One thing worried me. During the search in my house, I overheard the procureur whispering to the gendarme officer about going to make a search at the apartment of my friend Polakóff, to whom the letter of Dmítri was addressed. Polakóff was a young student, a very gifted zoologist and botanist, with whom I had made my Vitím expedition in Siberia. He was born of a poor Cossack family on the frontier of Mongolia, and, after having surmounted all sorts of difficulties, he had come to St. Petersburg, entered the university, where he had won the reputation of a most promising zoologist, and was then passing his final examinations. We had been great friends since our long journey, and had even lived together for a time at St. Petersburg, but he took no interest in my political activity.
I spoke of him to the procureur. ‘I give you my word of honour,’ I said, ‘that Polakóff has never taken part in any political affair. To-morrow he has to pass an examination, and you will spoil forever the scientific career of a young man who has gone through great hardships, and has struggled for years against all sorts of obstacles, to attain his present position. I know that you do not much care for it, but he is looked upon at the university as one of the future glories of Russian science.’
The search was made, nevertheless, but a respite of three days was given for the examinations. A little later I was called before the procureur, who triumphantly showed me an envelope addressed in my handwriting, and in it a note, also in my handwriting, which said, ‘Please take this packet to V. E., and ask that it be kept until demand in due form is made.’ The person to whom the note was addressed was not mentioned in the note. ‘This letter,’ the procureur said, ‘was found at Mr. Polakóff’s; and now, prince, his fate is in your hands. If you tell me who V. E. is, Mr. Polakóff will be released; but if you refuse to do so, he will be kept as long as he does not make up his mind to give us the name of that person.’
Looking at the envelope, which was addressed in black chalk, and the letter, which was written in common lead pencil, I immediately remembered the circumstances under which the two had been written. ‘I am positive,’ I exclaimed at once, ‘that the note and the envelope were not found together! It is you who have put the letter in the envelope.’
The procureur blushed. ‘Would you have me believe,’ I continued, ‘that you, a practical man, did not notice that the two are written in quite different pencils? And now you are trying to make people think that the two belong to each other! Well, sir, then I tell you that the letter was not to Polakóff.’
He hesitated for some time, but then, regaining his audacity, he said, ‘Polakóff has admitted that this letter of yours was written to him.’
Now I knew he was lying. Polakóff would have admitted everything concerning himself; but he would have preferred to be marched to Siberia rather than to involve another person. So, looking straight in the face of the procureur, I replied, ‘No, sir, he has never said that, and you know perfectly well that your words are not true.’
He became furious, or pretended to be so. ‘Well, then,’ he said, ‘if you wait here a moment, I will bring you Polakóff’s written statement to that effect. He is in the next room under examination.’
‘Ready to wait as long as you like.’
I sat on a sofa, smoking countless cigarettes. The statement did not come, and never came.