CRASH! Elena sprang out of bed, wide awake in an instant. There was a shout and then another loud crash mixed with the sound of glass shattering and a clattering of metal. By this time she was out of her room and running for the stairs.
She was halfway down when the gun went off, deafeningly loud in the confined space, immediately followed by the sound of more breaking glass. There was a shouted Russian oath and she came in view of the kitchen just in time to see Gleb hurl a heavy cast-iron skillet at another man holding a gun. The pan took the man in the face, knocking him backwards off his feet and sending him flying nearly a meter, his second shot lodging in the roof beam. Another man, apparently his companion, was already unconscious on the ground. Elena screamed and darted forward to Gleb, throwing her arms around him and burying her face against his chest with a sob of terror. He held her tightly for a long moment.
"Are there any more?" she gasped at last, stepping away from him.
"No, I got both of them," he replied.
He realized they were both breathing heavily. Elena glanced upward and saw to her horror that the left arm of his shirt was stained with blood.
"You're shot!" she cried in alarm.
Gleb shook his head.
"It only grazed me," he said. "Thank heaven above that the man wasn't the most accurate of gunmen."
It suddenly came to Elena that he was standing upright on both feet.
"Your ankle, Gleb! How are you standing?" she gasped.
Gleb suddenly realized that his ankle was throbbing. He swore and shifted his weight off it quickly, stumbling backwards and leaning against a nearby table. He closed his eyes and winced.
"Pardon my language," he said, his voiced strained. "It hurts considerably."
"Not at all," said Elena, flushing uncomfortably. For moment they both stood there in silence; then Elena gestured to the figures on the floor.
"What do we do with them?" she asked.
At that moment, Jacques the hired man burst in, holding a pitchfork.
"Que se passe-t-il ici?" he demanded, glancing darkly at Gleb. "Sommes-vous blessé, Mademoiselle Elena?"
"Non, non, Jacques," Elena said hurriedly.
She gave him a brief account of what she had just seen, saying how Gleb had saved them.
Jacques turned to Gleb and thanked him profusely in French. Gleb understood only part of it. His ankle was reproaching him fiercely for what he had just done to it. He swore quietly to himself. No doubt he had re-broken it or something stupid of the kind. Now he would be laid up for goodness only knew how long.
-xxxx-
Mme. Dassin returned home two days later amidst much rejoicing. Mme. Blanchard had scraped through, but only just. She was extremely weak, nearly as helpless as her new little sons. Four neighboring ladies were still staying with her along with the new doctor. He and M. Dassin had arrived at the Blanchard home only a few hours after Mme. Blanchard had finally awoken from her near-coma state.
The rest of the Dassin family was not far behind the mother. Everyone was back under one roof, to the intense relief of more than a few of the household.
Much to Gleb's chagrin, the doctor informed him that his escapade had reversed much of the good that his confinement had done him. While it could have been worse, he was ordered back to bed and forbidden from any more antics until the doctor gave him leave.
-xxxx-
"Come in," Gleb called, pulling himself into a sitting position as Elena opened the door. Despite his disappointment about his foot, he found himself a surprisingly good mood. He had slept well for the first time in ages and the prospect of a chat with Elena was an attractive one.
"Good morning, monsieur," she said smiling.
"Good morning, mademoiselle," he replied. "Why the sudden formality? Did you forget my name?"
Elena laughed at his mock-offended expression.
"Well, if I call you Gleb then you have to call me Elena," she replied, setting down his breakfast tray, "it's only fair."
"Didn't we already settle that on the night we played chess, Elena?" he grinned, laying stress on her name, "what have you got for me today?"
"It's a little different this morning," she told him, sitting down on the chair next to his bed, "brioche toast with a small quiche and some berries that I picked earlier."
"Earlier? It's only seven-thirty in the morning. How early is earlier?" Gleb asked.
"Oh, around five," she replied with a shrug. "What's so terrible about that?" she added, seeing his disbelieving expression.
"Elena, you were out berry-picking at five in the morning?"
"I am normally up by about five and besides," she hesitated a little and then when on, "the only type of fruit that we had in the house was plums."
"What's wrong with plums?"
"Well, you have had nothing but plums for almost a week and I thought that you might like a change."
"Elena, you are simply too kind to me. If you were out picking at five then you must have gotten up even earlier."
Elena shrugged again.
"I think I woke up around ten to five. It wasn't that bad."
"All so I could have a different type of fruit! I repeat, you are too kind."
Elena blushed. He realized that his gratitude was making her uncomfortable so he picked up the coffee cup.
"Is it good and strong?" he asked, surveying it with mock suspicion.
Elena grinned and nodded.
"Just as you like it," she told him.
There were a few moments of silence between them as Gleb happily savored his coffee.
"Elena," he said, looking up at her suddenly, "do you like playing cards?"
Elena looked suddenly dubious.
"Gambling, do you mean?" she asked cautiously.
Gleb shook his head emphatically, setting down his coffee cup.
"No, no! Not gambling. Card games."
"I thought that card games always involved gambling," Elena said, her voice still doubtful. "Papa strongly disapproves of them. He says that gambling is a curse and an obscenity among respectable people."
"And I wholeheartedly agree with him," Gleb replied, a touch of bitterness in his voice.
He knew firsthand of the problems that went along with gambling on card games. More often than not, such games also involved a touch too much liquor. They were rampant in the streets of Leningrad and he had been forced to break up the resultant fights more than once. There was even a time after his promotion to the rank of Deputy Commissioner when he had to save a woman from the attacks of a drunken man. This disreputable-looking character had claimed that she owed him fifty rubles. It was a sadly possible fact. As it was, he had had to convict the man for assault and…
"Gleb, are you alright?" Elena's concerned voice snapped him out of his thoughts.
"Oh yes," he replied shaking his head slightly as if to clear away the unpleasant memory. "What was I saying? Oh, card games. Some people do use them for gambling, but you don't have to. I enjoy a good game of cards myself. I could teach you if you'd like."
"Papa would never approve," Elena said, a little sorrowfully.
"But there is absolutely no gambling involved," Gleb insisted, "trust me, I hate it. I think that you would like Durak," he added after a moment.
"What's Durak?" Elena asked puzzled.
"It's one of my favorite games. You are trying to get rid of all of your six cards before everyone else. It's very suspenseful and fun to play. You would probably like it given your love for chess. Why don't you come up some evening and I can show you how it's done. I mean, you don't have to if it would make you uncomfortable," he added, glancing up at her a little anxiously.
Elena saw his expression and smiled.
"I'll try and come up tonight if I can. If you play it then the game can't be that scandalous, can it?" she said teasingly. "Now I had better get down and let you eat your breakfast before it gets too cold."
Gleb looked down at his forgotten breakfast and laughed.
"I won't keep you. Thank you for the breakfast and the berries and your company and conversation. It's nice having my own personal nurse back, Elena. No one takes as good care of me as you."
To his surprise, she blushed rosily. With something resembling a shy little grin, she slipped out of the room.
When she had closed the door behind her, Elena paused for a moment in the hallway and then headed for the stairs. She shook her head in a frustrated gesture.
"Marianne," she growled to herself, "that silly little…" she left the sentence unfinished, but then added stubbornly, "and I am not his sweetheart."