scarcely ever at home, especially of an evening.  She was constantly out gossiping with friends or tradespeople, and that was the reason of her mistress’s constant complaints.  When the time came, all he would have to do would be to quietly enter the kitchen and take the hatchet, and then to replace it an hour afterwards when all was over.  But perhaps this would not be as easy as he fancied.  “Suppose,” said the young man to himself, “that when, in an hour’s time, I come to replace the hatchet, Nastasia should have come in.  Now, in that case, I could naturally not enter the kitchen until she had gone out again.  But supposing during this time she notices the absence of the hatchet, she will grumble, perhaps kick up a shindy, and that will serve to denounce me, or at least might do so!”

Before he had got to the bottom of the staircase, a trifling circumstance came and upset all his plans.  On reaching his landlady’s landing, he found the kitchen door wide open, as usual, and he peeped in, in order to make sure that, in the absence of Nastasia, her mistress was not there, and that the doors of the other rooms were closed.  But great was his annoyance to find Nastasia there herself, engaged in hanging clothes on a line.  Perceiving the young man, she stopped and turned to him inquiringly.  He averted his eyes and went away without remark.  But the affair was done for.  There was no hatchet, he was frustrated entirely.  He felt crushed, nay, humiliated, but a feeling of brutal vindictiveness at his disappointment soon ensued, and he continued down the stairs, smiling maliciously to himself.  He stood hesitating at the gate.  To walk about the streets or to go back were equally repugnant.  “To think that I have missed such a splendid opportunity!” he murmured as he stood aimlessly at the entrance, leaning near the open door of the porter’s lodge.  Suddenly he started—­something in the dark room attracted his eye.  He looked quietly around.  No one was near.  He descended the two steps on tiptoe, and called for the porter.  There was no reply, and he rushed headlong to the hatchet (it was a hatchet), secured it where it lay among some wood, and hurriedly fastened it to the loop as he made his way out into the street.  No one saw him!  “There’s more of the devil in this than my design,” he said smiling to himself.  The occurrence gave him fresh courage.

He went away quietly in order not to excite any suspicion, and walked along the street with his eyes studiously fixed on the ground, avoiding the faces of the passers-by.  Suddenly he recollected his hat.  “Good heavens! the day before yesterday I had money, and not to have thought of that!  I could so easily have bought a cap!” and he began cursing himself.  Glancing casually in a shop, he saw it was ten minutes past seven.  He had yet a long way to go, as he was making a circuit, not wishing to walk direct to the house.  He kept off, as much as he was able, all thought of his mission, and on the way reflected upon possible improvements of the public grounds, upon the desirability of fountains, and why people lived where there were neither parks nor fountains, but only mud, lime, and bricks, emitting horrid exhalations and every conceivable foulness.  This reminded him of his own walks about the Cyennaza, and he came to himself.