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And you, you, D'Artagnan, a man sprung from the ancient nobility of France, bearing an honorable name, carrying a good sword, have helped to give up a king to beersellers, shopkeepers, and wagoners. Ah! D'Artagnan! perhaps you have done your duty as a soldier, but as a gentleman, I say that you are very culpable." D'Artagnan was chewing the stalk of a flower, unable to reply and thoroughly uncomfortable; for when turned from the eyes of Athos he encountered those of Aramis. "And you, Porthos," continued the count, as if in consideration for D'Artagnan's embarrassment, "you, the best heart, the best friend, the best soldier that I know -- you, with a soul that makes you worthy of a birth on the steps of a throne, and who, sooner or later, must receive your reward from an intelligent king -- you, my dear Porthos, you, a gentleman in manners, in tastes and in courage, you are as culpable as D'Artagnan."

"And you, Porthos," continued the count, as if in consideration for D'Artagnan's embarrassment, "you, the best heart, the best friend, the best soldier that I know -- you, with a soul that makes you worthy of a birth on the steps of a throne, and who, sooner or later, must receive your reward from an intelligent king -- you, my dear Porthos, you, a gentleman in manners, in tastes and in courage, you are as culpable as D'Artagnan." Porthos blushed, but with pleasure rather than with confusion; and yet, bowing his head, as if humiliated, he said: "Yes, yes, my dear count, I feel that you are right."

Athos arose. "Come," he said, stretching out his hand to D'Artagnan, "come, don't be sullen, out more than ever. Suddenly he shuddered all over with horror; "My God!" he whispered in despair: "what's the matter with me? Is that hidden? Is that the way to hide things?" He had not reckoned on having trinkets to hide. He had only thought of money, and so had not prepared a hiding-place. "But now, now, what am I glad of?" he thought, "Is that hiding things? My reason's deserting me- simply!" He sat down on the sofa in exhaustion and was at once shaken by another unbearable fit of shivering.
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"I don't want it," said Raskolnikov, pushing away the pen. "Not want it?" "I won't sign it." "How the devil can you do without signing it?" "I don't want... the money." "Don't want the money! Come, brother, that's nonsense, I bear witness. Don't trouble, please, it's only that he is on his travels again. But that's pretty common with him at all times though.... You are a man of judgment and we will take him in hand, that is, more simply, take his hand and he will sign it. Here." "But I can come another time."

Here." "But I can come another time." "No, no. Why should we trouble you? You are a man of judgment.... Now, Rodya, don't keep your visitor, you see he is waiting," and he made ready to hold Raskolnikov's hand in earnest. "Stop, I'll do it alone," said the latter, taking the pen and signing his name. The messenger took out the money and went away. "Bravo! And now, brother, are you hungry?" "Yes," answered Raskolnikov. "Is there any soup?" "Some of yesterday's," answered Nastasya, who was still standing there.

"With potatoes and rice in it?" "Yes." "I know it by heart. Bring soup and give us some tea." "Very well." Raskolnikov looked at all this with profound astonishment and a dull, unreasoning terror. He made up his mind to keep quiet and see what would happen. "I believe I am not wandering. I believe it's reality," he thought. In a couple of minutes Nastasya returned with the soup, and announced that the tea would be ready directly. With the soup she brought two spoons, two plates, salt, pepper, mustard for the beef, and so on.
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"They pay so little for lessons. What's the use of a few coppers?" he answered, reluctantly, as though replying to his own thought. "And you want to get a fortune all at once?" He looked at her strangely. "Yes, I want a fortune," he answered firmly, after a brief pause. "Don't be in such a hurry, you quite frighten me! Shall I get you the loaf or not?" "As you please." "Ah, I forgot! A letter came for you yesterday when you were out." "A letter? for me! from whom?" "I can't say. I gave three copecks of my own to the postman for it.

I gave three copecks of my own to the postman for it. Will you pay me back?" "Then bring it to me, for God's sake, bring it," cried Raskolnikov greatly excited- "good God!" A minute later the letter was brought him. That was it: from his mother, from the province of R___. He turned pale when he took it. It was a long while since he had received a letter, but another feeling also suddenly stabbed his heart. "Nastasya, leave me alone, for goodness' sake; here are your three copecks, but for goodness' sake, make haste and go!"The letter was quivering in his hand; he did not want to open it in her presence; he wanted to be left alone with this letter.

When Nastasya had gone out, he lifted it quickly to his lips and kissed it; then he gazed intently at the address, the small, sloping handwriting, so dear and familiar, of the mother who had once taught him to read and write. He delayed; he seemed almost afraid of something. At last he opened it; it was a thick heavy letter, weighing over two ounces, two large sheets of note paper were covered with very small handwriting. "My dear Rodya," wrote his mother- "it's two months since I last had a talk with you by letter which has distressed me and even kept me awake at night, thinking.
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