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"Oh, well, I've said nothing definite," Pyotr Stepanovitch flared up at once, as though defending himself from an awful attack. "I simply trotted out Shatov's wife; you know, that is, the rumours of your liaison in Paris, which accounted, of course, for what happened on Sunday. You're not angry?" "I'm sure you've done your best." "Oh, that's just what I was afraid of.
It's the duty of man to make it so; that's the law of his nature, which always exists even if hidden.... Oh, I wish I could see Petrusha... and all of them... Shatov..." I may remark that as yet no one had heard of Shatov's fate not Varvara Petrovna nor Darya Pavlovna, nor even Salzfish, who was the last to come from the town.
She tried to shake her head, and suddenly the same spasm came over her again. Again she hid her face in the pillow, and again for a full minute she squeezed Shatov's hand till it hurt. He had run up, beside himself with alarm. "Marie, Marie! But it may be very serious, Marie!" "Be quiet... I won't have it, I won't have it," she screamed almost furiously, turning her face upwards again.
"You are the first man I've met who has known her personally; and if only..." "What nonsense!" the engineer snapped out, flushing all over. "How you add to things, Liputin! I've not seen Shatov's wife; I've only once seen her in the distance and not at all close.... I know Shatov. Why do you add things of all sorts?"
Shatov's alarm, the despairing tone of his entreaties, the way he begged for help, clearly showed a complete change of feeling in the traitor: a man who was ready to betray himself merely for the sake of ruining others would, she thought, have had a different air and tone.
Entreat me, Shatushka, so that I shall consent of myself. Shatushka, Shatushka!" But Shatushka was silent. There was complete silence lasting a minute. Tears slowly trickled down her painted cheeks. She sat forgetting her two hands on Shatov's shoulders, but no longer looking at him. "Ach, what is it to do with me, and it's a sin." Shatov suddenly got up from the bench. "Get up!"
There was a vague, though well-authenticated rumour among us that Shatov's wife had at one time had a liaison with Nikolay Stavrogin, in Paris, and just about two years ago, that is when Shatov was in America. It is true that this was long after his wife had left him in Geneva. "If so, what possesses him now to bring his name forward and to lay stress on it?" I thought.
"Why, fetch some specimen of Shatov's writing and compare it. You must have some signature of his in your office. As for its being addressed to Kirillov, it was Kirillov himself showed it me at the time." "Then you were yourself..." "Of course I was, myself. They showed me lots of things out there.
He knew the town like the five fingers of his hand, but Bogoyavlensky Street was a long way off. It was past ten when he stopped at last before the locked gates of the dark old house that belonged to Filipov. The ground floor had stood empty since the Lebyadkins had left it, and the windows were boarded up, but there was a light burning in Shatov's room on the second floor.
What's more, I don't see any happiness in the fact that his wife has come back after three years' absence to bear him a child of Stavrogin's." "But no one has seen Shatov's letter," Shigalov brought out all at once, emphatically. "I've seen it," cried Pyotr Stepanovitch. "It exists, and all this is awfully stupid, gentlemen."
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