“...Pushkin jumped off the windowsill, but he was somehow different from the one who came to Demuth today. He ran his palm over his face, as if wiping away an unexpected melancholy, and handed Nashchokin his empty glass: “Pour some for me, gypsy!” If you have any left...And a terrible heat was melting over St. Petersburg. White powdery dust hung over the arenas and parade grounds. In the distance, the hoofbeats of the cavalry were pouring out, riding without songs to the Champ de Mars... And it was the height of the day - the day of June 29, 1833...”