The General hastened to interrupt.
“Not at all. Extremely natural. You saw the importance....”
“Yes,” broke in the Prince. “And I venture to ask insistently that mine and Mr. Razumov’s intervention should not become public. He is a young man of promise—of remarkable aptitudes.”
“I haven’t a doubt of it,” murmured the General. “He inspires confidence.”
“All sorts of pernicious views are so widespread nowadays—they taint such unexpected quarters—that, monstrous as it seems, he might suffer ...his studies...his...”
The General, with his elbows on the desk, took his head between his hands.
“Yes. Yes. I am thinking it out.... How long is it since you left him at your rooms, Mr. Razumov?”
Razumov mentioned the hour which nearly corresponded with the time of his distracted flight from the big slum house. He had made up his mind to keep Ziemianitch out of the affair completely. To mention him at all would mean imprisonment for the “bright soul,” perhaps cruel floggings, and in the end a journey to Siberia in chains. Razumov, who had beaten Ziemianitch, felt for him now a vague, remorseful tenderness.
The General, giving way for the first time to his secret sentiments, exclaimed contemptuously—
“And you say he came in to make you this confidence like this—for nothing—a propos des bottes.”