I waked up late, when it was daylight. I found myself alone in the room. I sat down to wait in silence and waited about an hour; it must have been about nine o’clock when I was suddenly summoned. I might go into greater detail but it is not worth while, for all this is now irrelevant; I need only record what matters. I must note, however, that to my great astonishment I was treated with unexpected courtesy; I was questioned, I answered, and I was at once allowed to depart. I went out in silence, and to my satisfaction saw in their faces some surprise at a man who was able to keep up his dignity even in such circumstances. If I had not noticed that, I should not have recorded it. Tatyana Pavlovna was waiting for me at the entrance. I will explain in a couple of words why I was let off so easily.
Early in the morning, by eight o’clock perhaps, Tatyana Pavlovna had flown round to my lodging, that is to Pyotr Ippolitovitch’s, expecting to find the old prince still there, and she heard at once of all the horrors of the previous day, above all that I had been arrested. She instantly rushed off to Katerina Nikolaevna (who on returning from the theatre the evening before had had an interview with the father who had been restored to her). Tatyana Pavlovna waked her up, alarmed her and insisted that I should be at once released. With a note from her she flew at once to Büring’s and demanded from him forthwith another note, to the proper authorities, with an urgent request from Büring himself that I should be released, as I had been arrested through a misunderstanding. With this note she presented herself to the prison and her request was respectfully granted.
3
Now I will go on with my story.
Tatyana Pavlovna pounced on me, put me in a sledge, and took me home with her, she immediately ordered the samovar, and washed and brushed me herself in the kitchen. In the kitchen she told me in a loud voice that at half-past eleven Katerina Nikolaevna would come herself — as they had agreed that morning — to meet me. Marya overheard this. A few minutes later she brought in the samovar, and two minutes later, when Tatyana Pavlovna called her, she did not answer; it appeared that she had gone out for something. I beg the reader to make special note of this; it was about a quarter to ten I believe. Though Tatyana Pavlovna was angry at her disappearance without asking leave, she only thought she had gone out to the shop, and immediately forgot about it. And, indeed, we had no thoughts to spare for it, we talked away without ceasing, for we had plenty to talk about, so that I, at least, scarcely noticed Marya’s disappearance; I beg the reader to make a note of that.
As for me, I was in a sort of delirium, I poured out my feelings, and above all we were expecting Katerina Nikolaevna, and the thought that in an hour I should meet her at last, and at such a turning-point in my life, made me tremble and quiver. At last, when I had drunk two cups of tea, Tatyana Pavlovna suddenly stood up, took a pair of scissors from the table, and said:
“Let me have your pocket, I must take out the letter, we can’t unpick it when she’s here.”
“Yes,” I exclaimed and unbuttoned my coat.
“What a muddle it’s in! who sewed it up?”
“I did, I did, Tatyana Pavlovna.”
“Well, I can see you did. Come, here it is. . . .”
We took it out . . . the old envelope was the same, but inside was a blank sheet of paper.
“What’s this?” cried Tatyana Pavlovna, turning it round and round . . . “what’s the matter with you?”
But I was standing pale and speechless . . . and I suddenly sank helplessly into a chair. I really almost fainted.
“What does it mean?” wailed Tatyana Pavlovna. “Where is your letter?”
“Lambert!” I jumped up suddenly, slapping myself on the forehead as I guessed.
With breathless haste I explained to her — the night at Lambert’s and our plot; I had, however, confessed that to her the night before.
“They’ve stolen it, they’ve stolen it!” I cried, stamping on the floor and clutching at my hair.
“That’s terrible!” cried Tatyana Pavlovna, grasping what had happened.
“What time is it?”
It was about eleven.
“Ech, there’s no Marya! . . . Marya, Marya!”
“What is it, mistress?” Marya responded from the kitchen.
“Are you here? What are we to do now! I will fly to her. . . . Ah, slow coach, slow coach!”
“And I to Lambert,” I yelled, “and I will strangle him if need be.”
“Mistress,” Marya piped suddenly from the kitchen, “here’s a person asking for you very particularly.”
But before she had time to finish, the person burst in from the kitchen, making a great outcry and lamentation. It was Alphonsine. I will not describe the scene in detail; the scene was a fraud and a deception, but I must say Alphonsine acted it splendidly. With tears of repentance and with violent gesticulations she babbled (in French, of course), that she had unpicked the letter herself, that it was now in Lambert’s hands, and that Lambert, together with that “brigand,” cet homme noir, meant to entice Mme. la générale to shoot her, immediately within an hour . . . that she knew all this from them, and that she had suddenly taken fright because she saw they had a pistol, le pistolet, and now she had rushed off to us, that we might go, might save, might warn. . . . That cet homme noir. . . .”
In fact, it all sounded very probable, the very stupidity of some of Alphonsine’s expressions only increased its apparent truthfulness.
“What homme noir?” cried Tatyana Pavlovna.
“Tien, j’ai oublié son nom. . . Un homme affreux. . . Tiens, Versilov.”
“Versilov, it cannot be,” I cried!
“Oh, yes, it can!” wailed Tatyana Pavlovna: “come, tell us my good woman without dancing about, don’t wave your arms about; what do they want? Explain, my good woman; I don’t believe they mean to shoot her.”
“My good woman” did explain as follows (N.B.— it was all a lie, I must remind the reader again): Versilov was to sit at the door and when she went in Lambert was to show her cette lettre, then Versilov was to rush in and they would. . . . . Oh! ils feront leur vengeance! that she, Alphonsine, was afraid there would be trouble, because she had had a share in the business herself, cette dame, la générale would certainly come at once, at once, because they had sent her a copy of the letter, and she would see at once that they really had the letter, and would go to interview them, but only Lambert had written the letter, so she knew nothing about Versilov; and Lambert had introduced himself as a stranger who had come from a lady in Moscow, une dame de Moscou (N.B.— Marie Ivanovna!)
“Ach, I feel sick! Ach, I feel sick!” exclaimed Tatyana Pavlovna.
“Sauvez la, sauvez la!” cried Alphonsine.
Oh, of course there was something inconsistent, even at first sight, in this mad story, but there was no time to think it over, for in essentials it sounded very probable. Of course, one might still suppose, and with the greatest likelihood, that Katerina Nikolaevna, on receiving Lambert’s summons, would come first to Tatyana Pavlovna’s to discuss the matter with us; and on the other hand, this might not happen, and she might go straight to him, and then — she was lost! It was difficult to believe that she would rush off to a stranger like Lambert at the first summons; yet, again, this might somehow happen, after seeing the copy and satisfying herself that they really had her letter, and then there would be disaster anyway! Above all, we had no time even to reflect.