Stepan took the boy to the dovecote, locked him in, and set the old poultry maid Agafya to keep watch on him.
“Go to town right now for the police chief,” said Kirila Petrovich, following the boy with his eyes, “as quick as you can.”
“There’s no doubt about it. She kept in touch with that cursed Dubrovsky. Can it really be that she called for his help?” thought Kirila Petrovich, pacing the room and angrily whistling “Thunder of victory.” “Maybe I’ve finally found his warm tracks, and he won’t get away from us. We must take advantage of the occasion. Hah! A bell. Thank God, it’s the police chief.”
“Hey! Bring me the boy we caught.”
Meanwhile a buggy drove into the yard, and the police chief already known to us came into the room all covered with dust.
“Great news,” Kirila Petrovich said to him. “I’ve caught Dubrovsky.”
“Thank God, Your Excellency,” the police chief said joyfully. “Where is he?”
“That is, not Dubrovsky, but one of his band. They’ll bring him presently. He’ll help us to catch their chief. Here he is.”
The police chief, who was expecting a fearsome robber, was amazed to see a thirteen-year-old boy of rather weak appearance. He turned to Kirila Petrovich in perplexity and waited for an explanation. Kirila Petrovich began at once to recount the morning’s incident, though without mentioning Marya Kirilovna.
The police chief listened to him attentively, glancing every other moment at the little scoundrel, who, pretending to be a fool, seemed to pay no attention to all that was going on around him.
“Allow me to speak with you in private, Your Excellency,” the police chief finally said.
Kirila Petrovich took him to another room and locked the door behind him.
Half an hour later they came back to the reception room where the prisoner was waiting for his fate to be decided.
“The master,” said the police chief, “wanted to put you in the town jail, have you flogged and then sent to a penal colony, but I interceded for you and persuaded him to forgive you. Untie him.”
The boy was untied.
“Thank the master,” said the police chief. The boy went up to Kirila Petrovich and kissed his hand.
“Go on home,” Kirila Petrovich said to him, “and in the future don’t steal raspberries from hollow trees.”
The boy went out, cheerfully jumped off the porch, and ran across the fields to Kistenevka without looking back. On reaching the village, he stopped at a dilapidated hut, the first at the edge, and knocked on the window; the window was raised, and an old woman appeared.
“Give me some bread, grandma,” said the boy. “I haven’t eaten since morning, I’m starved.”
“Ah, it’s you, Mitya. Where did you disappear to, you little devil?” the old woman replied.
“I’ll tell you later, grandma. Give me some bread, for God’s sake.”
“Come in, then.”
“No time, grandma, I still have to run somewhere else. Bread, for Christ’s sake, give me bread.”
“What a fidget!” the old woman grumbled. “Here’s a slice for you.” And she handed a slice of dark bread out the window. The boy greedily bit into it and, chewing, instantly headed off again.
It was growing dark. Mitya made his way past the barns and kitchen gardens to the Kistenevka grove. Having reached the two pine trees that stood as front-line sentinels of the grove, he stopped, looked around, gave an abrupt, piercing whistle, and began to listen; he heard a light and prolonged whistle in response; someone came out of the wood and approached him.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Kirila Petrovich paced up and down the reception room, whistling his song more loudly than usual; the whole house was astir, servants ran around, maids bustled, in the shed the coachmen hitched up the carriage, people crowded in the courtyard. In the young mistress’s dressing room, before the mirror, a lady, surrounded by maids, was decking out the pale, motionless Marya Kirilovna, whose head bent languidly under the weight of the diamonds. She winced slightly when a careless hand pricked her, but kept silent, vacantly gazing into the mirror.
“Soon now?” Kirila Petrovich’s voice was heard at the door.
“One moment!” replied the lady. “Marya Kirilovna, stand up, look at yourself, is it all right?”
Marya Kirilovna stood up and made no reply. The door opened.
“The bride is ready,” the lady said to Kirila Petrovich. “Have them put her in the carriage.”
“Godspeed,” replied Kirila Petrovich and, taking an icon from the table, he said in a moved voice. “Come to me, Masha. I give you my blessing…”
The poor girl fell at his feet and sobbed.
