"What is this?" he cried in agitated accents. "Evgenii Vasilitch, I beg of you to tell me what has happened."
"Nothing has happened," replied Paul Petrovitch in Bazarov's stead. "You are disturbing yourself to no purpose. I had a small quarrel with Monsieur Bazarov, and have paid a penalty as small."
"But whence did it arise? For God's sake tell me!"
"What is there to say? It arose from the fact that Monsieur Bazarov spoke in disrespectful terms of Sir Robert Peel. I would hasten to add that, throughout, I alone was at fault, and that Monsieur Bazarov bore himself admirably—I being the challenger."
"But look at the blood!"
"Pshaw! Did you suppose my veins to run with water? As a matter of fact, the blood-letting will do me good. Is not that so, doctor? Help me to mount the drozhki, and away with melancholy! By to-morrow I shall be recovered. Splendid! That is the way to do it. Right away, coachman!"
When on the point of starting homewards in the wake of the drozhki, Nikolai Petrovitch perceived Bazarov to be for remaining behind.
"Evgenii Vasilitch," he said, "I would beg of you to attend my brother until a doctor can be procured from the town."
Bazarov nodded in silence.
An hour later Paul Petrovitch was reposing in bed with his leg neatly and artistically bandaged. The whole house was in a turmoil, Thenichka greatly upset, and Nikolai able to do nothing but wring his hands. The sick man, on the contrary, laughed and jested, especially with Bazarov, and, to meet the occasion, had donned a fine linen shirt, an elegant morning jacket, and a Turkish fez. Lastly, he forbade any one to close the shutters, and kept venting humorous protests against the necessity of abstaining from food.