As usual I passed the evening at the Commandant's. I tried to appear
lively and unconcerned in order not to awaken any suspicions, and avoid
any too curious questions. But I confess I had none of the coolness of
which people boast who have found themselves in the same position. All
that evening I felt inclined to be soft-hearted and sentimental.

Marya Ivánofna pleased me more than usual. The thought that perhaps I
was seeing her for the last time gave her, in my eyes, a touching grace.

Chvabrine came in. I took him aside and told him about my interview with
Iwán Ignatiitch.

"Why any seconds?" he said to me, dryly. "We shall do very well without
them."

We decided to fight on the morrow behind the haystacks, at six o'clock
in the morning.

Seeing us talking in such a friendly manner, Iwán Ignatiitch, full of
joy, nearly betrayed us.

"You should have done that long ago," he said to me, with a face of
satisfaction. "Better a hollow peace than an open quarrel."

"What is that you say, Iwán Ignatiitch?" said the Commandant's wife, who
was playing patience in a corner. "I did not exactly catch what you
said."

Iwán Ignatiitch, who saw my face darken, recollected his promise, became
confused, and did not know what to say. Chvabrine came to the rescue.