“What? Don’t you know about Markelov?”
“What do you mean? What Markelov?” the governor repeated with the same joyful expression on his face. He did not remember, in the first place, that the man who was arrested yesterday was called Markelov, and, in the second, he had quite forgotten that Sipiagin’s wife had a brother of that name. “But why are you standing, Boris? Sit down. Would you like some tea?”
Sipiagin’s mind was far from tea.
When at last he explained why they had both appeared, the governor uttered an exclamation of pain and struck himself on the forehead, while his face assumed a sympathetic expression.
“Dear me! what a misfortune! And he’s here now—today.... You know we never keep that sort with us for more than one night at the outside, but the chief of police is out of town, so your brother-in-law has been detained. He is to be sent on tomorrow. Dear me! what a dreadful thing! What your wife must have gone through! What would you like me to do?”
“I would like to have an interview with him here, if it is not against the law.”
“My dear boy! laws are not made for men like you. I do feel so sorry for you.... C’est affreux, tu sais!”
He gave a peculiar ring. An adjutant appeared.
“My dear baron, do please make some arrangement there....” He told him what he wanted and the baron vanished. “Only think, mon cher ami, the peasants nearly killed him. They tied his hands behind him, flung him in a cart, and brought him here! And he’s not in the least bit angry or indignant with them you know! He was so calm altogether that I was amazed! But you will see for yourself. C’est un fanatique tranquille.”
“Ce sont les pires,” Kollomietzev remarked sarcastically.