“Who is to blame for it? Who has let things come to such a pass?” he ruminated. “Not I, of course. I had everything ready. I had Moscow firmly in hand. And this is what they have let it come to! Villains! Traitors!” he thought, without clearly defining who the villains and traitors were, but feeling it necessary to hate those traitors whoever they might be who were to blame for the false and ridiculous position in which he found himself.

All that night Count Rostopchín issued orders, for which people came to him from all parts of Moscow. Those about him had never seen the count so morose and irritable.

“Your excellency, the Director of the Registrar’s Department has sent for instructions.⁠ ⁠… From the Consistory, from the Senate, from the University, from the Foundling Hospital, the Suffragan has sent⁠ ⁠… asking for information.⁠ ⁠… What are your orders about the Fire Brigade? From the governor of the prison⁠ ⁠… from the superintendent of the lunatic asylum⁠ ⁠…” All night long such announcements were continually being received by the count.