"A hundred?" asked Ilya, suddenly, and at once he knew that in his soul for a long time the hope had lived that his uncle would give him not a hundred roubles, but a much bigger sum. He was angered against himself that his heart could entertain so hateful, calculating, an expectation, and against his uncle that the sum was so small. He got up, straightened himself, and said, full of scorn and insolence:
"I'll have none of your stolen money, d'you understand."
The hunchback recoiled in fear and sank on his bed, pale and wretched, his hair bristled, his mouth stood open, and he gazed at Ilya silently with stupid terror in his eyes.
"Well, why do you look like that? I don't want your money."
"Christ!" Terenti groaned hoarsely. "Why not, my dear, why not? Ilusha, you've been like a son to me." Then presently he went on in a whisper. "It was just—for you—for fear of what should happen to you, that I took the sin on my soul; take the money, take it, else the Lord won't forgive me."
"So," cried Ilya, mockingly, "you'll go to your God with an account book! Oh! you! did I ask you to steal old Jeremy's money; think what a good man he was you robbed!"
"Ilusha, you didn't ask to be born, either," said the uncle, and stretched out his hand to Ilya with an odd gesture. "No, take the money, quietly, for Christ's sake, to save my soul; if I come back, then you'll get it all, and meantime take this, my dear boy. God will not forgive my sins, if you don't take the money!"
He was actually begging, his lips quivered, and in his eyes was an expression of fear. Ilya looked at him and could not determine if his uncle really distressed him or no.
"Well, all right, I'll take it," he said at last, and went straight out of the room. He was sorry that he had yielded finally, he felt degraded. What was a hundred roubles to him after all? What big thing could he undertake with that? If his uncle had given him a thousand roubles now instead of a hundred, then he would have been enabled to change his dull uneasy life into a better, that should glide along in peaceful solitude far from mankind.
How would it be to ask his uncle, just how much he had obtained from the rag-picker's hoard? But this thought was too repugnant to him. Ever since Ilya had made Olympiada's acquaintance the house of Filimonov appeared to him dirtier and stuffier than ever. The dirt and the close atmosphere roused in him a physical nausea, as though cold, slimy hands were laid on his body. To-day this feeling was more painful than usual, he could find no spot in the house to suit him, and, without any definite motive, he climbed the stairs to Matiza's garret. As he went, he felt as though this house would somehow, at some time or other, deal him an unexpected terrible injury.