Free Sister Pelagia and the White Bulldog by Boris Akunin

emperor.”
    By this point everything had become clear to Mitrofanii, both about his visitor and about his probable subsequent course of action, and His Grace therefore rose unceremoniously to his feet to indicate that the conversation was over.
    “I know. That is why I inform you of my opinion with no witnesses present, so that everything will be perfectly clear between us.”
    Bubentsov also rose and said briefly, with a bow: “Well, then, I thank you for your frankness.”
    He left and did not darken the door of the episcopal see with any further visits. The declaration of war had been made and accepted. The lull that is common before the beginning of a general engagement had set in, and, at the time our tale begins, it was not yet over.
             
    THE UNSUCCESSFUL SALLY against the fortress of faith was followed in short order by a foray against the bulwark of jurisprudence. Enlightened by his well-wishers, who by this time were already numerous, Bubentsov did not make his approach to the chairman of the Chamber of Justice or the provincial procurator, but the latter’s assistant, Matvei Bentsionovich Berdichevsky.
    Their conversation took place in the Nobles’ Club, into which Matvei Bentsionovich had been accepted immediately after he was elevated to the personal nobility on the basis of a recommendation from Baron von Haggenau. Berdichevsky dropped into the club quite frequently, not out of the snobbishness typical of parvenus, but for a more prosaic reason: The procurator’s assistant had many children, and his house was filled with such chaotic toing and froing that even this home-loving paterfamilias sometimes needed to take a break. In the evening Matvei Bentsionovich usually sat on his own in the club library and played himself at chess—our town could offer him no worthy opponent for that abstruse pastime.
    Vladimir Lvovich walked up, introduced himself, and suggested a game. He was granted the right to make the first move and for a certain time there was complete silence in the library, with only the malachite chess pieces occasionally tapping against the board. Berdichevsky discovered, to his surprise and delight, that he had a serious opponent and he was obliged to make some effort, but even so little by little the black pieces won the upper hand.
    “Oh, for a little trial,” Bubentsov suddenly sighed, breaking the silence.
    “What was that?”
    “You and I are berries from the same field,” Vladimir Lvovich said amiably. “We climb upward, tearing our nails, with everyone around us only trying to knock us back down. You are a converted Jew; it is hard for you. Your only support comes from the governor and the bishop. However, I assure you that neither the one nor the other will remain in his post for long. Then what will become of you?” He set down a rook and declared: “En garde.”
    “A little trial?” asked Matvei Bentsionovich, looking intently at the board and twisting the tip of his long nose with his fingers (a rather unpleasant habit of his).
    “Exactly. Of schismatics. Some acts of sacrilege or other, or better still of savagery. Mockery of Orthodox sacred objects isn’t bad, either. We need to start with some merchant or other, one who is particularly respected. A rich man’s purse always comes before his faith. Press him hard enough, and he will soon realize where his best interests lie and back down, and many others will follow him. As things are, no doubt the police and the consistory staff and your court officers all receive bribes from the Old Believers, but we won’t make them pay with money, only by making the sign of the cross with three fingers, them and every last member of their households. How’s that?”
    “They don’t receive anything,” Matvei Bentsionovich replied, figuring out some baffling sequence of moves.
    “How do you mean?”
    “From the schismatics. The police and the consistory staff. Or the court officers, either. That is not the practice