The
Little Russian curled his mustache, and when the mother entered the
room, he smiled and gave her an affectionate nod of the head.
Striving to suppress her fear, she walked, not sideways as always,
but erect, her chest thrown out, which gave her figure a droll,
stilted air of importance. Her shoes made a knocking sound on the
floor, and her brows trembled.
The officer quickly seized the books with the long fingers of his
white hand, turned over the pages, shook them, and with a dexterous
movement of the wrist flung them aside. Sometimes a book fell to
the floor with a light thud. All were silent. The heavy breathing
of the perspiring gendarmes was audible; the spurs clanked, and
sometimes the low question was heard: "Did you look here?"
The mother stood by Pavel's side against the wall. She folded her
arms over her bosom, like her son, and both regarded the officer.
The mother felt her knees trembling, and her eyes became covered
with a dry mist.
Suddenly the piercing voice of Nikolay cut into the silence:
"Why is it necessary to throw the books on the floor?"
The mother trembled. Tveryakov rocked his head as if he had been
struck on the back.
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