Her stern and peremptory voice resounded through the cottage; even the landlord and his wife were intimidated. She had only stopped to question them and make inquiries, being persuaded that Stepan Trofimovitch must have reached Spasov long before. Learning that he was still here and ill, she entered the cottage in great agitation.
“Well, where is he? Ah, that’s you!” she cried, seeing Sofya Matveyevna, who appeared at that very instant in the doorway of the next room. “I can guess from your shameless face that it’s you. Go away, you vile hussy! Don’t let me find a trace of her in the house! Turn her out, or else, my girl, I’ll get you locked up for good. Keep her safe for a time in another house. She’s been in prison once already in the town; she can go back there again. And you, my good man, don’t dare to let anyone in while I am here, I beg of you. I am Madame Stavrogin, and I’ll take the whole house. As for you, my dear, you’ll have to give me a full account of it all.”
The familiar sounds overwhelmed Stepan Trofimovitch. He began to tremble. But she had already stepped behind the screen. With flashing eyes she drew up a chair with her foot, and, sinking back in it, she shouted to Dasha:
“Go away for a time! Stay in the other room. Why are you so inquisitive? And shut the door properly after you.”
For some time she gazed in silence with a sort of predatory look into his frightened face.
“Well, how are you getting on, Stepan Trofimovitch? So you’ve been enjoying yourself?” broke from her with ferocious irony.
“Chère,” Stepan Trofimovitch faltered, not knowing what he was saying, “I’ve learnt to know real life in Russia … et je prêcherai l’Evangile.”
“Oh, shameless, ungrateful man!” she wailed suddenly, clasping her hands. “As though you had not disgraced me enough, you’ve taken up with … oh, you shameless old reprobate!”
“Chère …” His voice failed him and he could not articulate a syllable but simply gazed with eyes wide with horror.
“Who is she?”