“I’m sorry.... Only I can’t tell you how disappointing it is—Sipiagin is a very influential man.”
“Have you no fears for yourself?” Solomin asked.
Paklin drew himself up.
“There are moments when one must not think of oneself!” he said proudly. And he was thinking of himself all the while. Poor little man! he wanted to run away as fast as he could. On the strength of the service rendered him, Sipiagin might, if need be, speak a word in his favour. For he too—say what he would—was implicated, he had listened and had chattered a little himself.
“I don’t think your suggestion is a bad one,” Solomin observed at last, “although there is not much hope of success. At any rate there is no harm in trying.”
“Of course not. Supposing they pitch me out by the scruff of the neck, what harm will it do?”
“That won’t matter very much” (“Merci,” Paklin thought to himself). “What is the time?” Solomin asked. “Five o’clock. We mustn’t dawdle. You shall have the horses directly. Pavel!”
But instead of Pavel, Nejdanov appeared in the doorway. He staggered and steadied himself on the doorpost. He opened his mouth feebly, looked around with his glassy eyes, comprehending nothing. Paklin was the first to approach him.
“Aliosha!” he exclaimed, “don’t you know me?”
Nejdanov stared at him, blinking slowly.