Pavel Pavlovitch sat on the pavement and stared, he was too far gone to take in the news. At last he seemed to realize.
“Dead!” he whispered, in a strange inexplicable tone. Velchaninoff was not sure whether his face was simply twitching, or whether he was trying to grin in his usual disagreeable way; but the next moment the drunkard raised his shaking hand to cross himself. He then struggled to his feet and staggered off, appearing totally oblivious of the fact that such a person as Velchaninoff existed.
However, the latter very soon pursued and caught him, seizing him once more by the shoulder.
“Do you understand, you drunken sot, that without you the funeral arrangements cannot be made?” he shouted, panting with rage.
Pavel Pavlovitch turned his head.
“The artillery—lieutenant—don't you remember him?” he muttered, thickly.
“What?” cried Velchaninoff, with a shudder.
“He's her father—find him! he'll bury her!”
“You liar! You said that out of pure malice. I thought you'd invent something of the sort!”
Quite beside himself with passion Velchaninoff brought down his powerful fist with all his strength on Pavel Pavlovitch's head; another moment and he might have followed up the blow and slain the man as he stood. His victim never winced, but he turned upon Velchaninoff a face of such insane terrible passion, that his whole visage looked distorted.