The princess dismissed her maid, and remained alone with her son.

"You have no longer a sister!" she cried, turning to her son, with the nervous spasm which returned each time she spoke of her daughter. "She is dead for us! She has disgraced us! I curse her! You, you alone are my heir!"

At these words the young prince p.r.i.c.ked up his ears and bent even more attentively toward his mother. The news of his sole heirship was so pleasant and unexpected that he did not even think of asking how his sister had disgraced them, and only said with a deep sigh:

"Oh, mamma, she was always opposed to you. She never loved you!"

"I shall make a will in your favor," continued the princess, telling him as briefly as possible of Princess Anna's flight.

"Yes, in your favor--only on one condition: that you will never recognize your sister. That is my last wish!

"Your wish is sacred to me," murmured her son, tenderly kissing her hand. He had always been jealous and envious of his sister, and was besides in immediate need of money.

The princess signed her will that same day, to the no small satisfaction of her dear son, who, in his heart, was wondering how soon his beloved parent would pa.s.s away, so that he might get his eyes on her long-h.o.a.rded wealth.

II

THE LITHOGRAPHER'S APPRENTICE

Later on the same day, in a little narrow chamber of one of the huge, dirty tenements on Vosnesenski Prospekt, sat a young man of ruddy complexion. He was sitting at a table, bending toward the one dusty window, and attentively examining a white twenty-five ruble note.

The room, dusty and dark, was wretched enough. Two rickety chairs, a torn haircloth sofa, with a greasy pillow, and the bare table at the window, were its entire furniture. Several scattered lithographs, two or three engravings, two slabs of lithographer's stone on the table, and engraver's tools sufficiently showed the occupation of the young man. He was florid, with red hair; of Polish descent, and his name was Kasimir Bodlevski. On the wall, over the sofa, between the overcoat and the cloak hanging on the wall, was a pencil drawing of a young girl. It was the portrait of Natasha.

The young man was so absorbed in his examination of the twenty-five ruble note that when a gentle knock sounded on the door he started nervously, as if coming back to himself, and even grew pale, and hurriedly crushed the banknote into his pocket.

The knock was repeated--and this time Bodlevski's face lit up. It was evidently a well-known and expected knock, for he sprang up and opened the door with a welcoming smile.

Natasha entered the room.

"What were you dreaming about that you didn't open the door for me?" she asked caressingly, throwing aside her hat and cloak, and taking a seat on the tumble-down sofa. "What were you busy at?"

"You know, yourself."

And instead of explaining further, he drew the banknote from his pocket and showed it to Natasha.

"This morning the master paid me, and I am keeping the money," he continued in a low voice, tilting back his chair. "I pay neither for my rooms nor my shop, but sit here and study all the time."

"It's so well worth while, isn't it?" smiled Natasha with a contemptuous grimace.

"You don't think it is worth while?" said the young man. "Wait!

I'll learn. We'll be rich!

"Yes, if we aren't sent to Siberia!" the girl laughed. "What kind of wealth is that?" she went on. "The game is not worth the candle. I'll be rich before you are."

"All right, go ahead!"

"Go ahead? I didn't come to talk nonsense, I came on business.

You help me, and, on my word of honor, we'll be in clover!"

Bodlevski looked at his companion in astonishment.

"I told you my Princess Anna was going to run away. She's gone!

And her mother has cut her off from the inheritance," Natasha continued with an exultant smile. "I looked through the sc.r.a.p basket, and have brought some papers with me."

"What sort of papers?"

"Oh, letters and notes. They are all in Princess Anna's handwriting. Shall I give them to you?" jested Natasha. "Have a good look at them, examine them, learn her handwriting, so that you can imitate every letter. That kind of thing is just in your line; you are a first-cla.s.s copyist, so this is just the job for you."

The engraver listened, and only shrugged his shoulders.

"No, joking aside," she continued seriously, drawing nearer Bodlevski, "I have thought of something out of the common; you will be grateful. I have no time to explain it all now. You will know later on. The main thing is--learn her handwriting."

"But what is it all for?" said Bodlevski wonderingly.

"So that you may be able to write a few words in the handwriting of Princess Anna; what you have to write I'll dictate to you."

"And then?"

"Then hurry up and get me a pa.s.sport in some one else's name, and have your own ready. But learn her handwriting. Everything depends on that!"

"It won't be easy. I'll hardly be able to!" muttered Bodlevski, scratching his head.

Natasha flared up.

"You say you love me?" she cried energetically, with a glance of anger. "Well, then, do it. Unless you are telling lies, you can learn to do banknotes."

The young man strode up and down his den, perplexed.

"How soon do you want it?" he asked, after a minute's thought. "In a couple of days?"

"Yes, in about two days, not longer, or the whole thing is done for!" the girl replied decisively. "In two days I'll come for the writing, and be sure my pa.s.sport is ready!"

"Very well. I'll do it," consented Bodlevski. And Natasha began to dictate to him the wording of the letter.

As soon as she was gone the engraver got to work. All the evening and a great part of the night he bent over the papers she had brought, examining the handwriting, studying the letters, and practicing every stroke with the utmost care, copying and repeating it a hundred times, until at last he had reached the required clearness. At last he mastered the writing. It only remained to give it the needed lightness and naturalness. His head rang from the concentration of blood in his temples, but he still worked on.

Finally, when it was almost morning, the note was written, and the name of Princess Anna was signed to it. The work was a masterpiece, and even exceeded Bodlevski's expectations. Its lightness and clearness were remarkable. The engraver, examining the writing of Princess Anna, compared it with his own work, and was astonished, so perfect was the resemblance.

And long he admired his handiwork, with the parental pride known to every creator, and as he looked at this note he for the first time fully realized that he was an artist.

III

THE CAVE

"Half the work is done!" he cried, jumping from the tumble-down sofa. "But the pa.s.sport? There's where the shoe pinches,"

continued the engraver, remembering the second half of Natasha's commission. "The pa.s.sport--yes--that's where the shoe pinches!" he muttered to himself in perplexity, resting his head on his hands and his elbows on his knees. Thinking over all kinds of possible and impossible plans, he suddenly remembered a fellow countryman of his, a shoemaker named Yuzitch, who had once confessed in a moment of intoxication that "he would rather hook a watch than patch a shoe." Bodlevski remembered that three months before he had met Yuzitch in the street, and they had gone together to a wine shop, where, over a bottle generously ordered by Yuzitch, Bodlevski had lamented over the hardships of mankind in general, and his own in particular. He had not taken advantage of Yuzitch's offer to introduce him to "the gang," only because he had already determined to take up one of the higher branches of the "profession," namely, to metamorphose white paper into, banknotes. When they were parting, Yuzitch had warmly wrung his hand, saying: