“Who is that?”
“A prisoner whom Fyodor Ivanovitch brought in,” answered the policeman; “there is a paper about him somewhere, Sir.”
The magistrate ran through the paper and then glanced at me. As I kept my eyes fixed on him, ready to retort the instant he spoke, he was put out and said, “I beg your pardon.”
But now the business began again between the publican and his enemy. The woman wished to take an oath, and a priest was summoned; I believe both parties were sworn, and there was no prospect of a conclusion. At this point I was taken in a carriage to the Chief Commissioner’s office—I am sure I don’t know why, for no one spoke a word to me there—and then brought back to the police-station, where a room right under the belfry was prepared for my occupation. The corporal observed that if I wanted food I must send out for it: the prison ration would not be issued for a day or two; and besides, as it only amounted to three or four kopecks a day, a gentleman “under a cloud” did not usually take it.
Along the wall of my room there was a sofa with a dirty cover. It was past midday and I was terribly weary. I threw myself on the sofa and fell fast asleep. When I woke, I felt quite easy and cheerful. Of late I had been tormented by my ignorance of Ogaryóv’s fate; now, my own turn had come, the black cloud was right overhead, I was in the thick of the danger, instead of watching it in the distance. I felt that this first prosecution would serve us as a consecration for our mission.
CHAPTER III
Under the Belfry—A Travelled Policeman—The Incendiaries.
§1
A MAN soon gets used to prison, if he has any interior life at all. One quickly gets accustomed to the silence and complete freedom of one’s cage—there are no cares and no distractions.