Soon after this the members of the “bad company” dispersed to the
four corners of the earth. There remained behind only the Professor,
who until his death continued to haunt the streets of the town, and
Turkevich, to whom my father would give a little writing to do from
time to time. For my part, I lost not a little blood in combats with
the Jewish boys who tormented the Professor by reminding him of sharp
and pointed instruments.
The Grenadier and the other suspicious characters went elsewhere
to seek their fortunes. Tiburtsi and Valek suddenly and completely
vanished, and no one could say whither they had gone, as no one knew
whence they had come.
The old chapel has suffered much since then from the onslaughts of
Time. First the roof fell in, breaking down the ceiling of the crypt.
Then landslides began to form around the building, and the place grew
more dismal than ever. The owls now hoot more loudly than before among
its ruins, and the will-o’-the-wisps on the graves still glow with a
malign blue fire on dark autumn nights.
One grave only, surrounded by a little fence, grows green with fresh
grass every spring, and lies bedecked with brilliant flowers.
Sonia and I used often to visit this little grave, and sometimes our
father would go with us. We liked to sit there in the shade of the
whispering birch trees, with the town below us shimmering placidly in
the sunlight. Here my sister and I read and dreamed together, sharing
our first young thoughts and our first premonitions of upright, winged
youth.
And when at last the time came for us to leave the quiet city of our
birth, it was here, over this little grave, in the Springtime of life
and hope, that we made our last compacts with one another on the last
day that we spent at home.