Councillor Mikulin gave way tactfully, murmuring, “Oh, certainly, certainly.  Your judgment...”

And with another handshake they parted.

The fool of whom Mr. Razumov had thought was the rich and festive student known as madcap Kostia.  Feather-headed, loquacious, excitable, one could make certain of his utter and complete indiscretion.  But that riotous youth, when reminded by Razumov of his offers of service some time ago, passed from his usual elation into boundless dismay.

“Oh, Kirylo Sidorovitch, my dearest friend—­my saviour—­what shall I do?  I’ve blown last night every rouble I had from my dad the other day.  Can’t you give me till Thursday?  I shall rush round to all the usurers I know....  No, of course, you can’t!  Don’t look at me like that.  What shall I do?  No use asking the old man.  I tell you he’s given me a fistful of big notes three days ago.  Miserable wretch that I am.”

He wrung his hands in despair.  Impossible to confide in the old man.  “They” had given him a decoration, a cross on the neck only last year, and he had been cursing the modern tendencies ever since.  Just then he would see all the intellectuals in Russia hanged in a row rather than part with a single rouble.

“Kirylo Sidorovitch, wait a moment.  Don’t despise me.  I have it.  I’ll, yes—­I’ll do it—­I’ll break into his desk.  There’s no help for it.  I know the drawer where he keeps his plunder, and I can buy a chisel on my way home.  He will be terribly upset, but, you know, the dear old duffer really loves me.  He’ll have to get over it—­and I, too.  Kirylo, my dear soul, if you can only wait for a few hours-till this evening—­I shall steal all the blessed lot I can lay my hands on!  You doubt me!  Why?  You’ve only to say the word.”

“Steal, by all means,” said Razumov, fixing him stonily.

“To the devil with the ten commandments!” cried the other, with the greatest animation.  “It’s the new future now.”

But when he entered Razumov’s room late in the evening it was with an unaccustomed soberness of manner, almost solemnly.

“It’s done,” he said.

Razumov sitting bowed, his clasped hands hanging between his knees, shuddered at the familiar sound of these words.  Kostia deposited slowly in the circle of lamplight a small brown-paper parcel tied with a piece of string.

“As I’ve said—­all I could lay my hands on.  The old boy’ll think the end of the world has come.”  Razumov nodded from the couch, and contemplated the hare-brained fellow’s gravity with a feeling of malicious pleasure.

“I’ve made my little sacrifice,” sighed mad Kostia.  “And I’ve to thank you, Kirylo Sidorovitch, for the opportunity.”

“It has cost you something?”

“Yes, it has.  You see, the dear old duffer really loves me.  He’ll be hurt.”

“And you believe all they tell you of the new future and the sacred will of the people?”