student--it's true he is not in the same faculty--he is certainly a
remarkable man.'

'What is his name?' Elena inquired with interest.

'Insarov Dmitri Nikanorovitch. He is a Bulgarian.'

'Not a Russian?'

'No, he is not a Russian,'

'Why is he living in Moscow, then?'

'He came here to study. And do you know with what aim he is studying?
He has a single idea: the liberation of his country. And his story is
an exceptional one. His father was a fairly well-to-do merchant; he
came from Tirnova. Tirnova is now a small town, but it was the capital
of Bulgaria in the old days when Bulgaria was still an independent
state. He traded with Sophia, and had relations with Russia; his
sister, Insarov's aunt, is still living in Kiev, married to a senior
history teacher in the gymnasium there. In 1835, that is to say
eighteen years ago, a terrible crime was committed; Insarov's mother
suddenly disappeared without leaving a trace behind; a week later she
was found murdered.'

Elena shuddered. Bersenyev stopped.

'Go on, go on,' she said.

'There were rumours that she had been outraged and murdered by a