“Thirty-five thousand rubles,” said Paul Kamarowsky slowly. “I cannot understand why you should have told me you were penniless.” There was an icy coldness in his voice such as I had never heard before.
“The money is not mine,” I said, in trembling tones.
“Whose is it?”
How was I to answer him? Could I betray Prilukoff? And, with him, myself? I decided to tell what was, intrinsically, the truth.
“I do not know whom it belongs to.”
Once more there was silence. I wondered what he would do? Would he insult me? Would he raise his voice in bitter accusation and reproof?
No. The silence remained unbroken. Kamarowsky left the room without a word.
Ah! I was still in the grip of the octopus; its tentacles bound and crushed me still. Even from afar Prilukoff guided my destinies, drove my frail barque into storm and disaster.
With trembling hands I gathered up the scattered banknotes and thrust them back into the execrated leather bag. Ah, if only I could have freed myself from this nightmare burden, if only I could have returned the money to Prilukoff! But how? Where to? At the Bellevue, in Hyères, he had called himself Zeiler. But now where was he? Under what name was he hiding? How could I, without warning, send him such a sum of money? Where could I write to him?
No; fate had doomed me to wander through the world carrying with me the hated money in Elise's abominable satchel! At the bitterness of this thought I dropped my face in my hands and wept.