the pictures and studies,
and showed that his mind was more advanced than the landlord's, and that
he was not insensible to artistic impressions.

"Heh!" said he, tapping one canvas, on which was depicted a naked woman,
"this subject is--lively. But why so much black under her nose? did she
take snuff?"

"Shadow," answered Tchartkoff gruffly, without looking at him.

"But it might have been put in some other place: it is too conspicuous
under the nose," observed the officer. "And whose likeness is this?" he
continued, approaching the old man's portrait. "It is too terrible.
Was he really so dreadful? Ah! why, he actually looks at one! What a
thunder-cloud! From whom did you paint it?"

"Ah! it is from a--" said Tchartkoff, but did not finish his sentence:
he heard a crack. It seems that the officer had pressed too hard on the
frame of the portrait, thanks to the weight of his constable's hands.
The small boards at the side caved in, one fell on the floor, and with
it fell, with a heavy crash, a roll of blue paper. The inscription
caught Tchartkoff's eye--"1000 ducats." Like a madman, he sprang to pick
it up, grasped the roll, and gripped it convulsively in his hand, which
sank with the weight.

"Wasn't there a sound of money?" inquired the officer, hearing the noise
of something falling on the floor, and not catching sight of it, owing
to the rapidity with which Tchartkoff had hastened to pick it up.

"What business is it of yours what is in my room?"

"It's my business because you ought to pay your rent to the landlord
at once; because you have money, and won't pay, that's why it's my
business."

"Well, I will pay him to-day."

"Well, and why wouldn't you pay before, instead of giving trouble to
your landlord, and bothering the police to boot?"

"Because I did not want to touch this money. I will pay him in full
this evening, and leave the rooms to-morrow. I will not stay with such a
landlord."

"Well, Ivan Ivanovitch, he will pay you," said the constable, turning to
the landlord. "But in case you are not satisfied in every respect this
evening, then you must excuse me, Mr. Painter." So saying, he put on
his three-cornered hat, and went into the ante-room, followed by the
landlord hanging his head, and apparently engaged in meditation.

"Thank God, Satan has carried them off!" said Tchartkoff, as he heard
the outer door of the ante-room close. He looked out into the ante-room,
sent Nikita off on some er