Karmazinov was terribly surprised.
“But you’ve brought it with you, haven’t you?” He was so disturbed that he even left off eating and looked at Pyotr Stepanovitch with a face of dismay.
“Ah, that Bonjour you mean.…”
“Merci.”
“Oh, all right. I’d quite forgotten it and hadn’t read it; I haven’t had time. I really don’t know, it’s not in my pockets … it must be on my table. Don’t be uneasy, it will be found.”
“No, I’d better send to your rooms at once. It might be lost; besides, it might be stolen.”
“Oh, who’d want it! But why are you so alarmed? Why, Yulia Mihailovna told me you always have several copies made—one kept at a notary’s abroad, another in Petersburg, a third in Moscow, and then you send some to a bank, I believe.”
“But Moscow might be burnt again and my manuscript with it. No, I’d better send at once.”
“Stay, here it is!” Pyotr Stepanovitch pulled a roll of note-paper out of a pocket at the back of his coat. “It’s a little crumpled. Only fancy, it’s been lying there with my pocket-handkerchief ever since I took it from you; I forgot it.”
Karmazinov greedily snatched the manuscript, carefully examined it, counted the pages, and laid it respectfully beside him on a special table, for the time, in such a way that he would not lose sight of it for an instant.