The Count not only killed two hares, but more! He killed them, but he did not get their skins and their flesh.
I saw him secretly press Olga's hand, who received him each time with a friendly smile and looked after him with a contemptuous grimace. Once, evidently wishing to show that there were no secrets between us, he even kissed her hand in my presence.
“What a blockhead!” she whispered into my ear, and wiped her hand.
“I say, Olga,” I asked, when the Count had gone away, “I think there is something you want to tell me. What is it?”
I looked searchingly into her face. She blushed scarlet and began to blink in a frightened manner, like a cat who has been caught stealing.
“Olga,” I said sternly, “you must tell me! I demand it!”
“Yes, there is something I want to tell you,” she whispered. “I love you—I can't live without you—but … my darling, don't come to see me any more. Don't love me any more, and don't call me Olia. It can't go on.… It's impossible.… And don't let anybody see that you love me.”
“But why is this?”
“I want it. The reasons you need not know, and I won't tell you. Go.… Leave me!”
I did not leave her, and she herself was obliged to bring our conversation to an end. Taking the arm of her husband, who was passing us at that moment, she nodded to me with a hypocritical smile, and went away.