This Bubnov has long been notorious for some shifty doings in the same line.
She was almost caught over a little girl of respectable family the other day.
The muslin dress she dressed that orphan up in (as you described this morning) won’t let me rest, because I’ve heard something of the sort already.
I learnt something else this morning, quite by chance, but I think I can rely on it.
How old is she?”
“From her face I should say thirteen.”
“But small for her age.
Well, this is how she’ll do, then.
When need be she’ll say she’s eleven, and another time that she’s fifteen.
And as the poor child has no one to protect her she’s . . .”
“Is it possible!”
“What do you suppose?
Mme. Bubnov wouldn’t have adopted an orphan simply out of compassion.
And if the fat man’s hanging round, you may be sure it’s that.
He saw her yesterday.
And that blockhead Sizobryuhov’s been promised a beauty today, a married woman, an officer’s wife, a woman of rank.
These profligate merchants’ sons are always keen on that; they’re always on the lookout for rank.
It’s like that rule in the Latin grammar, do you remember: the significance takes precedence of the ending.
But I believe I’m still drunk from this morning.
But Bubnov had better not dare meddle in such doings.
She wants to dupe the police, too; but that’s rot!
And so I’ll give her a scare, for she knows that for the sake of old scores. . . and all the rest of it, do you understand?”
I was terribly shocked.
All these revelations alarmed me.
I kept being afraid we were too late and urged on the cabman.
“Don’t be uneasy. Measures have been taken,” said Masloboev.
“Mitroshka’s there.
Sizobryulov will pay for it with money; but the fat scoundrel with his skin.
That was settled this morning.
Well, and Bubnov comes to my share . . . for don’t let her dare...”
We drew up at the eatinghouse; but the man called Mitroshka was not there.
Telling the cabman to wait for us at the eatinghouse steps, we walked to Mme. Bubnov’s.
Mitroshka was waiting for us at the gate.
There was a bright light in the windows, and we heard Sizobryuhov’s drunken, giggling laugh.
“They’re all here, have been a quarter of an hour,” Mitroshka announced; “now’s the very time.”
“But how shall we get in?” I asked.
“As visitors,” replied Masloboev.
“She knows me, and she knows Mitroshka, too.
It’s true it’s all locked up, but not for us.”
He tapped softly at the gate, and it was immediately opened.
The porter opened it and exchanged a signal with Mitroshka.
We went in quietly; we were not heard from the house.
The porter led us up the steps and knocked.
His name was called from within. He answered that a gentleman said he wanted to speak to her.
The door was opened and we all went in together.
The porter vanished.
“Aie, who’s this?” screamed Mme. Bubnov, standing drunken and dishevelled in the tiny entry with the candle in her hand.
“Who?” answered Masloboev quickly.
“How can you ask, Anna Trifonovna. Don’t you know your honoured guests?
Who, if not me?