Once in the street Grokhotov pointed out a provocator to Yevsey.
A tall sturdy man was walking along the pavement. His fair hair combed back fell down beautifully from under his hat to his shoulders. His face was large and handsome, his mustache luxuriant. His soberly clad person produced the impression of that of an important, well-fed gentleman of the nobility.
"You see what a fellow?" said Grokhotov with pride. "Fine, isn't he? Our guard. He delivered up twenty men of the bomb. He helped them make the bombs himself. They wanted to blow up a minister. He taught them, then delivered them up. Clever piece of business, wasn't it?"
"Yes," said Yevsey, amazed at the man's stately appearance so unlike that of the busy, bustling street spies.
"That's the kind they are, the real ones," said Grokhotov. "Why, he would do for a minister; he has the face and figure for it. And we--what are we? Poverty-stricken dependents upon a hungry nobleman."
Yevsey sighed. The magnificent spy aroused his envy.
Ready to serve anybody and everybody for a good look or a kind word, he ran about the city obediently, searched, questioned, and informed. If he succeeded in pleasing, he rejoiced sincerely, and grew in his own estimation. He worked much, made himself very tired, and had no time to think.
Maklakov, reserved and serious, seemed better and purer to Yevsey than any person he had met up to that time. He always wanted to ask him about something, and tell him about himself--such an attractive and engaging face did this young spy have.
Once Yevsey actually put a question to him:
"Timofey Vesilyevich, how much do the revolutionists receive a month?"
A light shadow passed over Maklakov's bright eyes.
"You are talking nonsense," he answered, not in a loud voice, but angrily.
The days passed quickly, in a constant stir, one just like the other. At times Yevsey felt they would file on in the same way far into the future--vari-colored, boisterous, filled with the talks now become familiar to him and with the running about to which he had already grown accustomed. This thought enfolded his heart in cold tedium, his body in enfeebling languor. Everything within and without became empty. Klimkov seemed to be sliding down into a bottomless pit.