After dinner the party bade farewell to Velchaninoff, and returned to their carriage, while the latter walked up and down the platform smoking his cigar; he knew that Pavel Pavlovitch would return to talk to him.
So it turned out. Pavel came up with an expression of the most anxious and harassed misery. Velchaninoff smiled, took his arm, led him to a seat, and sat down beside him. He did not say anything, for he was anxious that Pavel should make the first move.
“So you are coming to us?” murmured the latter at last, plunging in medias res.
“I knew you’d begin like that! you haven’t changed an atom!” cried Velchaninoff, roaring with laughter, and slapping him confidentially on the back. “Surely, you don’t really suppose that I ever had the smallest intention of visiting you—and staying a month too!”
Pavel Pavlovitch gave a start.
“Then you’re not coming?” he cried, without an attempt to hide his joy.
“No, no! of course not!” replied Velchaninoff, laughing. He did not know why, but all this was exquisitely droll to him; and the further it went the funnier it seemed.
“Really—are you really serious?” cried Pavel, jumping up.
“Yes; I tell you, I won’t come—not for the world!”
“But what will my wife say now? She thinks you intend to come!”
“Oh, tell her I’ve broken my leg—or anything you like!”
“She won’t believe!” said Pavel, looking anxious.
“Ha-ha-ha! You catch it at home, I see! Tell me, who is that young officer?”
“Oh, a distant relative of mine—an unfortunate young fellow——”
“Pavel Pavlovitch!” cried a voice from the carriage, “the second bell has rung!”
Pavel was about to move off—Velchaninoff stopped him.
“Shall I go and tell your wife how you tried to cut my throat?” he said.
“What are you thinking of—God forbid!” cried Pavel, in a terrible fright.
“Well, go along, then!” said the other, loosing his hold of Pavel’s shoulder.
“Then—then—you won’t come, will you?” said Pavel once more, timidly and despairingly, and clasping his hands in entreaty.
“No—I won’t—I swear!—run away—you’ll be late!” He put out his hand mechanically, then recollected himself, and shuddered. Pavel did not take the proffered hand, he withdrew his own.
The third bell rang.
In one instant something strange happened to both of them: both seemed transformed. Something, as it were, quivered and burst out in Velchaninov, who had been laughing only just before. He clutched Pavel Pavlovitch by the shoulder and held him in a tight and furious grip.
“If I—I hold out this hand to you,” showing the palm of his left hand, where a big scar from the cut was still distinct, “you certainly might take it!” he whispered, with pale and trembling lips.
Pavel Pavlovitch, too, turned pale, and his lips trembled too; a convulsive quiver ran over his face.
“And Liza?” he murmured in a rapid whisper, and suddenly his lips, his cheeks and his chin began to twitch and tears gushed from his eyes. Velchaninov stood before him stupefied.
“Pavel Pavlovitch! Pavel Pavlovitch!” they heard a scream from the train as though someone were being murdered—and suddenly the whistle sounded.
Pavel Pavlovitch roused himself, flung up his hands and ran full speed to the train; the train was already in motion, but he managed to hang on somehow, and went fiying to his compartment. Velchaninov remained at the station and only in the evening set off on his original route in another train. He did not turn off to the right to see his fair friend—he felt too much out of humour. And how he regretted it afterwards!
THE END.
