had heard.  If this wretched little town suddenly fell into ruins or caught fire, the telegram with the news would be read in Russia with no more interest than an advertisement of the sale of second-hand furniture.  Whether he killed Von Koren next day or left him alive, it would be just the same, equally useless and uninteresting.  Better to shoot him in the leg or hand, wound him, then laugh at him, and let him, like an insect with a broken leg lost in the grass—­let him be lost with his obscure sufferings in the crowd of insignificant people like himself.

Laevsky went to Sheshkovsky, told him all about it, and asked him to be his second; then they both went to the superintendent of the postal telegraph department, and asked him, too, to be a second, and stayed to dinner with him.  At dinner there was a great deal of joking and laughing.  Laevsky made jests at his own expense, saying he hardly knew how to fire off a pistol, calling himself a royal archer and William Tell.

“We must give this gentleman a lesson . . .” he said.

After dinner they sat down to cards.  Laevsky played, drank wine, and thought that duelling was stupid and senseless, as it did not decide the question but only complicated it, but that it was sometimes impossible to get on without it.  In the given case, for instance, one could not, of course, bring an action against Von Koren.  And this duel was so far good in that it made it impossible for Laevsky to remain in the town afterwards.  He got a little drunk and interested in the game, and felt at ease.

But when the sun had set and it grew dark, he was possessed by a feeling of uneasiness.  It was not fear at the thought of death, because while he was dining and playing cards, he had for some reason a confident belief that the duel would end in nothing; it was dread at the thought of something unknown which was to happen next morning for the first time in his life, and dread of the coming night. . . .  He knew that the night would be long and sleepless, and that he would have to think not only of Von Koren and his hatred, but also of the mountain of lies which he had to get through, and which he had not strength or ability to dispense with.  It was as though he had been taken suddenly ill; all at once he lost all interest in the cards and in people, grew restless, and began asking them to let him go home.  He was eager to get into bed, to lie without moving, and to prepare his thoughts for the night.  Sheshkovsky and the postal superintendent saw him home and went on to Von Koren’s to arrange about the duel.

Near his lodgings Laevsky met Atchmianov.  The young man was breathless and excited.

“I am looking for you, Ivan Andreitch,” he said.  “I beg you to come quickly. . . .”

“Where?”

“Some one wants to see you, some one you don’t know, about very important business; he earnestly begs you to come for a minute.  He wants to speak to you of something. . . .  For him it’s a question of life and death. . . .”  In his excitement Atchmianov spoke in a strong Armenian accent.