“Don’t talk like that, please. It pains me so; but, tell me, do you wish me to avoid the duel, and send him an apology? Tell me.”
Shurochka did not reply at once. The clock again made its monotonous, metallic voice heard, and filled every corner of the dark room with its infernal din. At last Shurochka answered as softly as if she were talking to herself in thought, and with an expression in her voice which Romashov was not in a condition to interpret.
“I knew you would offer to do this.”
“I do not feel afraid,” he exclaimed in a stern but soft tone.
“No, no, no,” she said hastily in an eager, beseeching whisper. “You misunderstood me, you do not understand me. Come nearer to me. Come and sit as you did just now. Come!”
She threw both her arms round his neck, and whispered to him tender words, tickling his face with her soft hair, and flooding his cheeks with her hot breath.
“You quite misunderstood me. I meant something quite different, but I am ashamed to tell you all. You are so good, so pure-hearted. I, alas! am the opposite, and, therefore, it’s so difficult for me to mention it.”
“No, no. Tell me everything. I love you.”
“Listen to me,” she began, and Romashov guessed what she would say before she could utter the words. “If you refuse to fight with him, how much shame and persecution, how many sufferings will be your lot. No, no, this must not be done. Oh, my God, at this moment I will not lie to you, dear. I have already weighed everything carefully. Suppose you refuse the duel. In that case my husband will certainly be rehabilitated; but, you understand, after a duel that ends in reconciliation, there is always something left—how shall I put it?—something covered by a certain obscurity, and which, therefore, leaves room for malice and slander. Do you understand me now?” she added with melancholy tenderness, pressing, at the same time, a light kiss on his brow.
“Yes, but go on.”