Volochine owned immense works in St. Petersburg upon which the
existence of thousands of his employés depended.
At the present time, while a strike was in progress, be had turned his
back upon the crowd of hungry, dirty malcontents, and was enjoying a
trip in the provinces. Libertine as he was, he thought of nothing but
women, and in young, fresh, provincial women he displayed an intense,
in fact, an absorbing interest. He pictured them as delightfully shy
and timid, yet sturdy as a woodland mushroom, and their provocative
perfume of youth and purity he scented from afar.
Volochine had clothed his puny little body in virgin white, after
sprinkling himself from head to foot with various essences; and,
although he did not exactly approve of Sarudine's society, he hailed a
droschky and hastened to the latter's rooms.
Sarudine was sitting at the window, drinking cold tea.
"What a lovely evening!" he kept saying to himself, as he looked out on
the garden. But his thoughts were elsewhere. He felt ashamed and
afraid.
He was afraid of Lida. Since their interview, he had not set eyes on
her. To him she seemed another Lida now, unlike the one that had
surrendered to his passion.
"Anyhow," he thought, "the matter is not at an end yet. The child must
be got rid of ... or shall I treat the whole thing as a joke? I wonder
what she is doing now?"
He seemed to see before him Lida's handsome, inscrutable eyes, and her
lips tightly compressed, vindictive, menacing.
"She may be going to pay me out? A girl of that sort isn't one to be
trifled with. At all costs I shall have to ..."
The prospect of a huge scandal vaguely suggested itself, striking
terror to his craven heart.
"After all," he thought, "what could she possibly do?" Then suddenly it
all seemed quite clear and simple. "Perhaps she'll drown herself? Let
her go to the deuce! I didn't force her to do it! They'll say that she
was my mistress--well, what of that? It only proves that I am a good-
looking fellow. I never said that I would marry her. Upon my word, it's
too silly!" Sarudine shrugged his shoulders, yet the sense of
oppression was not lessened. "People will talk, I expect, and I shan't
be able to show myself," he thought, while his hand trembled slightly
as he held the glass of cold, over-sweetened tea to his lips.
He was as smart and well-groomed and scented as ever, yet it seemed as
if, on his face, his white jacket, and his hands, and even on his
heart, there was a foul stain which became even greater.