“That is a lie,” cried Raisky, jumping up. “Tiet Nikonich would not have endured it.”
“A lie naturally—he did not endure it. He seized a garden knife that he found among the flowers, struck the Count to the ground, seized him by the throat, and would have killed him.”
Raisky’s face changed. “Well?” he urged.
“Tatiana Markovna restrained his hand. ‘You are’ she said, ‘a nobleman, not a bandit, your weapon is a sword.’ She succeeded in separating them, and a duel was not possible, for it would have compromised her. The opponents gave their word; the Count to keep silence over what had happened, and Tiet Nikonich not to marry Tatiana Markovna. That is why she remains unmarried. Is it not a shame to spread such calumnies?”
Raisky could no longer contain his agitation, but he said, “You see it is a lie. Who could possibly have seen and heard what passed.”
“The gardener, who was asleep in a corner, is said to have witnessed the whole scene. He was a serf, and fear ensured his silence, but he told his wife, the drunken widow who is now chattering about it. Of course it is nonsense, incredible nonsense. I am the first to cry that it is a lie, a lie. Our respected and saintly Tatiana Markovna!” Paulina Karpovna burst out laughing, but checked herself when she looked at Raisky.
“What is the matter? Allons donc, oubliez tout. Vive la joie! Do not frown. We will send for more wine,” she said, looking at him with her ridiculous, languishing air.
“No, no, I am afraid—” He broke off, fearing to betray himself, and concluded lamely, “It would not agree with me—I am not accustomed to wine.”
He rose from his seat, and his hostess followed his example.
“Good-bye, for ever,” he said.