Her stern and peremptory voice resounded through the cottage; even the landlord and his wife were intimidated. She had only stopped to question them and make inquiries, being persuaded that Stepan Trofimovitch must have reached Spasov long before. Learning that he was still here and ill, she entered the cottage in great agitation.
“Well, where is he? Ah, that's you!” she cried, seeing Sofya Matveyevna, who appeared at that very instant in the doorway of the next room. “I can guess from your shameless face that it's you. Go away, you vile hussy! Don't let me find a trace of her in the house! Turn her out, or else, my girl, I'll get you locked up for good. Keep her safe for a time in another house. She's been in prison once already in the town; she can go back there again. And you, my good man, don't dare to let anyone in while I am here, I beg of you. I am Madame Stavrogin, and I'll take the whole house. As for you, my dear, you'll have to give me a full account of it all.”
The familiar sounds overwhelmed Stepan Trofimovitch. He began to tremble. But she had already stepped behind the screen. With flashing eyes she drew up a chair with her foot, and, sinking back in it, she shouted to Dasha:
“Go away for a time! Stay in the other room. Why are you so inquisitive? And shut the door properly after you.”
For some time she gazed in silence with a sort of predatory look into his frightened face.
“Well, how are you getting on, Stepan Trofimovitch? So you've been enjoying yourself?” broke from her with ferocious irony.
“Chere, ” Stepan Trofimovitch faltered, not knowing what he was saying, “I've learnt to know real life in Russia . . . et je precherai l'Evangile. ”
“Oh, shameless, ungrateful man!” she wailed suddenly, clasping her hands. '' As though you had not disgraced me enough, you've taken up with . . . oh, you shameless old reprobate!”
“Chere . .
. ”
His voice failed him and he could not articulate a syllable but simply gazed with eyes wide with horror.
“Who is she? ”
“C'est un ange; c'etait plus qu'un ange pour moi. She's been all night . . . Oh, don't shout, don't frighten her, chere, chere ...”
With a loud noise, Varvara Petrovna pushed back her chair, uttering a loud cry of alarm.
“Water, water!”
Though he returned to consciousness, she was still shaking with terror, and, with pale cheeks, looked at his distorted face. It was only then, for the first time, that she guessed the seriousness of his illness.
“Darya,” she whispered suddenly to Darya Pavlovna, “send at once for the doctor, for Salzfish; let Yegorytch go at once. Let him hire horses here and get another carriage from the town. He must be here by night.”
Dasha flew to do her bidding. Stepan Trofimovitch still gazed at her with the same wide-open, frightened eyes; his blanched lips quivered.
“Wait a bit, Stepan Trofimovitch, wait a bit, my dear!” she said, coaxing him like a child. “There, there, wait a bit! Darya will come back and ... My goodness, the landlady, the landlady, you come, anyway, my good woman!”
In her impatience she ran herself to the landlady.
“Fetch that woman back at once, this minute. Bring her back, bring her back!”
Fortunately Sofya Matveyevna had not yet had time to get away and was only just going out of the gate with her pack and her bag. She was brought back. She was so panic-stricken that she was trembling in every limb. Varvara Petrovna pounced on her like a hawk on a chicken, seized her by the hand and dragged her impulsively to Stepan Trofimovitch.
“Here, here she is, then. I've not eaten her. You thought I'd eaten her.”
Stepan Trofimovitch clutched Varvara Petrovna's hand, raised it to his eyes, and burst into tears, sobbing violently and convulsively.
“There, calm yourself, there, there, my dear, there, poor dear man'! Ach, mercy on us! Calm yourself, will you?” she shouted frantically. “Oh, you bane of my life!”
“My dear,” Stepan Trofimovitch murmured at last, addressing Sofya Matveyevna, “stay out there, my dear, I want to say something here. ...”
Sofya Matveyevna hurried out at once.
“Cherie . . . cherie . . .”he gasped.
“Don't talk for a bit, Stepan Trofimovitch, wait a little till you've rested. Here's some water. Do wait, will you!”
She sat down on the chair again. Stepan Trofimovitch held her hand tight. For a long while she would not allow him to speak. He raised her hand to his lips and fell to kissing it. She set her teeth and looked away into the corner of the room.
“Je vous aimais, ” broke from him at last. She had never heard such words from him, uttered in such a voice.
“H'm!” she growled in response.
“Je vous aimais toute ma vie . . . vingt ans! ”
She remained silent for two or three minutes.
“And when you were getting yourself up for Dasha you sprinkled yourself with scent,” she said suddenly, in a terrible whisper.
Stepan Trofimovitch was dumbfoundered.
“You put on a new tie . . .”
Again silence for two minutes.
“Do you remember the cigar?”
“My friend,” he faltered, overcome with horror.
“That cigar at the window in the evening . . . the moon was shining . . . after the arbour ... at Skvoreshniki? Do you remember, do you remember?” She jumped up from her place, seized his pillow by the corners and shook it with his head on it. “Do you remember, you worthless, worthless, ignoble, cowardly, worthless man, always worthless!” she hissed in her furious whisper, restraining herself from speaking loudly. At last she left him and sank on the chair, covering her face with her hands. “Enough!” she snapped out, drawing herself up. “Twenty years have passed, there's no calling them back. I am a fool too.”
“Je vous aimais. ” He clasped his hands again.
“Why do you keep on with your aimais and aimais? Enough!” she cried, leaping up again. “And if you don't go to sleep at once I'll ... You need rest; go to sleep, go to sleep at once, shut your eyes. Ach, mercy on us, perhaps he wants some lunch! What do you eat? What does he eat? Ach, mercy on us! Where is that woman? Where is she?”
There was a general bustle again. But Stepan Trofimovitch faltered in a weak voice that he really would like to go to sleep une heure, and then un bouillon, un the. . . . enfin il est si heureux. He lay back and really did seem to go to sleep (he probably pretended to). Varvara Petrovna waited a little, and stole out on tiptoe from behind the partition.
She settled herself in the landlady's room, turned out the landlady and her husband, and told Dasha to bring her that woman. There followed an examination in earnest.
“Tell me all about it, my good girl. Sit down beside me; that's right. Well?”
“I met Stepan Trofimovitch . . .”
“Stay, hold your tongue! I warn you that if you tell lies or conceal anything, I'll ferret it out. Well?”
“Stepan Trofimovitch and I ... as soon as I came to Hatovo . . .” Sofya Matveyevna began almost breathlessly.