But what marchand?
At that point his second and most terrible question cropped up.
In reality there was nothing he dreaded more than ce marchand, whom he had rushed off to seek so recklessly, though, of course, he was terribly afraid of finding him.
No, better simply the high road, better simply to set off for it, and walk along it and to think of nothing so long as he could put off thinking.
The high road is something very very long, of which one cannot see the end—like human life, like human dreams.
There is an idea in the open road, but what sort of idea is there in travelling with posting tickets?
Posting tickets mean an end to ideas. Vive la grande route and then as God wills.
After the sudden and unexpected interview with Liza which I have described, he rushed on, more lost in forgetfulness than ever.
The high road passed half a mile from Skvoreshniki and, strange to say, he was not at first aware that he was on it.
Logical reasoning or even distinct consciousness was unbearable to him at this moment.
A fine rain kept drizzling, ceasing, and drizzling again; but he did not even notice the rain.
He did not even notice either how he threw his bag over his shoulder, nor how much more comfortably he walked with it so.
He must have walked like that for nearly a mile or so when he suddenly stood still and looked round.
The old road, black, marked with wheel-ruts and planted with willows on each side, ran before him like an endless thread; on the right hand were bare plains from which the harvest had long ago been carried; on the left there were bushes and in the distance beyond them a copse.
And far, far away a scarcely perceptible line of the railway, running aslant, and on it the smoke of a train, but no sound was heard.
Stepan Trofimovitch felt a little timid, but only for a moment.
He heaved a vague sigh, put down his bag beside a willow, and sat down to rest.
As he moved to sit down he was conscious of being chilly and wrapped himself in his rug; noticing at the same time that it was raining, he put up his umbrella.
He sat like that for some time, moving his lips from time to time and firmly grasping the umbrella handle.
Images of all sorts passed in feverish procession before him, rapidly succeeding one another in his mind.
"Lise, Lise," he thought, "and with her ce Maurice.... Strange people.... But what was the strange fire, and what were they talking about, and who were murdered?
I fancy Nastasya has not found out yet and is still waiting for me with my coffee... cards?
Did I really lose men at cards?
H'm! Among us in Russia in the times of serfdom, so called.... My God, yes—Fedka!"
He started all over with terror and looked about him.
"What if that Fedka is in hiding somewhere behind the bushes? They say he has a regular band of robbers here on the high road.
Oh, mercy, I... I'll tell him the whole truth then, that I was to blame... and that I've been miserable about him for ten years. More miserable than he was as a soldier, and... I'll give him my purse.
H'm! J'ai en tout quarante roubles; il prendra les roubles et il me tuera tout de meme."
In his panic he for some reason shut up the umbrella and laid it down beside him.
A cart came into sight on the high road in the distance coming from the town.
"Grace a Dieu, that's a cart and it's coming at a walking pace; that can't be dangerous.
The wretched little horses here... I always said that breed... It was Pyotr Ilyitch though, he talked at the club about horse-breeding and I trumped him, et puis... but what's that behind?... I believe there's a woman in the cart.
A peasant and a woman, cela commence a etre rassurant.
The woman behind and the man in front— c'est tres rassurant.
There's a cow behind the cart tied by the horns, c'est rassurant au plus haut degre."
The cart reached him; it was a fairly solid peasant cart.
The woman was sitting on a tightly stuffed sack and the man on the front of the cart with his legs hanging over towards Stepan Trofimovitch.
A red cow was, in fact, shambling behind, tied by the horns to the cart.
The man and the woman gazed open-eyed at Stepan Trofimovitch, and Stepan Trofimovitch gazed back at them with equal wonder, but after he had let them pass twenty paces, he got up hurriedly all of a sudden and walked after them.
In the proximity of the cart it was natural that he should feel safer, but when he had overtaken it he became oblivious of everything again and sank back into his disconnected thoughts and fancies.
He stepped along with no suspicion, of course, that for the two peasants he was at that instant the most mysterious and interesting object that one could meet on the high road.
"What sort may you be, pray, if it's not uncivil to ask?" the woman could not resist asking at last when Stepan Trofimovitch glanced absent-mindedly at her.
She was a woman of about seven and twenty, sturdily built, with black eyebrows, rosy cheeks, and a friendly smile on her red lips, between which gleamed white even teeth.
"You... you are addressing me?" muttered Stepan Trofimovitch with mournful wonder.
"A merchant, for sure," the peasant observed confidently.
He was a well-grown man of forty with a broad and intelligent face, framed in a reddish beard.
"No, I am not exactly a merchant, I... I... moi c'est autre chose." Stepan Trofimovitch parried the question somehow, and to be on the safe side he dropped back a little from the cart, so that he was walking on a level with the cow.
"Must be a gentleman," the man decided, hearing words not Russian, and he gave a tug at the horse.
"That's what set us wondering. You are out for a walk seemingly?" the woman asked inquisitively again.
"You... you ask me?"