“It will,” he whispered with profound conviction. “We’ve talked of it several times in Petersburg, in Lent, before we came away, when we were both afraid.⁠ ⁠… Elle me soupçonnera toute sa vie ⁠ ⁠… and how can I disabuse her? It won’t sound likely. And in this wretched town who’d believe it, c’est invraisemblable.⁠ ⁠… Et puis les femmes , she will be pleased. She will be genuinely grieved like a true friend, but secretly she will be pleased.⁠ ⁠… I shall give her a weapon against me for the rest of my life. Oh, it’s all over with me! Twenty years of such perfect happiness with her⁠ ⁠… and now!” He hid his face in his hands.

“Stepan Trofimovitch, oughtn’t you to let Varvara Petrovna know at once of what has happened?” I suggested.

“God preserve me!” he cried, shuddering and leaping up from his place. “On no account, never, after what was said at parting at Skvoreshniki⁠—never!”

His eyes flashed.