"Come, come, Vjera," said the Cossack in an encouraging tone, "it is not
so bad after all. By this time the Count is fast asleep and is dreaming of
his fortune, you know, so that it would be a cruelty to wake him up. In
the morning we will all go with Fischelowitz and have him let out, and he
will be none the worse."
"I am afraid he will be--very much the worse," said Vjera. "It is
Wednesday to-morrow, and if he wakes up there--oh, I do not dare think of
it. It will make him quite, quite mad. Can we do nothing more? Nothing?"
"I think we have done our best to wake up this quarter of the town, and
yet Fischelowitz is still asleep. No one else can be of any use to
us--therefore--" he stopped, for his conclusion seemed self-evident.
"I suppose so," said Vjera, regretfully. "Let us go, then."
She turned and with her noiseless step began to walk slowly away, Schmidt
keeping close by her side. For some minutes neither spoke. The streets
were deserted, dry and still.
"Do you think there is any truth at the bottom of the Count's story?"
asked the Cossack at last.
"I do not know," Vjera answered, shaking her head. "I do not know what to
think," she continued after a little pause. "He tells us all the same
thing, he speaks of his letters, but he never shows them to anyone. I am
afraid--" she sighed and stopped speaking.
"I will tell you this much," said her companion. "That man is honest to
the backbone, honest as the good daylight on the hills, where there are no
houses to darken it and make shadows.
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