“O Simon mago, o miseri seguaci, Che le cose di Dio, che di bontate Deono essere spose, e voi rapaci Per oro e per argento adulterate.”[1] [1] “O Simon Magus, O forlorn disciples. Ye who the things of God, which ought to be The brides of holiness, rapaciously For silver and for gold do prostitute.” Thoughtfully Ermelang added: “Fatto v’avete Dio d’oro e d’argento; E che altro è da voi all’idolatre, Se non ch’egli uno, e voi n’orate cento?”[2] [2] “Ye have made yourselves a god of gold and silver; And from the idolater how differ ye, Save that he one, and ye a hundred worship?” “What is that I hear?” Eva asked, and listened. Raucous and angry voices were heard from the street, and yells and hisses. Ermelang listened too. Then he went to the window, pushed the draperies aside, and looked out. On the snow-covered street in front of the palace fifty or sixty mujiks had assembled. One could clearly distinguish their sheepskin caps and their long coats. They stood there silently and gazed up at the windows. They had attracted a great crowd of people, men and women, and these gesticulated, full of hatred, and seemed to urge the mujiks on. “I believe those are the Mohilev peasants,” Ermelang said nervously. “I saw them march through the city yesterday.” Eva joined him for a moment at the window, and glanced out; then she returned to the middle of the room. Her smile was contemptuous. At that moment Susan Rappard came in, badly frightened. “There are people downstairs. Pierre went out to ask them what they wanted. They want to talk to you; they beg humbly to be admitted to your presence. What are we to answer such riffraff? I’ve telephoned police headquarters. Good heavens, what a country, what an abominable country!” Eva lowered her eyes. “They are very poor people, Susan,” she said. “Give them money. Give them all the money that is in the house.” “Nonsense!” Susan cried, horrified. “Then the next time they’ll break down the door and rob us.” “Do as I tell you,” Eva replied. “Go to M. Labourdemont and tell him to let you have all available cash. Then go out and take it to them. No, you had better send some one who can speak to them, and let him say that I have gone to bed and cannot receive them. And telephone the police at once and assure them that we have no need of protection. Do you understand?” “Yes,” said Susan and went out. The crowd had increased, the noise grew, and drunken men yelled. Only the peasants remained silent. The oldest of them had come to the edge of the sidewalk. A little white lump of snow lay on his cap, and to his beard clung snow and ice. Pierre, the doorkeeper, in his livery set with silver tresses, was facing him arrogantly. The old peasant bowed low while the lackey spoke.