"She must have fallen asleep somewhere. I will soon wake her to life again."
In this unceremonious fashion did the guests take their leave of their hostess. Zeneida, however, following them, left the room.
"Now you can talk out," exclaimed Pestel, hurriedly, to Krizsanowski. "Perhaps Zeneida's presence has hampered you. Have you anything to make known to us?"
"Yes," replied the Pole. "But it was not her presence which deterred me. Far from it. Women, when they are in a conspiracy, know well how to keep secrets. Laena bit out her tongue on the wheel of torture that she might not betray her colleagues. Ever since then the tongueless lioness has been the emblem of silence. Oh, I reckon greatly upon our women. I would even rather await Zeneida's return before speaking, were I assured that she would not bring back the other two with her."
"No, but I do not like them. In conspiracies it is not the absolute traitors who are the most to be feared. There are three classes I dread more—cowards, self-willed and fantastic persons. The last is the most dangerous of all, for he deceives himself, and reports falsely. If he hear a drunken peasant swear, he reports the existence of a revolutionary spirit; if he see a solitary deserter, he distorts him into a whole regiment. He believes just what his fancy paints. If he has filled his head with revolutionary writings he conceives himself to be a Robespierre, and every St. Petersburg mujik is a Paris sans culotte to him. To the working out of a conspiracy we want no fantastic notions; but, on the contrary, common-sense and judgment. With those two men I prefer not to discuss matters; the one is a fool, the other a poet."
Pestel hastily pulled the Pole's long hanging sleeve.
"Do not affront Ryleieff," he said.
"Oh, Ryleieff is different. He can write any number of correct verses—faultless as to rhyme; he measures his thoughts into iambics and trochees, like a corn merchant does his wheat into bushels and sacks. He is master of his imagination—imagination does not master him."
Ryleieff was manager of the American Corn Company, and being, in truth, more business man than poet, received this doubtful compliment with an acquiescent smile.