“You green blockhead!” called out the housekeeper and banged the door.

Lichonin went to the station house in a cab.  On the way he recalled that he had not had time to look at the blank properly, at this renowned “yellow ticket,” of which he had heard so much.  This was an ordinary small white sheet, no larger than a postal envelope.  On one side, in the proper column, were written out the name, father’s name, and family name of Liubka, and her profession—­“Prostitute”; and on the other side, concise extracts from the paragraphs of that placard which he had just read through—­infamous, hypocritical rules about behaviour and external and internal cleanliness.  “Every visitor.” he read, “has the right to demand from the prostitute the written certificate of the doctor who has inspected her the last time.”  And again sentimental pity overcame the heart of Lichonin.

“Poor women!” he reflected with grief.  “What only don’t they do with you, how don’t they abuse you, until you grow accustomed to everything, just like blind horses on a treadmill!” In the station house he was received by the district inspector, Kerbesh.  He had spent the night on duty, had not slept his fill, and was angry.  His luxurious, fan-shaped red beard was crumpled.  The right half of the ruddy face was still crimsonly glowing from lying long on the uncomfortable oilcloth pillow.  But the amazing, vividly blue eyes, cold and luminous, looked clear and hard, like blue porcelain.  Having ended interrogating, recording, and cursing out with obscenities the throng of ragamuffins, taken in during the night for sobering up and now being sent out over their own districts, he threw himself against the back of the divan, put his hands behind his neck, and stretched with all his enormous, heroic body so hard that all his ligaments and joints cracked.  He looked at Lichonin just as at a thing, and asked: 

“And what will you have, Mr. Student?”

Lichonin stated his business briefly.

“And so I want,” he concluded, to take her to me ... how is this supposed to be done with you? ... in the capacity of a servant, or, if you want, a relative, in a word ... how is it done? ...”

“Well, in the capacity of a kept mistress or a wife, let’s say,” indifferently retorted Kerbesh and twirled in his hands a silver cigar case with monograms and little figures.  “I can do absolutely nothing for you ... at least right now.  If you desire to marry her, present a suitable permit from your university authorities.  But if you’re taking her on maintenance—­then just think, where’s the logic in that?  You’re taking a girl out of a house of depravity, in order to live with her in depraved cohabitation.”

“A servant, finally,” Lichonin put in.

“And even a servant.  I’d trouble you to present an affidavit from your landlord—­for, I hope, you’re not a houseowner?  Very well, then, an affidavit from your landlord, as to your being in a position to keep a servant; and besides that, all the documents, testifying that you’re that very person you give yourself out to be; an affidavit, for instance, from your district and from the university, and all that sort of thing.  For you, I hope, are registered?  Or, perhaps, you are now, eh? ...  Of the illegal ones?