Nikolai Artemyevitch’s eyes were starting out of his head.
‘Your——’
‘My husband,’ repeated Elena; ‘I am married to Dmitri Nikanorovitch Insarov.’
‘You?—married?’—was all Anna Vassilyevna could articulate.
‘Yes, mamma.... Forgive me. A fortnight ago, we were secretly married.’
Anna Vassilyevna fell back in her chair; Nikolai Artemyevitch stepped two paces back.
‘Married! To that vagrant, that Montenegrin! the daughter of Nikolai Stahov of the higher nobility married to a vagrant, a nobody, without her parents’ sanction! And you imagine I shall let the matter rest, that I shall not make a complaint, that I will allow you—that you—that——To the nunnery with you, and he shall go to prison, to hard labour! Anna Vassilyevna, inform her at once that you will cut off her inheritance!’
‘Nikolai Artemyevitch, for God’s sake,’ moaned Anna Vassilyevna.
‘And when and how was this done? Who married you? where? how? Good God! what will all our friends think, what will the world say! And you, shameless hypocrite, could go on living under your parents’ roof after such an act! Had you no fear of—the wrath of heaven?’
‘Papa’ said Elena (she was trembling from head to foot but her voice was steady), ‘you are at liberty to do with me as you please, but you need not accuse me of shamelessness, and hypocrisy. I did not want—to give you pain before, but I should have had to tell you all myself in a few days, because we are going away—my husband and I—from here next week.’