There was a coal fire in an English grate; Razumov had never before seen such a fire; and the silence of the room was like the silence of the grave; perfect, measureless, for even the clock on the mantelpiece made no sound. Filling a corner, on a black pedestal, stood a quarter-life-size smooth-limbed bronze of an adolescent figure, running. The Prince observed in an undertone—
“Spontini’s. ‘Flight of Youth.’ Exquisite.”
“Admirable,” assented Razumov faintly.
They said nothing more after this, the Prince silent with his grand air, Razumov staring at the statue. He was worried by a sensation resembling the gnawing of hunger.
He did not turn when he heard an inner door fly open, and a quick footstep, muffled on the carpet.
The Prince’s voice immediately exclaimed, thick with excitement—
“We have got him—ce miserable. A worthy young man came to me—No! It’s incredible....”
Razumov held his breath before the bronze as if expecting a crash. Behind his back a voice he had never heard before insisted politely—
“Asseyez-vous donc.”
The Prince almost shrieked, “Mais comprenez-vous, mon cher! L’assassin! the murderer—we have got him....”