“Thank you.  Now as to your fees?”

“My assistant will hand you the petition and tell you.”

“One thing more.  The Procureur gave me a pass for visiting this person in prison, but they tell me I must also get a permission from the governor in order to get an interview at another time and in another place than those appointed.  Is this necessary?”

“Yes, I think so.  But the governor is away at present; a vice-governor is in his place.  And he is such an impenetrable fool that you’ll scarcely be able to do anything with him.”

“Is it Meslennikoff?”

“Yes.”

“I know him,” said Nekhludoff, and got up to go.  At this moment a horribly ugly, little, bony, snub-nosed, yellow-faced woman flew into the room.  It was the advocate’s wife, who did not seem to be in the least bit troubled by her ugliness.  She was attired in the most original manner; she seemed enveloped in something made of velvet and silk, something yellow and green, and her thin hair was crimped.

She stepped out triumphantly into the ante-room, followed by a tall, smiling man, with a greenish complexion, dressed in a coat with silk facings, and a white tie.  This was an author.  Nekhludoff knew him by sight.

She opened the cabinet door and said, “Anatole, you must come to me.  Here is Simeon Ivanovitch, who will read his poems, and you must absolutely come and read about Garshin.”

Nekhludoff noticed that she whispered something to her husband, and, thinking it was something concerning him, wished to go away, but she caught him up and said:  “I beg your pardon, Prince, I know you, and, thinking an introduction superfluous, I beg you to stay and take part in our literary matinee.  It will be most interesting.  M. Fanarin will read.”

“You see what a lot I have to do,” said Fanarin, spreading out his hands and smilingly pointing to his wife, as if to show how impossible it was to resist so charming a creature.

Nekhludoff thanked the advocate’s wife with extreme politeness for the honour she did him in inviting him, but refused the invitation with a sad and solemn look, and left the room.

“What an affected fellow!” said the advocate’s wife, when he had gone out.

In the ante-room the assistant handed him a ready-written petition, and said that the fees, including the business with the Senate and the commission, would come to 1,000 roubles, and explained that M. Fanarin did not usually undertake this kind of business, but did it only to oblige Nekhludoff.

“And about this petition.  Who is to sign it?”

“The prisoner may do it herself, or if this is inconvenient, M. Fanarin can, if he gets a power of attorney from her.”

“Oh, no.  I shall take the petition to her and get her to sign it,” said Nekhludoff, glad of the opportunity of seeing her before the appointed day.

CHAPTER XLVI.