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Now sign it." Raskolnikoff let fall the pen, and seemed as if about to rise and go; but, instead of doing so, he laid both elbows on the table and supported his head with his hands.
Some were in their cases, while the others were tied up with tape in pieces of newspaper folded in two. Raskolnikoff did not hesitate, he laid hands on these jewels, and stowed them away in the pockets of his coat and trousers, without opening the cases or untying the packets; but he was soon interrupted in his work Footsteps resounded in the other room. He stopped short, frozen with terror.
Pausing a little, he decided to advance farther into the small low room. He became impatient when he found no one took any notice of him. In an inner room were seated a number of clerks engaged in writing. He went up to one of these. "What do you want?" Raskolnikoff showed him the notice. "You are a student?" asked a clerk, glancing at the notice. "Yes; that is, I used to be."
"Be seated, Porphyrius Petrovitch, be seated," said Raskolnikoff to his guest, assuming such an air of friendship that he himself could have been astonished at his own affability. Thus the victim, in fear and trembling for his life, at last does not feel the knife at his throat. He seated himself in front of Porphyrius, and gazed upon him without flinching.
Suspicious, isn't it? Well, I will explain to you, or rather confess no, not that exactly. I will give testimony, and you shall take it down that's it. So then, I swear that I was reading, and came here on purpose" Raskolnikoff blinked his eyes and paused "to read an account of the murder of the old woman." He finished almost in a whisper, eagerly watching Zametoff's face.
The servant looked strangely at Raskolnikoff, while he fixed a despairing glance upon the porter. "Here is a notice for you from the office," said the latter. "What office?" "The police office." "What for?" "I don't know. You are summoned there, go." The porter looked anxiously at the lodger, and turned to leave. Raskolnikoff made no observation, and held the paper unopened in his hand.
Porphyrius blinked a little, and commenced rolling his cigarette. "Speak! speak!" Raskolnikoff mutely cried in his heart. "What are you going to say?" "Oh, these cigarettes!" Porphyrius Petrovitch commenced at last, "they'll be the death of me, and yet I can't give them up! I am always coughing a tickling in the throat is setting in, and I am asthmatical.
The rest died away in the distance; the man who was uttering these cries had already left the house far behind. All was once more silent; but scarcely was this alarm over than a fresh one succeeded it: several individuals talking together in a loud tone of voice were noisily coming up the stairs. There were three or four of them. Raskolnikoff recognized the young man's sonorous accents.
Raskolnikoff, who until then had been riveted to the landing with fright, was at length able to shake off his torpor, and hastily reentered the apartment, closing the door behind him. Then he bolted it, being careful to make as little noise as possible. Instinct rather than reason prompted him to do this. When he had finished, he remained close to the door, listening, scarcely daring to breathe.
"The porter's voice. What does he want?" Raskolnikoff rose, and sat on the couch listening. His heart throbbed violently. "Who has bolted the door then?" exclaimed the servant. "Open, will you?" "All must be discovered?" He rose a little and undid the bolt, and fell back again on his bed. There stood the porter and Nastasia.
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