‘The count had a sty in his eye,’ said the adjutant smiling; ‘and he /as very much put out when I told him people were coming to ask what /as the matter. And oh, count,’ he said suddenly, addressing Pierre with smile, ‘we have been hearing that you are in trouble with domestic nxieties, that the countess, your spouse . . .’
‘I have heard nothing about it,’ said Pierre indifferently. ‘What is it ou have heard?’
‘Oh, you know, stories are so often made up. I only repeat what I ear.’
‘What have you heard?’
‘Oh, they say,’ said the adjutant again with the same smile, ‘that the ountess, your wife, is preparing to go abroad. It’s most likely nonsense.’
‘It may be,’ said Pierre, looking absent-mindedly about him. ‘Who is hat?’ he asked, indicating a tall old man in a clean blue overcoat, with a ig, snow-white beard and eyebrows and a ruddy face.
‘That? Oh, he’s a merchant; that is, he’s the restaurant-keeper, 'ereshtchagin. You have heard the story of the proclamation, I dare say?’ ‘Oh, so that’s Vereshtchagin! ’ said Pierre, scrutinising the firm, calm
face of the old merchant, and seeking in it some token of treachery,
‘That’s not the man himself. That’s the father of the fellow who wrote the proclamation,’ said the adjutant. ‘The young man himself is in custody, and I fancy it will go hardly with him.’
A little old gentleman with a star, and a German official with a cross on his neck, joined the group.
‘It’s a complicated story, you see,’ the adjutant was relating. ‘The proclamation appeared two months ago. It was brought to the count. He ordered inquiry to be made. Well, Gavrilo Ivanitch made investiga-, tions; the proclamation had passed through some sixty-three hands. We come to one and ask, From whom did you get it? From so and so. And the next refers us on to so and so; and in that way they traced it to Vereshtchagin ... a half-educated merchant’s son, one of those pretty dears, you know,’ said the adjutant smiling. ‘He too was asked, From whom did you get it? And we knew very well from whom he had it really. He could have had it from no one but the director of the post-office. But it was clear there was an understanding between them. He says he got it from no one, but had composed it himself. And threaten him and question him as they would, he stuck to it, he had written it himself. So the matter was reported, and the count had him sent for. “From whom did you get the proclamation?” “I wrote it myself.” Well! you know the count,’ said the adjutant, with a smile of pride and delight. ‘He was fearfully angry; and only fancy the insolence, and lying, and stubbornness!’
‘Oh! the count wanted him to say it was from Klutcharyov, I understand,’ said Pierre.
‘Oh no, not at all,’ said the adjutant in dismay. ‘Klutcharyov had sin; enough to answer for without that, and that’s why he was banished. Bui any way, the count was very indignant. “How could you write it?” sayi the count. He took up the Hamburg Gazette that was on the table. “Hert it is. You did not compose it, but translated it, and very badly too, be cause you don’t even know French, you fool.” What do you think? “No,’ says he, “I have never read any gazettes; I made it up.” “But if so 1 you’re a traitor, and I’ll hand you over for judgment, and you will bi, hanged.” “Tell us from whom you got it.” “I have not seen any gazettes I composed it.” So the matter rests. The count sent for the father; hi; sticks to the same story. And they had him tried, and he was sentenced I believe, to hard labour. Now the father has come to petition in hi favour. But he is a worthless young scamp! You know the style o spoilt merchant’s son, a regular dandy and lady-killer; has attendee lectures of some sort, and so fancies that he’s above everybody. A regula ; young scamp! His father has an eating-house here on the Ivamenn; bridge; and in the shop, you know, there is a great picture of God th Supporter of All, represented with a sceptre in one hand and the empir in the other; well, he took that picture home for a few days, and wha do you suppose he did! He got hold of some wretched painter . . .’
XI
In the middle of this new story Pierre was summoned to the governor.
He went into Count Rastoptchin’s study. Rastoptchin, frowning, passed his hand across his forehead and eyes as Pierre entered. A short man was saying something, but as soon as Pierre walked in he stopped, and went out.
‘Ah! greetings to you, valiant warrior,’ said Rastoptchin as soon as the other man had left the room. ‘We have been hearing about your prouesses! But that’s not the point. Mon cher, entre nous, are you a mason?’ said Count Rastoptchin in a severe tone, that suggested that it was a crime to be so, but that he intended to pardon it. Pierre did not speak. ‘Mon cher, je suis bien in for me; but I know that there are masons and masons, and I hope you don’t belong to those among them who, by way of regenerating the human race, are trying to ruin Russia.’
‘Yes, I am a mason,’ answered Pierre.
