The whole thing happened unexpectedly and accidentally, when we were both the worse for liquor.”
“Heh, heh, heh, we have already heard about the insobriety,” Captain Peterson chimed in; “but I will ask you once more, had not an unfriendly meeting already taken place between you and Lieutenant Nikolaiev?
I do not for an instant suggest that you had quarrelled or come to blows, but quite simply that—how shall I put it?—you were a little at variance in your views of certain scandalous reports and intrigues?”
“President, am I bound to reply to all questions that are put to me?” exclaimed Romashov.
“That rests entirely with you,” replied Migunov coldly.
“You can, if you wish, absolutely refuse to answer. You can also commit your answer to writing.
That is your privilege.”
“In such case I hereby declare that I will not answer any of Captain Peterson’s questions, and that not only in my interest but in his.”
After Romashov had answered a few questions of minor importance the examination was declared closed.
Nevertheless, he had on two occasions to give the court supplementary information, first in the evening of the same day, and then again on the day following, viz., Thursday morning.
However careless and inexperienced Romashov might be in all the practical circumstances of life, he nevertheless saw soon enough that the court was performing its functions in the most negligent and indiscreet way, and had therefore been guilty, not only of a revolting lack of tact, but also of utter illegality.
In defiance of Section 149 of the “Statute concerning Discipline,” by which every communication to unauthorized persons of what takes place at such examinations is in plain language strictly forbidden, the members of the “Court of Honour” did not scruple to relate everything straight off to their wives and relations. The latter spread the scandal still further among the other ladies of “Society,” who in their turn discussed the matter with their maidservants, charwomen, etc.
Before twenty-four hours had elapsed Romashov was the talk of the entire town and “hero of the day.”
When he passed along the street he was gazed at from windows and doors, between the hedge-posts of backyards, and from the vantage of garden-bushes and arbours.
Women from a good distance off pointed at him with their finger, and he often heard his name whispered behind his back.
Nobody in the town doubted that a duel between him and Nikolaiev was inevitable—nay, they even began to bet about the upshot of it.
As Romashov was passing Lykatschev’s house on Thursday morning he suddenly heard his name shouted.
“Yuri Alexievich, Yuri Alexievich, come here.”
Romashov stopped, and soon discovered Katya Lykatschev standing on a bench inside the fence.
She was still in morning dress, which chiefly consisted of a kimono, the triangular arrangement of which in front left the delicate virginal neck wholly exposed.
And she was altogether so fresh and rosy that for an instant Romashov even felt light at heart.
Katya leant over the fence to enable Romashov to reach her hand, which was still cool and moist from the morning bath.
She began at once to chatter and lisp at her usual pace:
“Where have you been all this time?
You ought to be ashamed of yourself, forgetting your friends in that way!
Zoi, zoi, zoi—hush! I have long known everything, everything.”
She stared at Romashov with great terror-stricken eyes.
“Take this and hang it round your throat. Hear and obey at once. Look, if you please.”
From the fold of her kimono, straight from her bosom, she drew out an amulet that hung by a silk cord, and shyly put it into Romashov’s hand.
The amulet still felt balmy from its nest against the young woman’s warm body.
“Will it help?” asked Romashov, in a jesting tone.
“What is it?”
“That’s a secret, and don’t you dare to laugh, you ungodly creature.
Zoi, zoi!”
“Hang it, if I’m not beginning to be a man of note,” thought Romashov, as he said good-bye to Katya. “Splendid girl!”
But he could not prevent himself, though it might be for the last time, from thinking of himself in the third person:
“And over the old warrior’s rugged features stole a melancholy smile.”
On that same evening he and Nikolaiev were again summoned to the Court.
The two enemies stood before the green table almost side by side.
They did not once look at each other, but they equally felt each other’s high-strung emotion, and were, in consequence, still more excited.
Their eyes were fixed, as though by magnetism, on the president’s face when he at last began to read the verdict of the Court.
“The members of the Officers’ Court of Honour of the—th Regiment” (here followed their Christian and surnames in full), “under the presidency of Lieutenant-Colonel Migunov, have inquired into the matter of the fight, in the mess, between Lieutenant Nikolaiev and Sub-lieutenant Romashov, and the Court, by reason of the serious nature of the case, finds a duel is necessary to satisfy the wounded honour of the regiment.
This decree of the Court is ratified by the commander of the regiment.”
Lieutenant-Colonel Migunov took off his spectacles, and replaced them in their case.
“It is incumbent on you, gentlemen,” he went on to say in a sepulchral voice, “to choose two seconds apiece, who are to meet here at 9 p.m. to agree as to the conditions of the duel.
Moreover,” added Migunov, as he got up and put his spectaclecase in his back-pocket, “moreover, I must tell you that the verdict just read possesses only a conditionally binding force on you, viz. it rests in your free discretion either to submit to the decree of the Court or”—Migunov paused and made a gesture by which he meant to express his absolute indifference—“leave the regiment.
You ought, gentlemen, to keep apart. However, one thing more.
Not in my capacity as president of the Court, but as an old comrade, I must advise you, gentlemen, for the avoidance of further unpleasantness and complications prior to the duel, not to visit the mess.
Au revoir.”
Nikolaiev made a sharp, military “Face-about,” and walked with rapid steps out of the room.