"I myself have had an experience," he stammered out, as if compelled.
"I've seen a phantom once." The unnaturally red lips moved to frame a
question harshly.
"Of a dead person?"
"No. Living."
"A friend?"
"No."
"An enemy?"
"I hated him."
"Ah! It was not a woman, then?"
"A woman!" repeated Razumov, his eyes looking straight into the eyes
of Madame de S--. "Why should it have been a woman? And why this
conclusion? Why should I not have been able to hate a woman?"
As a matter of fact, the idea of hating a woman was new to him. At that
moment he hated Madame de S--. But it was not exactly hate. It was more
like the abhorrence that may be caused by a wooden or plaster figure of
a repulsive kind. She moved no more than if she were such a figure; even
her eyes, whose unwinking stare plunged into his own, though shining,
were lifeless, as though they were as artificial as her teeth. For the
first time Razumov became aware of a faint perfume, but faint as it was
it nauseated him exceedingly. Again Peter Ivanovitch tapped him slightly
on the shoulder. Thereupon he bowed, and was about to turn away when
he received the unexpected favour of a bony, inanimate hand extended to
him, with the two words in hoarse French--
"_Au revoir!_"
He bowed over the skeleton hand and left the room, escorted by the great
man, who made him go out first.
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