“Where can they be sent?” said Vasíli, disapprovingly and ironically as it seemed to Eugène.
“Well, I thought of giving them money, or even some land in Koltóvski—so that she should not be here.”
“But how can they be sent away? Where is he to go—torn up from his roots? And why should you do it? What harm can she do you?”
“Ah, Vasíli Nikoláich, you must understand that it would be dreadful for my wife to hear of it.”
“But who will tell her?”
“How can I live with this dread? The whole thing is vary painful for me.”
“But really, why should you distress yourself? Whoever stirs up the past—out with his eye! Who is not a sinner before God and to blame before the Tsar, as the saying is?”
“All the same it would be better to get rid of them. Can’t you speak to the husband?”
“But it is no use speaking! Eh, Eugène Ivánich, what is the matter with you? It is all past and forgotten. All sorts of things happen. Who is there that would now say anything bad of you? Everybody sees you.”
“But all the same go and have a talk with him.”
“All right, I will speak to him.”
Though he knew that nothing would come of it, this talk somewhat calmed Eugène. Above all, it made him feel that through excitement he had been exaggerating the danger.
Had he gone to meet her by appointment? It was impossible. He had simply gone to stroll in the garden and she had happened to run out at