The conductor screwed up his eyes in a fatherly expression, and went out. But the pedagogue went on, unconsoled:
“No one speaks to you. No one was interfering with you. Good Lord! a decent-looking man too, in a hat and a collar, clearly one of the intelligentia. ... A peasant now, or a workman ... but no, an intelligent!”
Intel-li-gent! The executioner had named me executioner! It was ended.... He had pronounced his own sentence.
I took out of the pocket of my overcoat a revolver, examined the charge, pointed it at the pedagogue between the eyes, and said calmly:
“Say your prayers.”
He turned pale and shrieked:
“Guard-d-d!...”
That was his last word. I pulled the trigger.
I have finished, gentlemen. I repeat: I do not repent. There is no sorrow for him in my soul. One desolating doubt remains, however, and it will haunt me to the end of my days, should I finish them in prison or in an asylum.
He has a son left! What if he takes on his father’s nature?