I spent the evening as usual at the Commandant’s house. I endeavoured to appear gay and indifferent, so as not to excite suspicion, and in order to avoid importunate questions; but I confess that I had not that cool assurance which those who find themselves in my position nearly always boast about. That evening I was disposed to be tender and sentimental. Maria Ivanovna pleased me more than usual. The thought that perhaps I was looking at her for the last time, imparted to her in my eyes something touching. Shvabrin likewise put in an appearance. I took him aside and informed him of my interview with Ivan Ignatitch.
“What do we want seconds for?” said he, drily; “we can do without them.”
We agreed to fight behind the hayricks which stood near the fortress, and to appear on the ground at seven o’clock the next morning.
We conversed together in such an apparently amicable manner that Ivan Ignatitch was nearly betraying us in the excess of his joy.
“You should have done that long ago,” he said to me, with a look of satisfaction; “a bad reconciliation is better than a good quarrel.”
“What’s that, what’s that, Ivan Ignatitch?” said the Commandant’s wife, who was playing at cards in a corner. “I did not hear what you said.”
Ivan Ignatitch, perceiving signs of dissatisfaction upon my face, and remembering his promise, became confused, and knew not what reply to make. Shvabrin hastened to his assistance.
“Ivan Ignatitch,” said he, “approves of our reconciliation.”
“And with whom have you been quarrelling, my little father?”
“Peter Andreitch and I have had rather a serious fall out.”