“Kerkovius, open!  This is me—­Soliterov.”

Among the cadets, setting out on expeditions of this sort, it was always agreed upon to call each other by fictitious names.  It was not so much a conspiracy or a shift against the vigilance of those in authority, or fear of compromising one’s self before a chance acquaintance of the family, but rather a play, of its own kind, at mysteriousness and disguise—­a play tracing its beginning from those times when the young people were borne away by Gustave Aimard, Mayne Reid, and the detective Lecocq.

“You can’t come in!” the voice of Tamara came from behind the door.  “You can’t come in.  We are busy.”

But the bass voice of Petrov immediately cut her short: 

“Nonsense!  She’s lying.  Come in.  It’s all right.”

Kolya opened the door.

Petrov was sitting on a chair dressed, but all red, morose, with lips pouting like a child’s, with downcast eyes.

“Well, what a friend you’ve brought—­I must say!” Tamara began speaking sneeringly and wrathfully.  “I thought he was a man in earnest, but this is only some sort of a little girl!  He’s sorry to lose his innocence, if you please.  What a treasure you’ve found, to be sure!  But take back, take back your two roubles!” she suddenly began yelling at Petrov and tossed two coins on the table.  “You’ll give them away to some poor chambermaid or other!  Or else save them for gloves for yourself, you marmot!”

“But what are you cursing for?” grumbled Petrov, without raising his eyes.  “I’m not cursing you, am I?  Then why do you curse first?  I have a full right to act as I want to.  But I have passed some time with you, and so take them.  But to be forced, I don’t want to.  And on your part, Gladishev—­that is, Soliterov—­this isn’t at all nice.  I thought she was a nice girl, but she’s trying to kiss all the time, and does God knows what...”

Tamara, despite her wrath, burst into laughter.

“Oh, you little stupid, little stupid!  Well, don’t be angry—­I’ll take your money.  Only watch:  this very evening you’ll be sorry, you’ll be crying.  Well, don’t be angry, don’t be angry, angel, let’s make up.  Put your hand out to me, as I’m doing to you.”

“Let’s go, Kerkovius,” said Gladishev.  “Au revoir, Tamara!”

Tamara let the money down into her stocking, through the habit of all prostitutes, and went to show the boys the way.

Even at the time that they were passing through the corridor Gladishev was struck by the strange, silent, tense bustle in the drawing room; the trampling of feet and some muffled, low-voiced, rapid conversations.

Near that place where they had just been sitting below the picture, all the inmates of Anna Markovna’s house and several outsiders had gathered.  They were standing in a close knot, bending down.  Kolya walked up with curiosity, and, wedging his way through a little, looked in between the heads:  on the floor, sideways, somehow unnaturally drawn up, was lying Roly-Poly.  His face was blue, almost black.  He did not move, and was lying strangely small, shrunken, with legs bent.  One arm was squeezed in under his breast, while the other was flung back.