“Damned noblemen,” wrapped himself more tightly in his cloak.
Pavel Petrovich was soon better; but he had to lie in bed for about a week.
He bore his captivity, as he called it, fairly patiently, though he took great trouble over his toilet and had everything scented with eau de Cologne.
Nikolai Petrovich read papers to him; Fenichka waited on him as before, brought him soup, lemonade, boiled eggs and tea; but a secret dread seized her every time she came into his room.
Pavel Petrovich’s unexpected action had alarmed everyone in the house, and her most of all; Prokovich was the only person not troubled by it, and he discoursed on how gentlemen used to fight in his day only with real gentlemen, but such low scoundrels they would have ordered to be horsewhipped in the stables for their insolence.
Fenichka’s conscience scarcely reproached her, but she was tormented at times by the thought of the real cause of the quarrel; and Pavel Petrovich, too, looked at her so strangely . . . so that even when her back was turned she felt his eyes fixed on her.
She grew thinner from constant inward agitation and, as it happened, became still more charming.
One day — the incident took place in the early morning — Pavel Petrovich felt better and moved from his bed to the sofa, while Nikolai Petrovich, having previously made inquiries about his brother’s health, went off to the threshing floor.
Fenichka brought him a cup of tea, and setting it down on a little table, was about to withdraw, Pavel Petrovich detained her.
“Where are you going in such a hurry, Fedosya Nikolayevna,” he began, “are you so busy?”
“No . . . yes, I have to pour out tea.”
“Dunyasha will do that without you; sit down for a little while with an invalid.
By the way, I must have a talk with you.”
Fenichka sat down on the edge of an armchair without speaking.
“Listen,” said Pavel Petrovich, pulling at his mustache, “I have wanted to ask you for a long time; you seem somehow afraid of me.”
“I . . .?”
“Yes, you.
You never look me in the face, as if your conscience were not clear.”
Fenichka blushed but looked up at Pavel Petrovich.
He seemed so strange to her and her heart began quietly throbbing.
“Surely you have a clear conscience?” he asked her.
“Why should it not be clear?” she whispered.
“Why indeed.
Besides, whom could you have wronged?
Me?
That is unlikely.
Any other people living in the house?
That is also a fantastic idea.
Could it be my brother?
But surely you love him?”
“I love him.”
“With your whole soul, with your whole heart?”
“I love Nikolai Petrovich with my whole heart.”
“Truly?
Look at me, Fenichka.” (He called her by that name for the first time.) . . .
“You know, it is a great sin to tell lies!”
“I am not lying, Pavel Petrovich.
If I did not love Nikolai Petrovich, there would be no point in my living any longer.”
“And you will never give him up for anyone else?”
“For whom else could I give him up?”
“For whom indeed!
Well, what about that gentleman who has just gone away from here?”
Fenichka got up.
“My God, Pavel Petrovich, why are you torturing me?
What have I done to you?
How can you say such things?”
“Fenichka,” said Pavel Petrovich in a sad voice, “you know I saw . . .”
“What did you see?”
“Well, there . . . in the summerhouse.”
Fenichka blushed to the roots of her hair and to her ears.