A witch in Parisian
clothes, he thought. A portent! He actually hesitated in his advance,
and did not even comprehend, at first, what the rasping voice was
saying.

"Sit down. Draw your chair nearer me. There--"

He sat down. At close quarters the rouged cheekbones, the wrinkles, the
fine lines on each side of the vivid lips, astounded him. He was being
received graciously, with a smile which made him think of a grinning
skull.

"We have been hearing about you for some time."

He did not know what to say, and murmured some disconnected words. The
grinning skull effect vanished.

"And do you know that the general complaint is that you have shown
yourself very reserved everywhere?"

Razumov remained silent for a time, thinking of his answer.

"I, don't you see, am a man of action," he said huskily, glancing
upwards.

Peter Ivanovitch stood in portentous expectant silence by the side of
his chair. A slight feeling of nausea came over Razumov. What could be
the relations of these two people to each other? She like a galvanized
corpse out of some Hoffman's Tale--he the preacher of feminist gospel
for all the world, and a super-revolutionist besides! This ancient,
painted mummy with unfathomable eyes, and this burly, bull-necked,
deferential...what was it? Witchcraft, fascination.... "It's for
her money," he thought. "She has millions!"

The walls, the floor of the room were bare like a barn. The few pieces
of furniture had been discovered in the garrets and dragged down into
service without having been properly dusted, even. It was the refuse the
banker's widow had left behind her. The windows without curtains had an
indigent, sleepless look. In two of them the dirty yellowy-white blinds
had been pulled down. All this spoke, not of poverty, but of sordid
penuriousness.

The hoarse voice on the sofa uttered angrily--

"You are looking round, Kirylo Sidorovitch. I have been shamefully
robbed, positively ruined."

A rattling laugh, which seemed beyond her control, interrupted her for a
moment.

"A slavish nature would find consolation in the fact that the principal
robber was an exalted and almost a sacrosanct person--a Grand Duke, in
fact. Do you understand, Mr. Razumov? A Grand Duke--No! You have no idea
what thieves those people are! Downright thieves!"

Her bosom heaved, but her left arm remained rigidly extended along the
back of the couch.

"You will only upset yourself," breathed out a deep voice, w