Wishing to leave him some token of remembrance, I took off a small sleeve-link and asked him to accept it.
“Your sleeve-link is too fine for my shirt,” he said; “but I shall keep it as long as I live and wear it in my coffin.”
After a little thought, he began to rummage hastily in his portmanteau. He took from a small bag a wrought-iron chain with a peculiar pattern, wrenched off some of the links, and gave them to me.
“I have a great value for this chain,” he said; “it is connected with the most sacred recollections of my life, and I won’t give it all to you; but take these links. I little thought that I should ever give them to a Russian, an exile like myself.”
I embraced him and said good-bye.
“When do you start?” he asked.
“To-morrow morning; but don’t come: when I go back, I shall find a policeman at my lodgings, who will never leave me for a moment.”
“Very well. I wish you a good journey and better fortune than mine.”
By nine o’clock next morning the inspector appeared at my house, to hasten my departure. My new keeper, a much tamer creature than his predecessor, and openly rejoicing at the prospect of drinking freely during the 350 versts of our journey, was doing something to the carriage. All was ready. I happened to look into the street and saw Tsichanovitch walking past. I ran to the window.
“Thank God!” he said. “This is the fourth time I have walked past, hoping to hail you, if only from a distance; but you never saw me.”