The letter was in Prilukoff's handwriting, but was signed “Ivan Troubetzkoi.” The prince (whom I scarcely remembered, and whom I had not seen for more than six years) begged me to marry him, and as proof of his devotion offered to make a will in my favor and, in addition, to insure his life for half a million francs.
Paul Kamarowsky was aghast.
“Is everybody trying to steal you away from me, Mura?” he exclaimed brokenly; then he sat down on the sofa with his head in his hands. I gazed at him, feeling as if I should die with sorrow and remorse.
For a long time he did not speak. Then he drew me to him.
“Dear one, do not heed the offers of other people. No one, whether he be prince or moujik, can love you more than I do. No one will do more for you than I am willing to do. I, also, am ready to make a will in your favor; I, also, will insure my life for half a million francs.”
“No, no,” I cried, crushed with misery and shame.
“Oh, yes, I will. It shall be done immediately. To-day.”
And it was done.