“You have done well.”
In the carriage—it was a small brougham on sleigh runners—Razumov broke the silence in a voice that trembled slightly.
“My gratitude surpasses the greatness of my presumption.”
He gasped, feeling unexpectedly in the dark a momentary pressure on his arm.
“You have done well,” repeated the Prince.
When the carriage stopped the Prince murmured to Razumov, who had never ventured a single question—
“The house of General T—-.”
In the middle of the snow-covered roadway blazed a great bonfire. Some Cossacks, the bridles of their horses over the arm, were warming themselves around. Two sentries stood at the door, several gendarmes lounged under the great carriage gateway, and on the first-floor landing two orderlies rose and stood at attention. Razumov walked at the Prince’s elbow.
A surprising quantity of hot-house plants in pots cumbered the floor of the ante-room. Servants came forward. A young man in civilian clothes arrived hurriedly, was whispered to, bowed low, and exclaiming zealously, “Certainly—this minute,” fled within somewhere. The Prince signed to Razumov.
They passed through a suite of reception-rooms all barely lit and one of them prepared for dancing. The wife of the General had put off her party. An atmosphere of consternation pervaded the place. But the General’s own room, with heavy sombre hangings, two massive desks, and deep armchairs, had all the lights turned on. The footman shut the door behind them and they waited.