Things had returned to their usual state; I was again in terror and suspicion through an eternity of days. My hosts showed me the greatest hospitality. The master of the house had served about twenty years before in the escort of our Emperor in St. Petersburg, where he had been renowned for his martial air and ferocious black moustache, which was now painted blue-black and was still startling. My host was a good old chap; under his strong outside, he had a heart as soft as a pincushion. He was always very desirous to please me and did all my commissions with the greatest pleasure. I was thirsting for information from the seat of war and sent him on exploring expeditions every morning. His wife was a fat, double-chinned matron who looked good-natured enough but possessed the very slowest of brains; I had no patience with a person of such indolent temperament, for I had more life in my little finger than she had in her whole voluminous body. She conceived a prompt affection for me, but it was dull work sitting all day with that gossiping, childish woman, who was not an exhilarating companion, to be sure; her attempts to cheer me up were not brilliant and failed to bring the faintest smile to my lips. All day long my hostess did nothing, and ate everything; anyone would be fat leading such a life. Her sole occupation was to string pearls for her head attire; lazy, unoccupied, she shuffled about in her slippers, or sat twiddling her thumbs. Her favourite pastime was bathing; she went to the bath-establishment with female friends, supplied with provisions; these daughters of the East remained there nearly all day long, babbling and chatting like magpies. It took a long time for me to get used to my hostess, but I ended by liking her quite well. I was so miserable and felt so utterly alone, that any friendly, seeming companionship was welcome, and it was a balm to feel the good woman’s sympathy. I was living like an anchorite and had no one to talk to but my hosts, a very poor resource indeed. When the weather was fine I sat on an old bench near our gate and watched the native women who came to draw water from a fountain just opposite; they carried it on their shoulders in large clay jugs just as in the times of Rebecca. In November the weather was bitterly cold. Sometimes, in moments of supreme depression, I would go out and stand at the gate hoping to catch a bad cold. My poor Helena, terror-stricken, raised her hands up in horror and drew me indoors by force. Often, after our meagre dinner, when it grew dark, I sat on the hearth-rug, drawing my shawl close about me, and shivering looked with dreary eyes into the dying fire, big tears rolling down my cheeks.