“One does not hear much of Peter Ivanovitch now,” I remarked, after a pause.
“Peter Ivanovitch,” said Sophia Antonovna gravely, “has united himself to a peasant girl.”
I was truly astonished.
“What! On the Riviera?”
“What nonsense! Of course not.”
Sophia Antonovna’s tone was slightly tart.
“Is he, then, living actually in Russia? It’s a tremendous risk—isn’t it?” I cried. “And all for the sake of a peasant girl. Don’t you think it’s very wrong of him?”
Sophia Antonovna preserved a mysterious silence for a while, then made a statement. “He just simply adores her.”
“Does he? Well, then, I hope that she won’t hesitate to beat him.”
Sophia Antonovna got up and wished me good-bye, as though she had not heard a word of my impious hope; but, in the very doorway, where I attended her, she turned round for an instant, and declared in a firm voice—