggering, already much the worse from the vodka Orlov had provided. Several waved their sabres overhead.