Natasha flared up.

“You say you love me?” she cried energetically, with a glance of anger.  “Well, then, do it.  Unless you are telling lies, you can learn to do banknotes.”

The young man strode up and down his den, perplexed.

“How soon do you want it?” he asked, after a minute’s thought.  “In a couple of days?”

“Yes, in about two days, not longer, or the whole thing is done for!” the girl replied decisively.  “In two days I’ll come for the writing, and be sure my passport is ready!”

“Very well.  I’ll do it,” consented Bodlevski.  And Natasha began to dictate to him the wording of the letter.

As soon as she was gone the engraver got to work.  All the evening and a great part of the night he bent over the papers she had brought, examining the handwriting, studying the letters, and practicing every stroke with the utmost care, copying and repeating it a hundred times, until at last he had reached the required clearness.  At last he mastered the writing.  It only remained to give it the needed lightness and naturalness.  His head rang from the concentration of blood in his temples, but he still worked on.

Finally, when it was almost morning, the note was written, and the name of Princess Anna was signed to it.  The work was a masterpiece, and even exceeded Bodlevski’s expectations.  Its lightness and clearness were remarkable.  The engraver, examining the writing of Princess Anna, compared it with his own work, and was astonished, so perfect was the resemblance.

And long he admired his handiwork, with the parental pride known to every creator, and as he looked at this note he for the first time fully realized that he was an artist.

III

THE CAVE

“Half the work is done!” he cried, jumping from the tumble-down sofa.  “But the passport?  There’s where the shoe pinches,” continued the engraver, remembering the second half of Natasha’s commission.  “The passport—­yes—­that’s where the shoe pinches!” he muttered to himself in perplexity, resting his head on his hands and his elbows on his knees.  Thinking over all kinds of possible and impossible plans, he suddenly remembered a fellow countryman of his, a shoemaker named Yuzitch, who had once confessed in a moment of intoxication that “he would rather hook a watch than patch a shoe.”  Bodlevski remembered that three months before he had met Yuzitch in the street, and they had gone together to a wine shop, where, over a bottle generously ordered by Yuzitch, Bodlevski had lamented over the hardships of mankind in general, and his own in particular.  He had not taken advantage of Yuzitch’s offer to introduce him to “the gang,” only because he had already determined to take up one of the higher branches of the “profession,” namely, to metamorphose white paper into banknotes.  When they were parting, Yuzitch had warmly wrung his hand, saying: