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Updated: April 30, 2025
Two rickety chairs, a torn haircloth sofa, with a greasy pillow, and the bare table at the window, were its entire furniture. Several scattered lithographs, two or three engravings, two slabs of lithographer's stone on the table, and engraver's tools sufficiently showed the occupation of the young man. He was florid, with red hair; of Polish descent, and his name was Kasimir Bodlevski.
Bodlevski crossed the street in the direction indicated, and looked for the sign over the door. To his astonishment he did not find it and only later he knew that the name was strictly "unofficial," only used by members of "the gang." Opening the door cautiously, Bodlevski made his way into the low, dirty barroom. Behind the bar stood a tall, handsome man with an open countenance and a bald head.
"And this means that I am in your power?" she said slowly, raising her piercing glance to his face. "Yes; it means that you are in my power," quietly and confidently answered Count Kallash. "But you forget that you and I are in the same boat." "You mean that I am a sharper, like you and Bodlevski? Well, you are right. "She, thanks to many things, has tasted misery, but she is honest.
"Very well, I will compel you to unmask?" "To unmask? What do you mean, count? You forget yourself!" "Well, then, I shall try to make you remember me!" And Kallash turned his back on her and strode from the room. A moment later, and she heard the door close loudly behind him. The baroness had already told Bodlevski of her meeting with Princess Anna, and she now hurried to him for counsel.
Bodlevski paid the money over in advance, and Yuzitch led him into a back room. On the table burned a tallow candle, which hardly lit up the faces of seven people who were grouped round it, one of them being the red-nosed man who was reading the Police News. The seven men were all from the districts of Vilna and Vitebsk, and were specialists in the art of fabricating passports.
And might it not happen that this same lithographer Bodlevski should get false passports at the Cave, for himself and his sweetheart, and flee with her across the frontier, and might not this same maid, twenty years later, return to Russia under the name of Baroness von Döring? You must admit that there is nothing fantastic in all this! What is the use of concealing? You see I know everything!"
At eleven o'clock the next evening Bodlevski once more entered the large room at the Cave, now all lit up and full of an animated crowd of men and women, all with the same furtive, predatory faces. Bodlevski felt nervous.
The many-sided art of the London rogues is known to all the world; in their club, Bodlevski, who had lost no time in making certain pleasant and indispensable acquaintances there, soon succeeded in getting for himself and Natasha admirably counterfeited new passports, once more with new names and occupations. With these, in a short time, they found their way to the Continent.
"'Secret' sent me!" Bodlevski suddenly exclaimed, without lowering his voice. The barkeeper looked at him sharply and suspiciously, and then asked, with a smile: "Who did you say?" "'Secret," repeated Bodlevski. After a while the barkeeper said, "And did your friend make an appointment?" "Yes, an appointment!" Bodlevski replied, beginning to lose patience.
At eleven o'clock the next evening Bodlevski once more entered the large room at the Cave, now all lit up and full of an animated crowd of men and women, all with the same furtive, predatory faces. Bodlevski felt nervous.
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