“One word, Rodion Romanovitch; as to all the rest, it’s in God’s hands, but as a matter of form there are some questions I shall have to ask you … so we shall meet again, shan’t we?”
And Porfiry stood still, facing him with a smile.
“Shan’t we?” he added again.
He seemed to want to say something more, but could not speak out.
“You must forgive me, Porfiry Petrovitch, for what has just passed … I lost my temper,” began Raskolnikov, who had so far regained his courage that he felt irresistibly inclined to display his coolness.
“Don’t mention it, don’t mention it,” Porfiry replied, almost gleefully. “I myself, too … I have a wicked temper, I admit it! But we shall meet again. If it’s God’s will, we may see a great deal of one another.”
“And will get to know each other through and through?” added Raskolnikov.
“Yes; know each other through and through,” assented Porfiry Petrovitch, and he screwed up his eyes, looking earnestly at Raskolnikov.
“Now you’re going to a birthday party?”
“To a funeral.”
“Of course, the funeral! Take care of yourself, and get well.”
“I don’t know what to wish you,” said Raskolnikov, who had begun to descend the stairs, but looked back again. “I should like to wish you success, but your office is such a comical one.”
“Why comical?” Porfiry Petrovitch had turned to go, but he seemed to prick up his ears at this.