He was numb with terror, anger, and shame⁠ ⁠… What was he to do now? What would his wife say if she found out? What would his colleagues at the office say? His Excellency would be sure to dig him in the ribs, guffaw, and say: “I congratulate you!⁠ ⁠… He-he-he! Though your beard is gray, your heart is gay.⁠ ⁠… You are a rogue, Semyon Erastovitch!” The whole colony of summer visitors would know his secret now, and probably the respectable mothers of families would shut their doors to him. Such incidents always get into the papers, and the humble name of Miguev would be published all over Russia.⁠ ⁠…

The middle window of the bungalow was open and he could distinctly hear his wife, Anna Filippovna, laying the table for supper; in the yard close to the gate Yermolay, the porter, was plaintively strumming on the balalaika. The baby had only to wake up and begin to cry, and the secret would be discovered. Miguev was conscious of an overwhelming desire to make haste.

“Haste, haste!⁠ ⁠…” he muttered, “this minute, before anyone sees. I’ll carry it away and lay it on somebody’s doorstep.⁠ ⁠…”

Miguev took the bundle in one hand and quietly, with a deliberate step to avoid awakening suspicion, went down the street.⁠ ⁠…

“A wonderfully nasty position!” he reflected, trying to assume an air of unconcern. “A collegiate assessor walking down the street with a baby! Good heavens! if anyone sees me and understands the position, I am done for.⁠ ⁠… I’d better put it on this doorstep.⁠ ⁠… No, stay, the windows are open and perhaps someone is looking. Where shall I put it? I know! I’ll take it to the merchant Myelkin’s.⁠ ⁠… Merchants are rich people and tenderhearted; very likely they will say thank you and adopt it.”

And Miguev made up his mind to take the baby to Myelkin’s, although the merchant’s villa was in the furthest street, close to the river.