“But they told us Little Mytíshchi had been set on fire by Mamónov’s Cossacks.”
“But that’s not Mytíshchi, it’s farther away.”
“Look, it must be in Moscow!”
Two of the gazers went round to the other side of the coach and sat down on its steps.
“It’s more to the left, why, Little Mytíshchi is over there, and this is right on the other side.”
Several men joined the first two.
“See how it’s flaring,” said one. “That’s a fire in Moscow: either in the Sushchévski or the Rogózhski quarter.”
No one replied to this remark and for some time they all gazed silently at the spreading flames of the second fire in the distance.
Old Danílo Teréntich, the count’s valet (as he was called), came up to the group and shouted at Míshka.
“What are you staring at, you good-for-nothing? … The count will be calling and there’s nobody there; go and gather the clothes together.”
“I only ran out to get some water,” said Míshka.
“But what do you think, Danílo Teréntich? Doesn’t it look as if that glow were in Moscow?” remarked one of the footmen.
Danílo Teréntich made no reply, and again for a long time they were all silent. The glow spread, rising and falling, farther and farther still.
“God have mercy. … It’s windy and dry …” said another voice.