The Prince
signed to Razumov.
They passed through a suite of reception-rooms all barely lit and one
of them prepared for dancing. The wife of the General had put off
her party. An atmosphere of consternation pervaded the place. But the
General's own room, with heavy sombre hangings, two massive desks, and
deep armchairs, had all the lights turned on. The footman shut the door
behind them and they waited.
There was a coal fire in an English grate; Razumov had never before seen
such a fire; and the silence of the room was like the silence of the
grave; perfect, measureless, for even the clock on the mantelpiece
made no sound. Filling a corner, on a black pedestal, stood a
quarter-life-size smooth-limbed bronze of an adolescent figure, running.
The Prince observed in an undertone--
"Spontini's. 'Flight of Youth.' Exquisite."
"Admirable," assented Razumov faintly.
They said nothing more after this, the Prince silent with his grand air,
Razumov staring at the statue. He was worried by a sensation resembling
the gnawing of hunger.
He did not turn when he heard an inner door fly open, and a quick
footstep, muffled on the carpet.
The Prince's voice immediately exclaimed, thick with excitement--
"We have got him--_ce miserable_. A worthy young man came to me--No!
It's incredible.
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