“My own, don’t! ... My precious, don’t! ...”
“It’s impossible,” answered Dilectorsky sombrely. “The cursed money! ... Which is dearer—honour or life?!”
“My dear...”
“Don’t speak, don’t speak, Annetta!” (He, for some reason, preferred to the common name of Verka the aristocratic Annetta, thought up by himself.) “Don’t speak. This is decided!”
“Oh, if only I could help you!” exclaimed Verka woefully. “Why, I’d give my life away ... Every drop of blood! ...”
“What is life?” Dilectorsky shook his head with an actor’s despondence. “Farewell, Annetta! ... Farewell! ...”
The girl desperately began to shake her head:
“I don’t want it! ... I don’t want it! ... I don’t want it! ... Take me! ... I’ll go with you too! ...”
Late in the evening Dilectorsky took a room in an expensive hotel. He knew, that within a few hours, perhaps minutes, he and Verka would be corpses; and for that reason, although he had in his pocket only eleven kopecks, all in all, he gave orders sweepingly, like a habitual, downright prodigal; he ordered sturgeon stew, double snipes, and fruits; and, in addition to all this, coffee, liqueurs and two bottles of frosted champagne. And he was in reality convinced that he would shoot himself; but thought of it somehow affectedly, as though admiring, a trifle from the side, his tragic role; and enjoying beforehand the despair of his relatives and the amazement of his fellow clerks. While Verka, when she had suddenly said that she would commit suicide with her beloved, had been immediately strengthened in this thought. And there was nothing fearful to Verka in this impending death. “Well, now, is it better to croak just so, under a fence? But here it’s together with your dearie! At least a sweet death! ...” And she frantically kissed her clerk, laughed, and with dishevelled, curly hair, with sparkling eyes, was prettier than she had ever been.
The final triumphal moment arrived at last.