“Ah, you mean Mavriky Nikolaevitch? I am convinced he came to give up his betrothed to you, eh? I egged him on to do it, indirectly, would you believe it? And if he doesn’t give her up, we’ll take her, anyway, won’t we—eh?”
Pyotr Stepanovitch knew no doubt that he was running some risk in venturing on such sallies, but when he was excited he preferred to risk anything rather than to remain in uncertainty. Stavrogin only laughed.
“You still reckon you’ll help me?” he asked.
“If you call me. But you know there’s one way, and the best one.”
“Do I know your way?”
“Oh no, that’s a secret for the time. Only remember, a secret has its price.”
“I know what it costs,” Stavrogin muttered to himself, but he restrained himself and was silent.
“What it costs? What did you say?” Pyotr Stepanovitch was startled.
“I said, ‘Damn you and your secret!’ You’d better be telling me who will be there. I know that we are going to a name-day party, but who will be there?”
“Oh, all sorts! Even Kirillov.”