at, Peter
Ivanovitch seemed to be waiting for his approach.

The ceremonious black frock-coat and the bared head of Europe's greatest
feminist accentuated the dubiousness of his status in the house rented
by Madame de S--, his Egeria. His aspect combined the formality of the
caller with the freedom of the proprietor. Florid and bearded and masked
by the dark blue glasses, he met the visitor, and at once took him
familiarly under the arm.

Razumov suppressed every sign of repugnance by an effort which the
constant necessity of prudence had rendered almost mechanical. And
this necessity had settled his expression in a cast of austere, almost
fanatical, aloofness. The "heroic fugitive," impressed afresh by the
severe detachment of this new arrival from revolutionary Russia, took a
conciliatory, even a confidential tone. Madame de S-- was resting after
a bad night. She often had bad nights. He had left his hat upstairs on
the landing and had come down to suggest to his young friend a stroll
and a good open-hearted talk in one of the shady alleys behind the
house. After voicing this proposal, the great man glanced at the unmoved
face by his side, and could not restrain himself from exclaiming--

"On my word, young man, you are an extraordinary person."

"I fancy you are mistaken, Peter Ivanovitch. If I were really an
extraordinary person, I would not be here, walking with you in a garden
in Switzerland, Canton of Geneva, Commune of--what's the name of the
Commune this place belongs to?... Never mind--the heart of democracy,
anyhow. A fit heart for it; no bigger than a parched pea and about as
much value. I am no more extraordinary than the rest of us Russians,
wandering abroad."

But Peter Ivanovitch dissented emphatically--

"No! No! You are not ordinary. I have some experience of Russians who
are--well--living abroad. You appear to me, and to others too, a marked
personality."

"What does he mean by this?" Razumov asked himself, turning his eyes
fully on his companion. The face of Peter Ivanovitch expressed a
meditative seriousness.

"You don't suppose, Kirylo Sidorovitch, that I have not heard of you
from various points where you made yourself known on your way here? I
have had letters."

"Oh, we are great in talking about each other," interjected Razumov, who
had listened with great attention. "Gossip, tales, suspicions, and
all that sort of thing, we know how to deal in to perfection. Calumny,
even."

In i