When the train steamed in, and the world-famous dressmaker descended from his carriage, I saw immediately that our thief had made a mistake. This was not the sort of man who could be even remotely suspected of plotting an assassination. He looked well-fed, vain and harmless, and showed himself extremely anxious to attract the greatest possible amount of attention. To put it briefly: he was certainly not a “subversive individual.” He was a fairly tall man, but in consequence of his curious attire he gave the impression of being smallish or even short. For his clothes flapped about him, instead of simply covering him, and they made no pretense of fitting, in fact they might have been presented to him by a casual acquaintance. But he had designed them himself and therefore he seemed to us, or to me at any rate, to be, as one might say, doubly clothed. I was amazed that the Czar’s court could summon such a ridiculous creature all the way from Paris to Petersburg; and then, for the first time, I began to have doubts — doubts as to the safety of the fine gentlemen, of the great noblemen, to whose company I would so gladly have belonged. Up to that moment I had believed in their infallibility. How, therefore, could they have invited to Petersburg such a comedian as this, who was to dictate to their women-folk what fashions were to be worn in Russia? It was incredible! But now I saw it with my own eyes. The dressmaker arrived with a large retinue, and not only a feminine one, such as we had expected. No! — he had also brought several young men with him, evidently the last word in Parisian manhood, complete with silk cravats and abundant gestures. They hopped gaily out of their compartments, not unlike dressed-up sparrows — in fact the illusion would have been complete had they suddenly started twittering. To me, indeed, the noisy and light-hearted way in which they began chattering among themselves as soon as they had arrived seemed like a cheerful confabulation between human birds or partially feathered humans.
They waited for a while outside the carriage, then stretched out their arms and received the twelve girls who began to emerge after them. They caught them so carefully and delicately, and with such anxious faces, that they might not have been simply stepping down on to a platform but plunging into a fearful abyss. Among the girls who got out, one in particular caught my attention. Like all the girls whom the dressmaker had brought with him, she was wearing a number. For each of them bore a number, embroidered in red on a neat blue satin square, which was pinned over the left breast. And it looked exactly as chough these numbers had been branded on, as one brands horses or cattle. Although the girls were all so merry, I felt extremely sorry for them; I pitied them all, especially the one who had attracted me at first glance. She bore the Number 9, and was called, as I discovered later, Lutetia. But in the passports, which I shortly after inspected in the passport office, her name was given as Annette Leclair, and — I do not know why — this name moved me deeply. Perhaps it is unnecessary to assure you again that I had never really loved a woman before; indeed, I had had very little to do with women. I was young and well-built, and in no way indifferent to their charms; but my heart was far from ready to obey my senses. And strong as was my desire to “have” them nearly all, it was more than counterbalanced by my conviction that I could never be in a position to monopolize even one of them. And yet, as must be the case with every young man, I yearned for the one woman — or rather, for one of the ones — who could forever satisfy my longings and still my restless discontent. At the same time, I suspected that such a woman could probably never exist, and yet I waited anxiously — as is also the way with young men — for the miracle to happen. And the moment I set eyes on Lutetia, Number 9, it seemed to me that the miracle had indeed arrived. When a young man, such as I was then, is full of expectation, he is only too ready to believe that the desired object has entered his life.
So I fell in love with Lutetia, literally, at first sight. Very soon it seemed to me that she carried her number like a stigma, and suddenly I was filled with hatred against this exquisite dressmaker, who had been invited by the highest society to exhibit his unhappy slaves. Of all these unhappy slaves it was, of course, Lutetia, with her Number 9, who seemed to me the unhappiest. And as though this contemptible but far from criminal dressmaker were in reality a slave-trader or a white-slaver, I began considering the ways and means by which I might rescue Number 9 from his clutches. Yes, I saw in the fact that I had been sent to Petersburg on account of this wretch, a particular “gesture of fate.” And I made up my mind to save Lutetia.
I believe I forgot to tell you why the police had taken these precautions against such an unusual, but nevertheless unsuspicious, dressmaker. A week or two previously an attempt had been made on the life of the Governor of Petersburg. As you all know, unsuccessful assassinations used to have far more terrible results in our old Russia than successful ones. Successful assassinations were, to a certain extent, the irrevocable will of God. For, my friends, people still believed in God in those days, and they were convinced that nothing could happen against His will. But in order to forestall, so to speak, the Almighty before he could find an opportunity of destroying a high personage, so-called precautionary measures were taken. These measures were mostly hopeless and often ridiculous. We, for example, were given orders to watch those poor young girls particularly closely during the intervals while they were changing, and also during the daytime, in their hotels. We were also ordered to take particular note of the men with whom, in all probability, they would come in contact. And so, during those days, we were really no longer policemen, but a sort of group of governesses. I, however, was in no way ashamed of this task, indeed it amused me. But what would not have amused me during those first happy days when I was in love! — My heart! I felt I had denied it up till then. Ever since that moment when love had entered in, I had realized that it was still there, my heart, and that, up to that hour, I had only ignored, insulted and repressed it. Or so I believed. Yes, my friends, it was an unspeakable joy to feel that I still possessed a heart and to recognize my crime in having previously ill-treated it. At the time I had no such clear conception of my feelings as I have now. But I already felt that love had begun to redeem me and that the greatest gift it could bring me would be my redemption, with suffering, with joy, and even with pleasure. For love, my friends, does not make us blind, as the stupid proverb asserts. On the contrary, it makes us see. Suddenly, and thanks to my foolish love for an ordinary girl, I realized that up to that hour I had been evil, and I realized, too, exactly how evil I had been. Since then, I have come to realize that the object which awakes love in a human heart is utterly unimportant compared to the knowledge which that love bestows. Whoever or whatever a man may love, his perception grows greater, not less. Yet I still did not know whether the girl would return my love. But the blessing of being able to fall in love so suddenly, at first sight, made me sure of myself and simultaneously aroused pangs of conscience within me at the shamefulness of past deeds. I tried to become worthy of this gift. In a flash I realized the baseness of my profession, and it disgusted me. At that time I began to make amends; it was the beginning of my period of atonement. Little did I know then how much more I should have to atone for later.