"Triangle" on it jumped up and down, and the glass clinked against the decanter.
Never before had Bartholomew Korobeinikov been so wretchedly deceived.
He could deceive anyone he liked, but this time he had been fooled with such brilliant simplicity that all he could do was stand for some time, lashing out at the thick legs of the table.
In Gusishe, Korobeinikov was known as Bartholomeich.
People only turned to him in cases of extreme need.
He acted as a pawnbroker and charged cannibalistic rates of interest.
He had been doing this for several years and had never once been caught.
But now he had been cheated at his own game, a business from which he expected great profits and a secure old age.
"A fine thing!" he cried, remembering the lost orders. "From now on money in advance.
How could I have bungled it like that?
I gave him the walnut suite with my own hands.
The Shepherd Boy alone is priceless.
Done by hand. . . ."
An uncertain hand had been ringing the bell marked "Please Ring" for some time and Korobeinikov hardly had time to remember that the outside door was still open, when there was a heavy thud, and' the voice of a man entangled in a maze of cupboards called out:
"How do I get in?"
Korobeinikov went into the hallway, took hold of somebody's coat (it felt like coarse cloth), and pulled Father Theodore into the dining-room.
"I humbly apologize," said Father Theodore.
After ten minutes of innuendoes and sly remarks on both sides, it came to light that Citizen Korobeinikov definitely had some information regarding Vorobyaninov's furniture and that Father Theodore was not averse to paying for it.
Furthermore, to the record-keeper's great amusement, the visitor turned out to be the late marshal's own brother, and passionately desired to keep something in memory of him, for example, a walnut drawing-room suite.
The suite had very happy boyhood associations for Vorobyaninov's brother.
Korobeinikov asked a hundred roubles.
The visitor rated his brother's memory considerably lower than that, say thirty roubles.
They agreed on fifty.
"I'd like the money first," said the record-keeper. "It's a rule of mine."
"Does it matter if I give it to you in ten-rouble gold pieces?" asked Father Theodore, hurriedly, tearing open the lining of his coat.
"I'll take them at the official rate of exchange.
Today's rate is nine and a half."
Vostrikov took five yellow coins from the sausage, added two and a half in silver, and pushed the pile over to the record-keeper.
The latter counted the coins twice, scooped them up into one hand and, requesting his visitor to wait, went to fetch the orders.
Bartholomeich did not need to reflect for long; he opened the Mirror-of-Life index at the letter P, quickly found the right number and took down the bundle of orders belonging to General Popov's wife.
Disembowelling the bundle, he selected the order for twelve walnut chairs from the Hambs factory, issued to Comrade Bruns, resident of 34 Vineyard Street.
Marvelling at his own artfulness and dexterity, he chuckled to himself and took the order to the purchaser.
"Are they all in one place?" asked the purchaser.
"All there together.
It's a splendid suite.
It'll make you drool.
Anyway, I don't need to tell you, you know yourself!"
Father Theodore rapturously gave the record-keeper a prolonged handshake and, colliding innumerable times with the cupboards in the hall, fled into the darkness of the night.
For quite a while longer Bartholomeich chuckled to himself at the customer he had cheated.
He spread the gold coins out in a row on the table and sat there for a long time, gazing dreamily at the bright yellow discs.
"What is it about Vorobyaninov's furniture that attracts them?" he wondered. "They're out of their minds."
He undressed, said his prayers without much attention, lay down on the narrow cot, and fell into a troubled sleep.
CHAPTER TWELVE
A PASSIONATE WOMAN IS A POET'S DREAM
During the night the cold was completely consumed.
It became so warm that the feet of early passers-by began to ache.
The sparrows chirped various nonsense.
Even the hen that emerged from the kitchen into the hotel yard felt a surge of strength and tried to take off.
The sky was covered with small dumpling-like clouds and the dustbin reeked of violets and soupe paysanne.
The wind lazed under the eaves.