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Updated: June 2, 2025
"I suppose you'll put on the mantle of a political exile," laughed Ostrov. "It's useless! Our police, they'll keep a sharp look-out for you, clever fellows that they are. Never fear, they'll get you. They'll get you anywhere. You may be sure of that." "They'll not give me up where I'm going," said Trirodov. "It's a safe place, and you'll not be able to reach me there."
He took the money, counted it carefully, and put it into his greasy pocket. He was about to take his leave, but Trirodov detained him. "Don't go yet. We'll have a talk." At the same instant a quiet boy in his white clothes appeared from some dark corner. He paused behind Trirodov's chair, and looked at Ostrov.
Then Trirodov prepared a special plastic substance, in which he wrapped Matov's body. He pressed it compactly into the form of a cube, and placed it on his writing-table. And thus a thing that once had been a man remained there a thing among other things. Nevertheless Trirodov was right when he told Ostrov that Matov had not been killed.
The actual purpose, however, as understood by all these respected folk, though they ventured to do little more than hint of it to one another, was to establish with the help of the trio a patriotic movement; in short, to strike a blow at the intelligentsia. Yakov Poltinin took Ostrov with him to visit the families of the patriots.
He turned homewards, but reaching Petrovsky Ostrov he stopped completely exhausted, turned off the road into the bushes, sank down upon the grass and instantly fell asleep. In a morbid condition of the brain, dreams often have a singular actuality, vividness, and extraordinary semblance of reality.
"Well, well, and mine's like that too," chimed in Zherbenev. Glafira Pavlovna smiled graciously at both of them. "Whom are you talking about?" asked Kerbakh at last, rather annoyed at his companion. Zherbenev replied: "There is a chap here what's his name? You remember we met him at the pier some time ago. He was rather interested in Trirodov." "You mean Ostrov?" ventured Kerbakh.
Trirodov exclaimed: "The Cossacks!" The people in the street scattered in all directions. The mutilated corpse lay in a pool of blood on the pavement. Ostrov caused Trirodov a great deal of annoyance. More than once Trirodov returned to the earlier circumstances of their acquaintance and to their recent meeting at Skorodozh. The week having elapsed, Ostrov paid Trirodov another visit.
Ostrov replied with complete readiness: "Precisely. Let us suppose that he comes to Mr. Moneybags. 'I have, he tells him, 'a thing to tell you in confidence, a thing of great personal interest to you. Left alone with Mr. Moneybags he says to him: 'Five hundred roubles, if you please! The other, it goes without saying, is up on his hind legs. 'What for?
He did not dare as yet to visit Trirodov again, but appeared to be in an expectant mood, and remained in town. It was here that Ostrov met his old friend Yakov Poltinin. Yakov Poltinin and two other members of the Black Hundred were sent from the capital at the request of Kerbakh and Zherbenev.
Malignant thoughts about Trirodov again took possession of their minds. Ostrov continued: "I had no suspicion that Trirodov lived here. He is a very old and intimate acquaintance of mine. I might say we are friends." "So-o," said Zherbenev severely, glancing at Ostrov with disapproval. Something in Ostrov's voice and manner aroused their antagonism. His glance was certainly impudent.
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