“To-day the order for my release will be made out.” I remember how I awoke on a certain May morning with this thought in my mind, and instantly began to conjecture in what manner the announcement would be made to me.
“You are to go to the Public Prosecutor,” said the warder, breaking in on my visions.
“It is for my formal discharge,” was my first thought; “the man is keeping his word. Strange that the judge has been so quick in pronouncing his decision; it is still quite early,” I meditated, as I went along the corridor.
In the office sat Herr von Berg at a table; beside him was a young clerk, and the table was covered with bundles of documents.
“To-day, as you are aware,” said the Public Prosecutor, turning to me, “judgment was to be given on your case. Before I inform you of the verdict, I must again have your assurance that your name is Bulìgin, and your home Moscow.”
“Certainly. I am Bulìgin, of Moscow,” I answered.
“Read the document relating to that point,” said the Public Prosecutor to the clerk. The latter read aloud in dry, business-like tones a communication, apparently emanating from some Moscow official, stating curtly that there was no person of the name of Bulìgin answering to the description given.[[17]]
“What have you to say to this?” asked Herr von Berg coldly.
I felt that the blood had left my cheeks, and that my knees were trembling; but I pulled myself together at once, and began to defend myself, speaking rapidly, warmly, and earnestly.