"What?" Lembke goggled his eyes. "You actually haven't ... revealed anything to Yulia Mikhailovna?"
"To her? Save me and have mercy on me! Ehh, Andrei Antonovich! You see, sir: I greatly value her friendship and highly respect. . . well, and all that... but I wouldn't make such a blunder. I don't contradict her, because to contradict her, you know yourself, is dangerous. It's possible I did drop a hint or two, because she likes that, but to give away names or anything to her, as I just did to you—ehh, my dear! And why am I turning to you now? Because you are, after all, a man, a serious person, with solid, old-style experience in the service. You've seen it all. I suppose you already know every step in such matters by heart from Petersburg cases. And if I were to tell her these two names, for example, she'd just start banging the drums ... Because she'd really love to astonish Petersburg from here. No, she's too hot-headed, that's the thing, sir."
"Yes, she does have something of that fougue," Andrei Antonovich muttered, not without pleasure, at the same time regretting terribly that this ignoramus should dare to express himself quite so freely about Yulia Mikhailovna. But Pyotr Stepanovich probably thought it was still too little, and that he must put on more steam so as to flatter and completely subdue "Lembka."
"Fougue, precisely," he agreed. "Granted she may be a genius, a literary woman, but—she'll scare the sparrows away. She couldn't hold out for six hours, much less six days. Ehh, Andrei Antonovich, don't ever lay a six-day term on a woman! You will acknowledge that I do have some experience, in these matters, I mean; I do know a thing or two, and you yourself know that I'm capable of knowing a thing or two. I'm asking you for six days not to play around, but for serious business."
"I've heard..." Lembke hesitated to voice his thought, "I've heard that on your return from abroad you expressed something like repentance ... in the proper quarters?"
"Well, or whatever it was."
"And I, naturally, have no wish to go into... but I kept thinking that up to now you've talked in quite a different style here, about the Christian faith, for example, about social structures, and, finally, about the government..."
"I've said all kinds of things. I say the same things now, too, only these ideas shouldn't be pursued the way those fools do it, that's the point. What's this biting the shoulder? You agreed with me yourself, only you were saying it was too early."
"I was not, in fact, speaking about that when I agreed but said it was too early."
"You just hang every word on a hook, though—heh, heh!—you cautious man!" Pyotr Stepanovich suddenly remarked gaily. "Listen, dear heart, I did have to get acquainted with you, after all, that's why I've been speaking to you in this style of mine. It's not only you, I make many acquaintances this way. Maybe I had to figure out your character."
"And what would you need my character for?"
"Well, how should I know what for?" (he laughed again). "You see, my dear and much respected Andrei Antonovich, you are cunning, but it hasn't come to that yet, and most likely it won't, understand? You understand, perhaps? Though I did give explanations in the proper quarters on my return from abroad, and I really don't see why a person of certain convictions shouldn't act for the benefit of his genuine convictions... but no one there has ordered your character yet, and I have not yet taken upon myself any such orders from there. Try to realize: it was quite possible for me not to disclose these two names to you first, but to shoot straight over there—I mean, where I gave my original explanations; and if I were exerting myself on account of finances, or for some profit, then, of course, it would be a miscalculation on my part, because now they'll be grateful to you and not to me.
It's solely for the sake of Shatov," Pyotr Stepanovich added, with a noble air, "for Shatov alone, out of past friendship ... well, and maybe when you take up your pen to write there, well, you can praise me, if you wish ... I won't object, heh, heh! Adieu, however, I've stayed too long and babbled more than I should have!" he added, not without affability, and got up from the sofa.
"On the contrary, I'm very glad things are beginning to take shape, so to speak," von Lembke got up, too, also with an affable air, apparently influenced by the last words. "I accept your services with gratitude, and, rest assured, everything, for my part, concerning references to your zeal ..."
"Six days, that's the main thing, give me six days, and make no move for those six days, that's what I need!"
"Very well."
"Naturally, I'm not tying your hands, and wouldn't dare to. You can't really not keep an eye out; only don't frighten the nest ahead of time, this is where I'm counting on your intelligence and experience. And I bet you must have all sorts of hounds and bloodhounds of your own ready, heh, heh!" Pyotr Stepanovich blurted out gaily and thoughtlessly (like a young man).
"Not quite," Lembke dodged affably. "It's a prejudice of youth that there's so much ready... But, incidentally, allow me one word: if this Kirillov was Stavrogin's second, then Mr. Stavrogin, too, in that case..."
"What about Stavrogin?"
"I mean, if they're such friends?"
"Ah, no, no, no! You're way off the mark, though you are cunning. And you even surprise me. I thought you were not uninformed with regard to that. . . Hm, Stavrogin is something totally the opposite—I mean, totally... Avis au lecteur.[xcvi]"
"Indeed! But, can it be?" Lembke uttered mistrustfully. "Yulia Mikhailovna told me that, according to her information from Petersburg, he is a man with certain, so to speak, instructions..."
"I know nothing, nothing, nothing at all. Adieu. Avis au lecteur!" Pyotr Stepanovich suddenly and obviously dodged.
He flew to the door.
"Allow me, Pyotr Stepanovich, allow me," cried Lembke, "one other tiny matter—I won't keep you."
He pulled an envelope from his desk drawer.
"Here's one little specimen of the same category, and with this I prove that I trust you in the highest degree. Here, sir, what is your opinion?"
There was a letter in the envelope—a strange letter, anonymous, addressed to Lembke, and received only the day before. To his great vexation, Pyotr Stepanovich read the following:
Your Excellency, For by rank you are so. I herewith announce an attempt on the life of the persons of generals and the fatherland; for it leads straight to that. I myself have constantly been spreading them for a multitude of years. And godlessness, too. A rebellion is in preparation, there being several thousand tracts, and a hundred men will run after each one with their tongues hanging out, if not taken away by the authorities beforehand, for a multitude is promised as a reward, and the simple people are stupid, and also vodka. People considering the culprit are destroying one and another, and, fearing both sides, I repented of what I did not participate in, for such are my circumstances. If you want a denunciation to save the fatherland, and also the churches and icons, I alone can. But, with that, a pardon by telegraph from the Third Department,[133] immediately, to me alone out of all of them, and the rest to be held responsible. As a signal, every evening at seven o'clock put a candle in the doorkeeper's window. Seeing it, I will believe and come to kiss the merciful hand from the capital, but, with that, a pension, otherwise what will I live on? And you will not regret it, because you will get a star. It has to be on the quiet, or else there will be a neck wrung.