"My God, O God!... You will drive me mad... What do you mean to say? Explain yourself, for God's sake!"
Vasíly bent over him and whispered something in his ear.
Rogatchyóff cried out:—"What?.... how?"
Vasíly stamped his foot.
"Olga Ivánovna? Olga?..."
"Yes .... your betrothed bride...."
"My betrothed bride .... Vasíly Ivánovitch .... she .... she .... But I will have nothing to do with her!"—shouted Pável Afanásievitch. "I 'll have none of her! What do you take me for? To deceive me—to deceive me!... Olga Ivánovna, is n't it sinful of you, are n't you ashamed?...." (Tears gushed from his eyes.)—"I thank you, Vasíly Ivánovitch, I thank you.... And now I 'll have nothing to do with her! I won't! I won't! don't speak of such a thing!.... Akh, good heavens!—that I should have lived to see this day! But it is well, it is well!"
"Stop behaving like a baby,"—remarked Vasíly Ivánovitch, coldly.—"Remember, you have given me your word that the wedding shall take place to-morrow."
"No, that shall not be! Enough, Vasíly Ivánovitch, I say to you once more—for whom do you take me? You do me much honour; many thanks, sir. Excuse me, sir."
"As you like!"—retorted Vasíly.—"Get your sword."