“Shvabrin has told you the truth,” I replied in a firm voice.
“You did not tell me that,” replied Pougatcheff, whose face had become clouded.
“Judge of the matter yourself,” I replied: “could I, in the presence of your people, declare that she was the daughter of Mironoff? They would have torn her to pieces! Nothing would have saved her!”
“You are right,” said Pougatcheff smiling. “My drunkards would not have spared the poor girl; the pope’s wife did well to deceive them.”
“Listen,” I continued, seeing him so well disposed; “I know not what to call you, and I do not wish to know.... But God is my witness that I would willingly repay you with my life for what you have done for me. But do not demand of me anything that is against my honour and my Christian conscience. You are my benefactor. End as you have begun: let me go away with that poor orphan wherever God will direct us. And wherever you may be, and whatever may happen to you, we will pray to God every day for the salvation of your soul....”
Pougatcheff’s fierce soul seemed touched.
“Be it as you wish!” said he. “Punish thoroughly or pardon thoroughly: that is my way. Take your beautiful one, take her wherever you like, and may God grant you love and counsel!”
Then he turned to Shvabrin and ordered him to give me a safe conduct for all barriers and fortresses subjected to his authority. Shvabrin, completely dumbfounded, stood as if petrified. Pougatcheff then went off to inspect the fortress. Shvabrin accompanied him, and I remained behind under the pretext of making preparations for my departure.
I hastened to Maria’s room. The door was locked. I knocked.
“Who is there?” asked Palasha.