“Here, here she is, then. I’ve not eaten her. You thought I’d eaten her.”
Stepan Trofimovitch clutched Varvara Petrovna’s hand, raised it to his eyes, and burst into tears, sobbing violently and convulsively.
“There, calm yourself, there, there, my dear, there, poor dear man! Ach, mercy on us! Calm yourself, will you?” she shouted frantically. “Oh, you bane of my life!”
“My dear,” Stepan Trofimovitch murmured at last, addressing Sofya Matveyevna, “stay out there, my dear, I want to say something here.…”
Sofya Matveyevna hurried out at once.
“Chérie … chérie …” he gasped.
“Don’t talk for a bit, Stepan Trofimovitch, wait a little till you’ve rested. Here’s some water. Do wait, will you!”
She sat down on the chair again. Stepan Trofimovitch held her hand tight. For a long while she would not allow him to speak. He raised her hand to his lips and fell to kissing it. She set her teeth and looked away into the corner of the room.
“Je vous aimais,” broke from him at last. She had never heard such words from him, uttered in such a voice.
“H’m!” she growled in response.