Her stern and peremptory voice resounded through the cottage; even the landlord and his wife were intimidated.
She had only stopped to question them and make inquiries, being persuaded that Stepan Trofimovitch must have reached Spasov long before. Learning that he was still here and ill, she entered the cottage in great agitation.
"Well, where is he?
Ah, that's you!" she cried, seeing Sofya Matveyevna, who appeared at that very instant in the doorway of the next room.
"I can guess from your shameless face that it's you.
Go away, you vile hussy!
Don't let me find a trace of her in the house!
Turn her out, or else, my girl, I'll get you locked up for good.
Keep her safe for a time in another house.
She's been in prison once already in the town; she can go back there again.
And you, my good man, don't dare to let anyone in while I am here, I beg of you.
I am Madame Stavrogin, and I'll take the whole house.
As for you, my dear, you'll have to give me a full account of it all."
The familiar sounds overwhelmed Stepan Trofimovitch.
He began to tremble.
But she had already stepped behind the screen.
With flashing eyes she drew up a chair with her foot, and, sinking back in it, she shouted to Dasha:
"Go away for a time! Stay in the other room.
Why are you so inquisitive?
And shut the door properly after you."
For some time she gazed in silence with a sort of predatory look into his frightened face.
"Well, how are you getting on, Stepan Trofimovitch?
So you've been enjoying yourself?" broke from her with ferocious irony.
"Chere," Stepan Trofimovitch faltered, not knowing what he was saying, "I've learnt to know real life in Russia... et je precherai l'Evangile."
"Oh, shameless, ungrateful man!" she wailed suddenly, clasping her hands.
"As though you had not disgraced me enough, you've taken up with... oh, you shameless old reprobate!"
"Chere..."
His voice failed him and he could not articulate a syllable but simply gazed with eyes wide with horror.
"Who is she?"
"C'est un ange; c'etait plus qu'un ange pour moi. She's been all night... Oh, don't shout, don't frighten her, chere, chere..."
With a loud noise, Varvara Petrovna pushed back her chair, uttering a loud cry of alarm.
"Water, water!"
Though he returned to consciousness, she was still shaking with terror, and, with pale cheeks, looked at his distorted face. It was only then, for the first time, that she guessed the seriousness of his illness.
"Darya," she whispered suddenly to Darya Pavlovna, "send at once for the doctor, for Salzfish; let Yegorytch go at once. Let him hire horses here and get another carriage from the town.
He must be here by night."
Dasha flew to do her bidding.
Stepan Trofimovitch still gazed at her with the same wide-open, frightened eyes; his blanched lips quivered.
"Wait a bit, Stepan Trofimovitch, wait a bit, my dear!" she said, coaxing him like a child. "There, there, wait a bit! Darya will come back and... My goodness, the landlady, the landlady, you come, anyway, my good woman!"
In her impatience she ran herself to the landlady.
"Fetch that woman back at once, this minute.
Bring her back, bring her back!"
Fortunately Sofya Matveyevna had not yet had time to get away and was only just going out of the gate with her pack and her bag.
She was brought back.
She was so panic-stricken that she was trembling in every limb.
Varvara Petrovna pounced on her like a hawk on a chicken, seized her by the hand and dragged her impulsively to Stepan Trofimovitch.
"Here, here she is, then.
I've not eaten her.
You thought I'd eaten her."
Stepan Trofimovitch clutched Varvara Petrovna's hand, raised it to his eyes, and burst into tears, sobbing violently and convulsively.
"There, calm yourself, there, there, my dear, there, poor dear man!