This was too much for Pushkin.
"Devil take you!" he cried. "Here is my pocket-book. What you find in it you may take."
And the money-lender did find something in it—a poem called The Gypsy Girl. He began to dance round with glee, now stopping, now starting off afresh, like a merry Cossack.
"Ho, ho, what a find! The Gypsy Girl! Heaven bless you for it! I am off with it."
"To Severin. He was only just telling me how all the world of fashion was besieging his doors to know when Pushkin's poem of The Gypsy Girl, that he had read at Fräulein Ilmarinen's, was coming out. He said he would give any amount for it. So my thousand rubles are safe. If I can, I will squeeze something more out of him, and honorably share the surplus with you. I kiss your hand, sir. Pardon any annoyance I may have caused you. Command me when you are in want of more money. I shall be only too happy to be at your service."
The money-lender had said the half of this speech as he looked back on the threshold. Pushkin thought the man had gone mad. Angrily throwing himself back on his bed, he forbade his man-servant to admit the fellow again; then slept till noon. When he awoke he rang for his man.
"That fellow came again, sir."
"But you did not let him in?"
"No. But he pushed this packet under the door. Shall I throw it into the fire, sir?"