“So this is what the Emperor is!” thought Pétya. “No, I can’t petition him myself⁠—that would be too bold.” But in spite of this he continued to struggle desperately forward, and from between the backs of those in front he caught glimpses of an open space with a strip of red cloth spread out on it; but just then the crowd swayed back⁠—the police in front were pushing back those who had pressed too close to the procession: the Emperor was passing from the palace to the Cathedral of the Assumption⁠—and Pétya unexpectedly received such a blow on his side and ribs and was squeezed so hard that suddenly everything grew dim before his eyes and he lost consciousness. When he came to himself, a man of clerical appearance with a tuft of gray hair at the back of his head and wearing a shabby blue cassock⁠—probably a church clerk and chanter⁠—was holding him under the arm with one hand while warding off the pressure of the crowd with the other.

“You’ve crushed the young gentleman!” said the clerk. “What are you up to? Gently!⁠ ⁠… They’ve crushed him, crushed him!”