“Do as you like,” said Ignatius, “but what’s the use of having me as a witness? People fight—that’s nothing extraordinary—I have often been quite close to Swedes and Turks, and people of all shades of color.”
I tried to explain to him the duties of a second; Ignatius would not, or could not understand me. “Follow your own fashion,” said he, “if I were to meddle in this affair, it would be to announce to Ivan Mironoff, according to rule, that a plot is being made in the fortress for the commission of a criminal action—one contrary to the interests of the crown.”
I was alarmed, and begged Ignatius to say nothing to the Commandant. He gave me his word that he would be silent, and I left him in peace. As usual I passed the evening at the Commandant’s, forcing myself to be calm and gay, in order not to awaken suspicions and to avoid questioning. I confess that I had not the coolness of which people boast who have been in a similar position. I was disposed to tenderness. Marie Mironoff seemed more attractive than ever. The idea that perhaps I saw her for the last time, gave her a touching grace.
Alexis entered. I took him aside and told him of my conversation with Ignatius.
“What’s the good of seconds,” said he, dryly. “We can do without them.”
We agreed to fight behind the haystack the next morning at six o’clock.
Seeing us talking amicably, Ignatius, full of joy, nearly betrayed us. “You should have done that long ago, for a bad peace is better than a good quarrel.”
“What! what! Ignatius,” said the Captain’s wife, who was playing patience in a corner, “I do not quite understand?”
Ignatius, seeing my displeasure, remembered his promise, became confused and knew not what to answer. Alexis came to his relief: “He approves of peace.”
“With whom had you quarreled?” said she.