"Vjera? Does she believe it too?" asked the Count in an unsteady voice, not heeding the rest of the speech.
"Of course," said Dumnoff, carelessly. "Schmidt was saying to me only yesterday that you were going to have a worse attack of it than usual because you were so silent."
"Vjera, too!" repeated the Count in a low voice. "And no one ever told me--" He passed his hand over his eyes.
"Tell me"--Dumnoff began in the tone of jocular familiarity which he considered confidential--"tell me--the whole thing is just a joke of yours to amuse us all, is it not? You do not really believe that you are a count, any more than I really believe that you are mad, you know. You do not act like a madman, except when you let the police catch you and lock you up for the night, instead of running away like a sensible man."
The Count's face grew bright again all at once. In the present state of his hopes no form of doubt seemed able to take a permanent hold of him.
"No, I am not mad," he said. "But on the other hand, Dumnoff, it is my conviction that you are exceedingly drunk. No other hypothesis can account for your very singular remarks about me."
"Oh, I am drunk, am I?" laughed the peasant. "It is very likely, and in that case I had better go to sleep. Good-night, and do not forget that you are to take me with you to Russia."
Dumnoff stretched his heavy limbs on the wooden pallet, rolled his great head once or twice from side to side until his fur-like hair made something like a cushion and then, in the course of three minutes, fell fast asleep.
The Count sat upright in his place, drumming with his fingers upon one knee.
"It is a wonder that I am not mad," he said to himself. "But Vjera never thought it of me--and that fellow is evidently the worse for liquor."
Johann Schmidt had not fled from the scene of action out of any consideration for his personal safety. He was, indeed, a braver man than Dumnoff, in proportion as he was more intelligent, and though of a very different temper, by no means averse to a fight if it came into his way. He had foreseen what was sure to happen, and had realised sooner than any one else that the only person who could set everything straight was Fischelowitz himself. So soon as he was clear of pursuit, therefore, he turned in the direction of the tobacconist's dwelling, walking as quickly as he could where there were many people and running at the top of his speed through such empty by-streets as lay in the direct line of his course. He rushed up the three flights of steps and rang sharply at the door.