“We are not within his jurisdiction,” said Poterin. But his whole face became distorted with apprehension. “All the same,” said Doulebov in his thin voice, “he possesses great powers. He can do what he likes.” The Vice-Governor looked gloomily at Poterin and said morosely: “He’s going to pull you all up.” Poterin grew deathly pale and broke out into perspiration. The conversation about the Marquis Teliatnikov continued, and the local revolutionary ferment was mentioned in the course of it. Revolutionary proclamations had appeared in all the woods of the neighbourhood. Large pieces of bark were cut off the trees and proclamations pasted on. It was impossible to remove these bills, which were overrun by a thin, transparent coating of resin. The zealous preservers of order had either to chop out or to scrape off the obnoxious places with a knife. “I think,” said Doulebova, “that it must be an idea of our chemist, Mr. Trirodov.” “Of course.” She was confirmed in her suggestion by the cringing, dry-looking instructress of German. Zinaida Grigorievna turned towards Poterina in order to show favour to her hostess by her conversation, and asked her with an amused smile: “How do you like our celebrated Decadent?” The instructress tried to understand. An expression of fear showed on her flat, dull face. She asked timidly: “Whom do you mean, Zinaida Grigorievna?” “Whom else could I mean but Mr. Trirodov,” replied Doulebova malignantly. The malice was all on Trirodov’s account, but nevertheless Poterina trembled with fear. “Ah, yes, Trirodov; how then, how then....” she repeated in a worried, flustered way, and was at a loss what to say. Doulebova said bitingly: “Well, I don’t think he laughs very often. He ought to be to your taste.” “To my taste!” exclaimed Poterina with a flushed face. “What are you saying, Zinaida Grigorievna! As the old saying goes: ‘The Tsar’s servant has been bent into a harness arch!’” “Yes, he always looks askance at you and talks to no one,” said the wife of the instructor Krolikov; “but he is a very kind man.” Doulebova turned her malignant glance upon her. Krolikova grew pale with fear, and guessed that she had not said the right thing. She corrected herself: “He is a kind man in his words.” Doulebova smiled at her benevolently. “Do you know what I think?” said Zherbenev, addressing himself to Doulebova. “I have seen many men in my time, I may say without boasting; and in my opinion, it is a very bad sign that he looks askance at you.” “Of course!” agreed Poterina. “That is the honest truth!” “Let a man look me straight in my face,” went on Zherbenev. “But the quiet ones....” Zherbenev did not finish his sentence. Doulebova said: “Frankly, I don’t like your poet. I can’t understand him. There is something strange about him--something disagreeable.” “He’s altogether suspicious,” said Zherbenev with the look of a person who knew a great deal.