“The devil knows what this means!”—exclaimed Vladímir Sergyéitch, after a brief pause, banging his fist into the pillow;—“no one ever heard the like!... this must be cleared up! I won’t tolerate this!”
Nevertheless, five minutes later he was already sleeping softly and profoundly.... Danger escaped fills the soul of man with sweetness, and softens it.
This is what had taken place before that unanticipated nocturnal interview between Véretyeff and Vladímir Sergyéitch.
In Gavríla Stepánitch’s house lived his grand-nephew, who occupied bachelor quarters in the lower story. When there were balls on hand, the young men dropped in at his rooms between the dances, to smoke a hasty pipe, and after supper they assembled there for a friendly drinking-bout. A good many of the guests had dropped in on him that night. Steltchínsky and Véretyeff were among the number; Iván Ílitch, The Folding Soul, also wandered in there in the wake of the others. They brewed a punch. Although Iván Ílitch had promised Astákhoff that he would not mention the impending duel to any one whomsoever, yet, when Véretyeff accidentally asked him what he had been talking about with that glum fellow (Véretyeff never alluded to Astákhoff otherwise), The Folding Soul could not contain himself, and repeated his entire conversation with Vladímir Sergyéitch, word for word.
Véretyeff burst out laughing, then lapsed into meditation.
“But with whom is he going to fight?”—he asked.
“That’s what I cannot say,”—returned Iván Ílitch.
“At all events, with whom has he been talking?”
“With different people.... With Egór Kapítonitch. It cannot be that he is going to fight with him?’
Véretyeff went away from Iván Ílitch.