“What are you doing?” he asked in a whisper. “Why do you want to ruin your niece? Why, she’s with him, with Nejdanov!”
“I am not ruining any one, my dear sir,” Sipiagin said loudly, “I am only doing what my conscience bids me do, and—”
“And what your wife, my sister, bids you do; you dare not stand up against her!” Markelov exclaimed just as loudly.
Sipiagin took no notice of the remark; it was too much beneath him!
“Listen,” Paklin continued, trembling all over with agitation, or may be from timidity; there was a malignant light in his eyes and the tears were nearly choking him—tears of pity for them and rage at himself; “listen, I told you she was married—it wasn’t true, I lied! but they must get married—and if you prevent it, if the police get there—there will be a stain on your conscience which you’ll never be able to wipe out—and you—”
“If what you have just told me be true,” Sipiagin interrupted him still more loudly, “then it can only hasten the measures which I think necessary to take in this matter; and as for the purity of my conscience, I beg you not to trouble about that, my dear sir.”
“It’s been polished,” Markelov put in again; “there is a coat of St. Petersburg varnish upon it; no amount of washing will make it come clean. You may whisper as much as you like, Mr. Paklin, but you won’t get anything out of it!”
At this point the governor considered it necessary to interfere.
“I think that you have said enough, gentlemen,” he began, “and I’ll ask you, my dear baron, to take Mr. Markelov away. N’est ce pas, Boris, you don’t want him any further—”
Sipiagin made a gesture with his hands.