Razumov had a sensation of chill and gloom, as if a heavy cloud had passed over the sun.
“The girl?” he said. “What have I to do with her?”
“But you have been told to bring Nathalie Haldin here. Am I not right? Of course I am right. I was not in the room, but I know. I know Peter Ivanovitch sufficiently well. He is a great man. Great men are horrible. Well, that’s it. Have nothing to do with her. That’s the best you can do, unless you want her to become like me—disillusioned! Disillusioned!”
“Like you,” repeated Razumov, glaring at her face, as devoid of all comeliness of feature and complexion as the most miserable beggar is of money. He smiled, still feeling chilly: a peculiar sensation which annoyed him. “Disillusioned as to Peter Ivanovitch! Is that all you have lost?”
She declared, looking frightened, but with immense conviction, “Peter Ivanovitch stands for everything.” Then she added, in another tone, “Keep the girl away from this house.”
“And are you absolutely inciting me to disobey Peter Ivanovitch just because—because you are disillusioned?”
She began to blink.
“Directly I saw you for the first time I was comforted. You took your hat off to me. You looked as if one could trust you. Oh!”
She shrank before Razumov’s savage snarl of, “I have heard something like this before.”
She was so confounded that she could do nothing but blink for a long time.