On the second or third day the Assistant Public Prosecutor,
Polugradov, arrived post-haste from the town; he is a man I cannot
think of without spoiling my frame of mind. Imagine a tall, lean man,
of about thirty, clean shaven, smartly dressed, and with hair curled
like a sheep's; his features were thin, but so dry and unexpressive
that it was not difficult to guess the emptiness and foppishness of
the individual to whom they belonged; his voice was low, sugary, and
mawkishly polite.
He arrived early in the morning, with two portmanteaux in a hired
calash. First of all he inquired with a very concerned face,
complaining affectedly of fatigue, if a room had been prepared for him
in the Count's house. By my orders a small but very cosy and light
room had been assigned to him, where everything he might need,
beginning with a marble washstand, and ending with matches had been
arranged.
“I—I say, my good fellow! Bring me some hot water!” he began while
settling down in his room, and fastidiously sniffing the air; “Some
hot water, please, I say, young man!”
Before beginning work he washed, dressed, and arranged his hair for a
long time; he even brushed his teeth with some sort of red powder, and
occupied about three minutes in trimming his sharp, pink nails.
“Well, sir,” he said at last, settling down to work, and turning over
the leaves of our report. “What's it all about?”