Here Murin resumed the stroking of his beard. Ordynov felt anything but comfortable.

“Yes, yes,” put in Yaroslav. “ ’Tis as I told you. Monsieur Murin has bad health: c’est le malheur——Excuse me, but sometimes I try to express myself in French, and am not over-good at it. That is to say——”

“Yes?”

“That is to say—er—well, yes.”

Ordynov and Yaroslav Ilyitch bowed to one another without rising; after which they sought to cover their awkwardness with a burst of laughter. The naturally grave Yaroslav was the first to recover himself.

“On hearing of this I asked our good friend here for details,” he went on. “He told me that his—er—lady——” Yaroslav Ilyitch looked interrogatively at Murin (probably to conceal his embarrassment).

“Yes; my ward,” assented Murin.

The delicate Yaroslav skated lightly over the point.

“Yes, your ward—that is to say, your elderly ward—has been ill. So,” he turned to Ordynov, “Monsieur Murin informs me that this lady and himself disturb you in your work. . . . Vassilii Michaelovitch, you have concealed from me a very important circumstance.”

“What is that?”

“The incident of the revolver.”

Yaroslav Ilyitch spoke these last words softly, as though he would permit ever so small a shade of reproach to enter into the tone of his affectionate tenor voice.

“However,” he went on with resumed vivacity, “I know the whole story, for Monsieur Murin has told it me from beginning to end. You have acted nobly, Vassilii Michaelovitch! What a fine thing is forgiveness! I tell you that this morning, when relating the story, Monsieur Murin had tears in his eyes!”

Yaroslav reddened anew, and his eyes shone as he fidgeted on his chair.

“Ah, sir! Ah, your nobility!” put in Murin. “How I—how we (myself and my ward)—will ever pray to heaven for you both!”

Yaroslav Ilyitch could only struggle with unwonted emotion as he sat gazing fixedly at the speaker.

“You yourself know,” Murin continued to Ordynov, “that my ward is but a sickly, as well as an untaught, maiden. And, for myself, I can scarcely hold myself upright.”

“I quite agree,” interrupted Ordynov with impatience. “Say no more on the point, I beg of you. Let us close the matter this very day—yes, this very moment, if you wish.”

“No, no! That is to say, we are quite content to keep you, sir.” Here Murin bowed low again. “It was not on that point that I wished to speak to you, but on another one altogether. You must know that she is a sort of a relation of mine—a fifth cousin, or thereabouts, I am told. Do not misunderstand me, sir. We are plain people. From infancy she has been as you have seen her—that is to say, a little wrong in her head. She was born in the wilds, and brought up with burlaki.¹⁰ In fact, she is only a peasant’s daughter. One day her parents’ house was burnt to the ground, and her father and mother perished in the flames. All this I tell you for the reason that she herself may have told you a different tale (though, as a rule, I let her say whatever she pleases). Well, a good while ago she underwent examination by a medical board at Moscow; and, to put things shortly, she was pronounced a little wanting. I give her house-room, and we live, and pray to God, and repose all our trust in the Supreme Goodness. Never in anything do I seek to cross her.”