“The devil take him, the old animal! ...  I just knew that it would be a lock with a combination.  Here you’ve got to know the letters ...  It’s got to be melted with electricity, and the devil knows how much time it’ll take.”

“It’s not necessary,” retorted Tamara hurriedly.  “I know the word ...  Pick it out:  m-o-r-t-g-a-g-.  Without the e.”

After ten minutes they descended the steps together; went in purposely broken lines through several streets, hiring a cab to the depot only in the old city; and rode out of the city with irreproachable passports of citizens and landed proprietors—­the Stavnitzkys, man and wife.  For a long time nothing was heard of them until, a year later, Senka was caught in Moscow in a large theft, and gave Tamara away during the interrogation.  They were both tried and sentenced to imprisonment.

Following Tamara came the turn of the naive, trusting, and amorous Verka.  For a long time already she had been in love with a semi-military man, who called himself a civic clerk in the military department.  His name was Dilectorsky.  In their relations Verka was the adoring party; while he, like an important idol, condescendingly received the worship and the proffered gifts.  Even from the end of summer Verka noticed that her beloved was becoming more and more cold and negligent; and, talking with her, was dwelling in thought somewhere far, far away.  She tortured herself, was jealous, questioned him, but always received in answer some indeterminate phrases, some ominous hints at a near misfortune, at a premature grave ...

In the beginning of September he finally confessed to her, that he had embezzled official money, big money, something around three thousand; and that after five days he would be checked up, and that he, Dilectorsky, was threatened with disgrace, the court, and finally, hard labour ...  Here the civic clerk of the military department burst into sobs, clasping his head, and exclaimed: 

“My poor mother! ...  What will become of her?  She will not be able to sustain this degradation ...  No!  Death is a thousand times better than these hellish tortures of a being guilty of naught.”

Although he was expressing himself, as always, in the style of the dime novels (in which way he had mainly enticed the trusting Verka), still, the theatrical thought of suicide, once arisen, no longer forsook him.

Somehow one day he was promenading for a long time with Verka in Prince Park.  Already greatly devastated by autumn, this wonderful ancient park glistened and played with the magnificent tones of the foliage, blossoming out into colours:  crimson, purple, lemon, orange and the deep cherry colour of old, settled wine; and it seemed that the cold air was diffusing sweet odours, like precious wine.  And yet, a fine impress, a tender aroma of death, was wafted from the bushes, from the grass, from the trees.

Dilectorsky waxed tender; gave his feelings a free rein, was moved over himself, and began to weep.  Verka wept a bit with him, too.