In the evening the gendarmes came. She met them without surprise and without fear. They entered noisily, with a peculiarly jaunty air, and with a look of gayety and satisfaction in their faces. The yellow-faced officer said, displaying his teeth:
"Well, how are you? The third time I have the honor, eh?"
She was silent, passing her dry tongue along her lips. The officer talked a great deal, delivering a homily to her. The mother realized what pleasure he derived from his words. But they did not reach her; they did not disturb her; they were like the insistent chirp of a cricket. It was only when he said: "It's your own fault, little mother, that you weren't able to inspire your son with reverence for God and the Czar," that she answered dully, standing at the door and looking at him: "Yes, our children are our judges. They visit just punishment upon us for abandoning them on such a road."
"Wha-at?" shouted the officer. "Louder!"
"I say, the children are our judges," the mother repeated with a sigh.
He said something quickly and angrily, but his words buzzed around her without touching her. Marya Korsunova was a witness. She stood beside the mother, but did not look at her; and when the officer turned to her with a question, she invariably answered with a hasty, low bow: "I don't know, your Honor. I am just a simple, ignorant woman. I make my living by peddling, stupid as I am, and I know nothing."
"Shut up, then!" commanded the officer.
She was ordered to search Vlasova. She blinked her eyes, then opened them wide on the officer, and said in fright:
"I can't, your Honor!"
The officer stamped his feet and began to shout. Marya lowered her eyes, and pleaded with the mother softly: