Prokop left a handful of money in return for her services and made off.
Prokop, Prokop, you are not the only man who intends to return in a week!
“We’re off, we’re off,” beat the wheels of the train. But its noisy, vibrating pace did not suffice for human impatience; human impatience desperately twisted about, drew his watch out of his pocket and nervously kicked his feet about. One, two, three, four … telegraph posts. Trees, fields, trees, a watchman’s house, trees, the bank of a river, a fence and fields. Eleven-seventeen. Fields of turnips, women in blue aprons, a house, a little dog which took it into its head to race the train—fields—fields—fields. Eleven-seventeen. God, how the time stood still! Better to think of something; to close one’s eyes and count up to a thousand; to recite a paternoster or repeat some chemical formula. “We’re off, we’re off!” Eleven-eighteen. God! what is one to do?
Prokop started. “Krakatit” stared him in the eyes, until he grew frightened. Where was it? Aha! the man opposite was reading a paper and on the back was that announcement. “Krakatit! Will Eng. P. give his address? Carson, Poste Restante.” I wish that Mr. Carson would leave me alone, thought Eng. P.; all the same at the next station he bought all the papers which his country produced. It was in all of them and in all of them the same. “Krakatit! Will Eng. P. give his address? Carson, Poste Restante.” “My godfathers!” said Eng. P. to himself, “there’s some demand for me! But what does he want me for, when Thomas has sold him the secret?”
But instead of solving this fundamental problem he looked to see if he was observed, and then, perhaps for the hundredth time, drew out the familiar package. With all possible delays, delays which gave him acute pleasure, after all sorts of reflections and hesitations, he pulled out of it the sealed-up money and that letter, that priceless letter, written in a mature and energetic hand. “Dear Mr. Thomas,” he again read with excitement, “I am not doing this for you, but for my sister. She has been nearly off her head since you sent her that terrible letter. She would have sold all her clothes and jewels in order to send you money; I had to use all possible force to prevent her from doing something which she would afterwards have been unable to hide from her husband. What I am sending you is my own money; I know that you will take it without making unnecessary difficulties and beg you not to thank me for it.—L.” Then a hasty postscript: “For the love of God, after this leave M. in peace! She has given all that she has; she gave you more than what belonged to her; I am horrified to think of what would happen if it all were discovered. I beseech you not to abuse your terrible influence over her! It would be too base if you were to—” The rest of the phrase was struck out and there followed still another postscript: “Please convey my thanks to your friend, who is bringing you this. He was unforgettably kind to me at a time when most of all I needed human help.”
Prokop was simply overpowered by an excess of happiness. So she was not Thomas’s! And she had nobody to whom she could turn! A brave and generous girl. She got together forty thousand to save her sister from … evidently from some humiliation. Thirty thousand of it was from the bank; it still had a band round it as when she had drawn it—why the devil didn’t the band have on it the name of the bank? And the other ten thousand she scraped together nobody knows how; for it was made up of small notes, miserable, soiled five-crown notes, tousled rags from God knows whose hands, shabby money from women’s purses. God! what a frightful time she must have had before she got this handful of money together! “He was unforgettably kind to me. …” And that moment Prokop would have pounded Thomas to death, that low, shameless scoundrel; but at the same time he somehow forgave him … since he was not her lover! She did not belong to Thomas … that certainly signified at the least that she was a pure and beautiful angel; and it was as if some unknown wound suddenly healed in his heart.
Yes, to find her; before everything … before everything he must return her her money (he was not in the least ashamed of forming such a pretext) and say that … that, in short … she could depend on him. … “He was unforgettably kind.” Prokop clasped his hands. … God! what would he not do to earn such words from her—
Oh, how slowly the train was going!
XV
Directly he arrived at Prague he made for Thomas’s rooms. Outside the Museum he pulled himself up … curse, where exactly did Thomas live? He walked, yes, he walked, shaking with fever, along the road by the Museum; but from where? From which street? Swearing, Prokop wandered round the Museum looking for the most probable direction; he found nothing and went to the Inquiry Office of the police. George Thomas; the dusty official looked through a number of books. Engineer Thomas, George, that, please, is Smichov, such and such a street. Evidently an old address. Nevertheless Prokop flew into Smichov to such and such a street. The caretaker shook his head when he asked for George Thomas. He certainly used to live here, but more than a year ago;
