That very same evening, about eleven o’clock, she artfully, through conversation, led the notary into showing her his fireproof cabinet, playing upon his odd, pecuniary vanity. The notary willingly opened his iron safe in her presence, and she without any difficulty read the secret letters on the dial. Rapidly gliding with her glance over the shelves and the movable boxes, Tamara turned away with a skillfully executed yawn and said:
“Fie, what a bore!”
And, having embraced the notary’s neck, she whispered with her lips at his very ears, burning him with her hot breath:
“Lock up this nastiness, my treasure! Let’s go! … Let’s go! …”
And she was the first to go out into the dining room.
“Come here, now, Volodya!” she cried out from there. “Come quicker! I want wine and after that love, love, love without end! … No! Drink it all, to the very bottom! Just as we will drain our love to the very bottom today!”
The notary clinked glasses with her and at one gulp drank off his glass. Then he drew in his lips and remarked:
“Strange … The wine seems to be sort of bitter today.”
“Yes!” agreed Tamara and looked attentively at her lover. “This wine is always the least bit bitter. For such is the nature of Rhine wines …”
“But today it’s especially strong,” said the notary. “No, thanks, my dear—I don’t want any more!”
After five minutes he fell asleep, sitting in his chair; his head thrown back against its back, and his lower jaw hanging down. Tamara waited for some time and started to awaken him. He was without motion. Then she took the lit candle, and, having placed it on the window sill giving out upon the street, went out into the entrance hall and began to listen, until she heard light steps on the stairs. Almost without a sound she opened the door and let in Senka, dressed like a real gentleman, with a brand new leather handbag in his hands.
“Ready?” asked the thief in a whisper.
“He’s sleeping,” answered Tamara, just as quietly. “Look—here’s the key.”
They passed together into the study with the fireproof safe. Having looked over the lock with the aid of a flashlight, Senka swore in a low voice:
“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: z-e-n-i-t. Without the h.”
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 her 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 imminent 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; 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.
“Today I will kill myself!” said Dilectorsky finally. “All is over! …”
“My own, don’t! … My precious, don’t! …”
“It’s impossible,” answered Dilectorsky sombrely. “The cursed money! … Which is dearer—honour or life?!”
“My dear …”
“Don’t speak, don’t speak, Annetta!” (He, for some reason, preferred to the common name of Verka the aristocratic Annetta, thought up by himself.) “Don’t speak. This is decided!”
“Oh, if only I could help you!” exclaimed Verka woefully. “Why, I’d give my life away … Every drop of blood! …”
“What is life?” Dilectorsky shook his head with an actor’s despondence. “Farewell, Annetta! … Farewell! …”
The girl
