"It is impossible," replied the, warden. "The atmosphere of the bath-house is too hot, close, and damp. I tried letting some of the nursing women sleep there, but one or two of their babies died every night, and I had to stop it."
I appreciated the hopelessness of the situation, and had nothing more to say. As we emerged from the balagán, we came upon Mr. Pépeláief engaged in earnest conversation with one of the exiles, a good-looking, blond-bearded man about thirty-five years of age, upon whose face there was an expression of agitation and excitement, mingled with a sort of defiant despair.
"I have had only one shirt in months," the exile said in a trembling voice, "and it is dirty, ragged, and full of vermin."
"Well! "said Mr. Pépeláief with contemptuous indifference, "you 'll get another when you go on the road."
"But when will I go on the road?" replied the exile with increasing excitement. "It may be three months hence."
"Very likely," said Mr. Pépeláief coldly, but with rising temper, as he saw us listening to the colloquy.
"Then do you expect a man to wear one shirt until it drops off from him?" inquired the exile with desperate indignation.
"Silence!" roared Mr. Pépeláief, losing all control of himself. "How dare you talk to me in that way? I 'll take the skin off from you! You 'll get another shirt when you go on the road, and not before. Away!"
The exile's face flushed, and the lump in his throat rose and fell as he struggled to choke down his emotion. At last he succeeded, and, turning away silently, entered the balagán.
"How long will the women and children have to stay in these sheds?" I asked the warden.
"Until the 2d of October," he replied.
"And where will you put them then?"
