The idea may have been mine. I feared that I could not rely upon the languid, listless Prilukoff. Yes; it must have been I who devised this method of propitiating the avenging Fates, and averting from us the imminent Nemesis.
“A good idea,” said Prilukoff wearily. “Let Naumoff do it.” And he lighted a cigarette.
I gazed at him, aquiver with superstitious dread. “Do you think that then Naumoff need not die? Do you think that”—I hesitated—“that will be enough?...”
Prilukoff turned and looked at me as if aghast. Then he nodded his head and the fearful, crooked smile distorted his countenance.
“Yes,” he said. “I think that will be enough.”
XXXVIII
To what end should I narrate anew the terrible story which is known to all? Must I dip again into the soilure and abomination of that awful time? How dare I tell of the luring telegrams sent to the distant Naumoff, my guileless and impassioned lover, and of the joy and gratitude with which he hastened to me? How describe the slow, insidious poisoning of his mind against Kamarowsky, the hatred subtly instilled in him against that unconscious, kindly man? And the lies, the slanders, the ambiguous disclosures of pretended outrages inflicted upon me, of insults and injuries I feigned to have suffered at Kamarowsky's hands?...
Naumoff believed it all. His astonishment and indignation knew no bounds. What? Kamarowsky, whom he had always thought the most chivalrous and considerate of men, was a despicable, worthless coward? Well, Naumoff would challenge him; he would fight a duel to the death with him who had been his best friend.
But not that, not that was what I wanted.