and followed the two ladies. They went along Goròkhovaya Street, turned into Myeshchànskaya, then into a carpenter’s shop, and at last up to the Kokoushkin Bridge, and there they stopped before a big house. “I know that house,” said I to myself; “that’s Tvyerkov’s house.” What a monster! Just to think of the numbers of people that live there—such a lot of strangers, servant maids, and as for my fellow officials, they are packed together like dogs! I have a friend living there who plays the trumpet very well. The ladies went up to the fifth story. “All right,” thought I, “I won’t go in now, but I will mark the place, and take advantage of the first opportunity.” _October 4th._ To-day is Wednesday, so I have been on duty in the director’s study. I purposely went early, sat down and mended all the pens. Our director must be a very clever man—all his study is fitted up with bookshelves. I read the titles of several books, but they were all so learned, so fearfully learned, that they are no use for a poor fellow like me; they are all either in French or in German. And just to look at his face! See the importance beaming in his eyes! I have never even heard of his saying an unnecessary word. Only, you know, when you hand him a paper he will ask, “What’s the weather like?” “Damp, your excellency.” Yes; we are not up to his level; he’s a statesman. Nevertheless, I have remarked that he is peculiarly fond of me. Now if only his daughter.... Confound it all! Never mind; never mind; hush! I began to read _The Little Bee_. What a stupid nation the French are! On my honour, I’d take them and flog them all round. Well, I was reading a charming account of a ball, written by a country squire from Koursk. The Koursk squires write very well. After that I observed that it was half-past twelve, and that the director hadn’t come out of his bedroom. But about half-past one there happened an occurrence that no pen can describe. The door opened, and, thinking it was the director, I jumped up with my papers; but it was—She; She herself! Holy saints! how she was dressed! All in white, like a swan, and so gorgeously! And how she looked! like the sunlight, I swear. She bowed to me and said, “Has papa been here?” Aï, aï, aï, what a voice! A perfect canary bird! “Your excellency,” I would have said, “have mercy on me. But, if I must die, let me die by your august hand.” But, the devil take it, all that would come on to my tongue was, “No, madam.” She looked at me; she looked at the books; she dropped her handkerchief. I rushed for it, slipped on the confounded polished floor, and nearly broke my nose. Still I managed to get the handkerchief. Heavens and earth! What a handkerchief! So fine; pure cambric; amber-scented; exhaling the aroma of high rank. She thanked me, laughed just a little, so that her sweet lips hardly moved, and went away. I waited another hour, and then a lackey came in and said, “You can go