Yet, it was evident that Svidrigailov did not want to be seen.
He took the pipe out of his mouth and was on the point of concealing himself, but as he got up and moved back his chair, he seemed to have become suddenly aware that Raskolnikov had seen him, and was watching him.
What had passed between them was much the same as what happened at their first meeting in Raskolnikov's room.
A sly smile came into Svidrigailov's face and grew broader and broader.
Each knew that he was seen and watched by the other.
At last Svidrigailov broke into a loud laugh.
"Well, well, come in if you want me; I am here!" he shouted from the window.
Raskolnikov went up into the tavern.
He found Svidrigailov in a tiny back room, adjoining the saloon in which merchants, clerks and numbers of people of all sorts were drinking tea at twenty little tables to the desperate bawling of a chorus of singers.
The click of billiard balls could be heard in the distance.
On the table before Svidrigailov stood an open bottle and a glass half full of champagne.
In the room he found also a boy with a little hand organ, a healthy-looking red-cheeked girl of eighteen, wearing a tucked-up striped skirt, and a Tyrolese hat with ribbons. In spite of the chorus in the other room, she was singing some servants' hall song in a rather husky contralto, to the accompaniment of the organ.
"Come, that's enough," Svidrigailov stopped her at Raskolnikov's entrance.
The girl at once broke off and stood waiting respectfully.
She had sung her guttural rhymes, too, with a serious and respectful expression in her face.
"Hey, Philip, a glass!" shouted Svidrigailov.
"I won't drink anything," said Raskolnikov.
"As you like, I didn't mean it for you.
Drink, Katia!
I don't want anything more to-day, you can go."
He poured her out a full glass, and laid down a yellow note.
Katia drank off her glass of wine, as women do, without putting it down, in twenty gulps, took the note and kissed Svidrigailov's hand, which he allowed quite seriously. She went out of the room and the boy trailed after her with the organ.
Both had been brought in from the street.
Svidrigailov had not been a week in Petersburg, but everything about him was already, so to speak, on a patriarchal footing; the waiter, Philip, was by now an old friend and very obsequious.
The door leading to the saloon had a lock on it. Svidrigailov was at home in this room and perhaps spent whole days in it.
The tavern was dirty and wretched, not even second-rate.
"I was going to see you and looking for you," Raskolnikov began, "but I don't know what made me turn from the Hay Market into the X.
Prospect just now. I never take this turning.
I turn to the right from the Hay Market.
And this isn't the way to you.
I simply turned and here you are.
It is strange!"
"Why don't you say at once 'it's a miracle'?"
"Because it may be only chance."
"Oh, that's the way with all you folk," laughed Svidrigailov. "You won't admit it, even if you do inwardly believe it a miracle!
Here you say that it may be only chance.
And what cowards they all are here, about having an opinion of their own, you can't fancy, Rodion Romanovitch.
I don't mean you, you have an opinion of your own and are not afraid to have it.
That's how it was you attracted my curiosity."
"Nothing else?"
"Well, that's enough, you know," Svidrigailov was obviously exhilarated, but only slightly so, he had not had more than half a glass of wine.
"I fancy you came to see me before you knew that I was capable of having what you call an opinion of my own," observed Raskolnikov.
"Oh, well, it was a different matter.
Everyone has his own plans.
And apropos of the miracle let me tell you that I think you have been asleep for the last two or three days.
I told you of this tavern myself, there is no miracle in your coming straight here. I explained the way myself, told you where it was, and the hours you could find me here.
Do you remember?"
"I don't remember," answered Raskolnikov with surprise.
"I believe you.
I told you twice.