It would be such a crushing blow, after the great victory, to have to face defeat so complete, so humiliating, with no hope of vengeance, now that their hostage was out of their hands; those papers were so hopelessly compromising, both to them and to those at Petersburg to whom they were addressed, that not one of them could possibly hope to escape.
The president, as usual, tried to reassure them, and to calm the tide of feelings that began to rise high against Volenski.
“Remember,” he said, “we must not condemn him unheard. After all, our papers cannot at this moment be in wrong hands, or we should not be sitting here unmolested, and what occurred an hour ago would not have taken place.”
That was obviously the case, and all felt perhaps a trifle reassured. Anyhow, it was but waste of time to sit and discuss Volenski’s possible movements at this moment. News, good or bad, was bound to reach them sooner or later, that would clear up this mystery.
Some future meeting in a day or two was arranged, and all prepared to leave. As Mirkovitch was about to turn to the door, something in the eyes of the old president made him pause and wait, till they two were left, the sole occupants of the room.
“You know something, Lobkowitz, what is it?”
“Look at this letter I received this morning.”
“From Volenski?”
“Read it.”
Mirkovitch began reading half aloud:—