CHAPTER XXXVIII.
THE NIHILISTS’ GUARD.
PAVEL’S mother, the countess, had not been in Miroslav since March. She lived in retirement on one of her estates in another province, in a constant tremour of fear and compunction. The image of Alexander II. bleeding in the snow literally haunted her. She took it for granted that Pavel had had a hand in the bloody plot, and she felt as though she, too, had been a party to it.
To ascertain the situation with regard to the riot rumours Pavel called on his uncle, the governor. He found him dozing on a bench in his orchard, a stout cane in one hand and a French newspaper in the other. The old satrap was dressed in a fresh summer suit of Caucasian silk, which somehow emphasised the uncouth fleshiness of his broad nose. He was overjoyed to see his nephew, and he plunged into the subject of the riots at once and of his own accord. It was evidently one of those situations upon which he usually had to unburden his mind to somebody.
“Can you tell me what they are up to in that great city of yours?” he said, referring to St. Petersburg and the higher government circles and blinking as he spoke. “There is an administration for you! Perhaps you younger fellows are smarter than we oldsters. Perhaps, perhaps.” He took out a golden cigarette case, lit a cigarette and went on blinking, sneeringly.
His words implied that Pavel, being one of the younger generation, was, morally at least, identified with the administration of the young Czar.
“What do you mean, uncle?” he inquired.
“What do I mean? Why, I mean that they don’t want those riots stopped. That’s plain enough, isn’t it?”
This was a slap at the doctrine of Pavel’s party concerning the outrages, and he resented it as well as he could.