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Vasili Andreevich was stiff as a frozen carcass, and when they rolled him off Nikita his legs remained apart and his arms stretched out as they had been. His bulging hawk eyes were frozen, and his open mouth under his clipped moustache was full of snow. But Nikita though chilled through was still alive.
A squat peasant in a short fur overcoat emerged from the crowd. He looked on the ground, with his large disheveled head drooping. "Nikita," the police commissioner said deliberately, twirling his mustache, "give him a box on the ear a good one!" The peasant stepped forward, stopped in front of Rybin and raised his hand.
He looked out into the ante-room, sent Nikita off on some errand, in order to be quite alone, fastened the door behind him, and, returning to his room, began with wildly beating heart to undo the roll. In it were ducats, all new, and bright as fire. Almost beside himself, he sat down beside the pile of gold, still asking himself, "Is not this all a dream?"
Startled, almost terrified, Tchartkóff was on the point of calling Nikíta, who by this time sent forth from his ante-room a Titanic snore, when he checked himself and burst into a laugh. The object of alarm was the portrait he had bought, and which he had completely forgotten. The bright moonbeams, streaming into the room, partially illuminated the picture, and gave it a strange air of reality.
'He must have frozen too, thought Nikita of Mukhorty, and indeed those hoof knocks against the sledge, which had awakened Nikita, were the last efforts the already numbed Mukhorty had made to keep on his feet before dying. 'O Lord God, it seems Thou art calling me too! said Nikita. 'Thy Holy Will be done. But it's uncanny.... Still, a man can't die twice and must die once.
Prince Mirko died and King Nikita was deposed. For a time he resided at a hotel, a few houses from me, and I passed him now and again as he was on his way to plead his lost cause before the distinguished wreckers of thrones and régimes.
They both bent down involuntarily and waited till the violence of the squall should have passed. Mukhorty too laid back his ears and shook his head discontentedly. As soon as the violence of the blast had abated a little, Nikita took off his mittens, stuck them into his belt, breathed onto his hands, and began to undo the straps of the shaft-bow.
Nikita took the reins, but only held them, trying not to shake them and rejoicing at his favourite's sagacity. And indeed the clever horse, turning first one ear and then the other now to one side and then to the other, began to wheel round. 'The one thing he can't do is to talk, Nikita kept saying. 'See what he is doing! Go on, go on! You know best. That's it, that's it!
Andrey Yefimitch went to the door and opened it, but at once Nikita jumped up and barred his way. "Where are you going? You can't, you can't!" he said. "It's bedtime." "But I'm only going out for a minute to walk about the yard," said Andrey Yefimitch. "You can't, you can't; it's forbidden. You know that yourself."
It was opened by a slatternly lad in a blue shirt his cook, model, colour-grinder and floor-sweeper, who had to thank his godfathers for the harmonious name of Nikíta, and who united in his person the dirt incidental to three out of his four occupations.
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