"Who orders life? The gentry. Who spoiled the pretty animal man? Who made him a dirty beast, a sick beast? You, the gentry. Hence all this, the whole of life, ought to be turned against you. So we must open all the ulcers of life, and drown you in the stream of abomination that will flow from them, in the vomit of the people you have poisoned. A curse on you! The time of your execution and destruction has come. All those who have been mutilated by you are rising against you, and they'll choke you, crush you, you understand? Yes, that's how it will be. Nay, it already is. In some cities they have already tried to find out how firmly the heads of the gentlemen are fixed on their shoulders. You know that, don't you?" Sasha staggered back, and leaned against the wall, stretching his arms forward, and choking and gasping over a broken laugh. Maklakov glanced at the men standing around him, and asked also with a laugh: "Did you understand what he said?" "One can say whatever he pleases," replied Solovyov, but the next instant added hastily, "In one's own company. The most interesting thing would be to find out for certain whether a secret society has actually been organized in St. Petersburg and for what purpose." "That's what we want to know," said Krasavin in a tone of demand. "And what sort of people are in it, too." "In reality, brothers, the revolution has been transferred to other quarters," exclaimed Piotr, merrily and animatedly. "If there really are princes in that society," Solovyov meditated dreamily, "then our business ought to improve." "You have twenty thousand in the bank anyway, old devil." "And maybe thirty. Count again," said Solovyov in an offended tone, and stepped aside. Sasha coughed dully and hoarsely; while Maklakov regarded him with a scowl. Yevsey gradually freed himself from the thin shackles of the attraction that the sick spy had unexpectedly begun to exert upon him. His talk, which at first had seized Klimkov, now dissolved and disappeared from his soul like dust under rain. "What are you looking at me for?" shouted Sasha at Maklakov. Maklakov turned and walked away without answering. Yevsey involuntarily followed him. "Did you understand anything?" Maklakov suddenly inquired of Yevsey. "I don't like it." "No? Why?" "He's always rancorous, and there's rancor enough without him." "Yes, so there is," said Maklakov, nodding his head. "There's rancor enough." "And it's impossible to understand anything," Klimkov continued, looking around cautiously. "Everybody speaks differently--" The words had scarcely left his mouth when he grew alarmed, and glanced sidewise at Maklakov's face. The spy pensively brushed the dust from his hat with his handkerchief, apparently oblivious of the dangerous words. "Well, good-by," he said, holding out his hand to Yevsey. Yevsey wanted to accompany him, but the spy put on his hat, and twirling his mustache, walked out without so much as looking at him.