Bugrov’s heart suddenly began throbbing.⁠ ⁠… He clutched at the window curtains with both hands.⁠ ⁠…

“Will you have fifty thousand? Ivan Petrovitch, I entreat you.⁠ ⁠… It’s not a bribe, not a bargain.⁠ ⁠… I only want by a sacrifice on my part to atone a little for your inevitable loss. Would you like a hundred thousand? I am willing. A hundred thousand?”

My God! Two immense hammers began beating on the perspiring temples of the unhappy Ivan Petrovitch. Russian sledges with tinkling bells began racing in his ears.⁠ ⁠…

“Accept this sacrifice from me,” Groholsky went on, “I entreat you! You will take a load off my conscience.⁠ ⁠… I implore you!”

My God! A smart carriage rolled along the road wet from a May shower, passed the window through which Bugrov’s wet eyes were looking. The horses were fine, spirited, well-trained beasts. People in straw hats, with contented faces, were sitting in the carriage with long fishing-rods and bags.⁠ ⁠… A schoolboy in a white cap was holding a gun. They were driving out into the country to catch fish, to shoot, to walk about and have tea in the open air. They were driving to that region of bliss in which Bugrov as a boy⁠—the barefoot, sunburnt, but infinitely happy son of a village deacon⁠—had once raced about the meadows, the woods, and the river banks. Oh, how fiendishly seductive was that May! How happy those who can take off their heavy uniforms, get into a carriage and fly off to the country where the quails are calling and there is the scent of fresh hay. Bugrov’s heart ached with a sweet thrill that made him shiver. A hundred thousand!