“Let us see,” said he, “if you will be able to keep your word; poets have as much need of an audience as Ivan Kouzmitch has need of his ‘petit verre’ before dinner.  And who is this Masha to whom you declare your tender sentiments and your ardent flame?  Surely it must be Marya Ivanofna?”

“That does not concern you,” replied I, frowning; “I don’t ask for your advice nor your suppositions.”

“Oh! oh! a vain poet and a discreet lover,” continued Chvabrine, irritating me more and more.  “Listen to a little friendly advice:  if you wish to succeed, I advise you not to stick at songs.”

“What do you mean, sir?” I exclaimed; “explain yourself if you please.”

“With pleasure,” rejoined he.  “I mean that if you want to be well with Masha Mironoff, you need only make her a present of a pair of earrings instead of your languishing verses.”

My blood boiled.

“Why have you such an opinion of her?” I asked him, restraining with difficulty my indignation.

“Because,” replied he, with a satanic smile, “because I know by experience her views and habits.”

“You lie, you rascal!” I shouted at him, in fury.  “You are a shameless liar.”

Chvabrine’s face changed.

“This I cannot overlook,” he said; “you shall give me satisfaction.”

“Certainly, whenever you like,” replied I, joyfully; for at that moment I was ready to tear him in pieces.

I rushed at once to Iwan Ignatiitch, whom I found with a needle in his hand.  In obedience to the order of the Commandant’s wife, he was threading mushrooms to be dried for the winter.

“Ah!  Petr’ Andrejitch,” said he, when he saw me; “you are welcome.  On what errand does heaven send you, if I may presume to ask?”

I told him in a few words that I had quarrelled with Alexey Ivanytch, and that I begged him, Iwan Ignatiitch, to be my second.  Iwan Ignatiitch heard me till I had done with great attention, opening wide his single eye.

“You deign to tell me,” said he, “that you wish to kill Alexey Ivanytch, and that I am to be witness?  Is not that what you mean, if I may presume to ask you?”

“Exactly.”

“But, good heavens, Petr’ Andrejitch, what folly have you got in your head?  You and Alexey Ivanytch have insulted one another; well, a fine affair!  You needn’t wear an insult hung round your neck.  He has said silly things to you, give him some impertinence; he in return will give you a blow, give him in return a box on the ear; he another, you another, and then you part.  And presently we oblige you to make peace.  Whereas now—­is it a good thing to kill your neighbour, if I may presume to ask you?  Even if it were you who should kill him!  May heaven be with him, for I do not love him.  But if it be he who is to run you through, you will have made a nice business of it.  Who will pay for the broken pots, allow me to ask?”