ere... where 'that's' done."

"But where is it done?"

"Eh, _cher,_" he whispered almost in my ear. "The floor suddenly gives
way under you, you drop half through.... Every one knows that."

"Legends!" I cried, guessing what he meant. "Old tales. Can you have
believed them till now?" I laughed.

"Tales! But there must be foundation for them; flogged men tell no
tales. I've imagined it ten thousand times."

"But you, why you? You've done nothing, you know."

"That makes it worse. They'll find out I've done nothing and flog me for
it."

"And you are sure that you'll be taken to Petersburg for that."

"My friend, I've told you already that I regret nothing, _ma carriere est
finie._ From that hour when she said good-bye to me at Skvoreshniki my
life has had no value for me... but disgrace, disgrace, _que dira-t-elle_
if she finds out?"

He looked at me in despair. And the poor fellow flushed all over. I
dropped my eyes too.

"She'll find out nothing, for nothing will happen to you. I feel as if I
were speaking to you for the first time in my life, Stepan Trofimovitch,
you've astonished me so this morning."

"But, my friend, this isn't fear. For even if I am pardoned, even if
I am brought here and nothing is done to me--then I am undone. _Elle me
soupconnera toute sa vie_--me, me, the poet, the thinker, the man whom
she has worshipped for twenty-two years!"

"It will never enter her head."

"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 soupconnera 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.

We went on sitting together another hour or more, I believe, expecting
something all the time--the idea had taken such hold o