Peredonov felt terribly alarmed.
"What's to be done now?" he asked.
"Pavel Vassilyevitch," said Varvara, "you're younger, fetch the cat out from under the sofa."
"We'll fetch him out, we'll fetch him out," said Volodin with a snigger, and went into the parlour.
Somehow they managed to drag out the cat from under the sofa and took the rattles off his tail. Peredonov found some thistle heads and began to stick them into the cat's fur. The cat spat violently and ran into the kitchen. Peredonov, tired of his messing about with the cat, sat down in his usual position—his elbows on the arms of the chair, his fingers interlaced, his legs crossed, his face motionless and morose.
Peredonov kept the Princess's second letter more zealously than the first: he always carried it about with him in his wallet and showed it to everyone, looking mysterious as he did so. He looked vigilantly to see that no one took the letter away from him. He did not give it into anyone's hands, and after each showing he put it away in his wallet, which he put into the side-pocket of his frock-coat, buttoned up his coat and looked gravely and significantly at his companions.
"Why do you hide it away like that?" Routilov once asked him laughingly.
"As a precaution," said Peredonov morosely, "who can tell? You might take it from me."
"It'd be a case for Siberia," said Routilov with a contemptuous laugh, slapping Peredonov on the back.