“He declares that your humbug of a landlord revised this gentleman’s article—the article that was read aloud just now—in which you got such a charming dressing-down.” The prince regarded Lebedeff with astonishment. “Why don’t you say something?” cried Lizabetha Prokofievna, stamping her foot. “Well,” murmured the prince, with his eyes still fixed on Lebedeff, “I can see now that he did.” “Is it true?” she asked eagerly. “Absolutely, your excellency,” said Lebedeff, without the least hesitation. Mrs. Epanchin almost sprang up in amazement at his answer, and at the assurance of his tone. “He actually seems to boast of it!” she cried. “I am base—base!” muttered Lebedeff, beating his breast, and hanging his head. “What do I care if you are base or not? He thinks he has only to say, ‘I am base,’ and there is an end of it. As to you, prince, are you not ashamed?—I repeat, are you not ashamed, to mix with such riff-raff? I will never forgive you!” “The prince will forgive me!” said Lebedeff with emotional conviction. Keller suddenly left his seat, and approached Lizabetha Prokofievna. “It was only out of generosity, madame,” he said in a resonant voice, “and because I would not betray a friend in an awkward position, that I did not mention this revision before; though you heard him yourself threatening to kick us down the steps. To clear the matter up, I declare now that I did have recourse to his assistance, and that I paid him six roubles for it. But I did not ask him to correct my style; I simply went to him for information concerning the facts, of which I was ignorant to a great extent, and which he was competent to give. The story of the gaiters, the appetite in the Swiss professor’s house, the substitution of fifty roubles for two hundred and fifty—all such details, in fact, were got from him. I paid him six roubles for them; but he did not correct the style.” “I must state that I only revised the first part of the article,” interposed Lebedeff with feverish impatience, while laughter rose from all around him; “but we fell out in the middle over one idea, so I never corrected the second part. Therefore I cannot be held responsible for the numerous grammatical blunders in it.” “That is all he thinks of!” cried Lizabetha Prokofievna. “May I ask when this article was revised?” said Evgenie Pavlovitch to Keller. “Yesterday morning,” he replied, “we had an interview which we all gave our word of honour to keep secret.” “The very time when he was cringing before you and making protestations of devotion! Oh, the mean wretches! I will have nothing to do with your Pushkin, and your daughter shall not set foot in my house!” Lizabetha Prokofievna was about to rise, when she saw Hippolyte laughing, and turned upon him with irritation. “Well, sir, I suppose you wanted to make me look ridiculous?”