“You manage your composure too awkwardly. I see you wish to insult me,” he cried to Gania. “You—you are a cur!” He looked at Gania with an expression of malice.
“What on earth is the matter with the boy? What phenomenal feeble-mindedness!” exclaimed Ferdishenko.
“Oh, he’s simply a fool,” said Gania.
Hippolyte braced himself up a little.
“I understand, gentlemen,” he began, trembling as before, and stumbling over every word, “that I have deserved your resentment, and—and am sorry that I should have troubled you with this raving nonsense” (pointing to his article), “or rather, I am sorry that I have not troubled you enough.” He smiled feebly. “Have I troubled you, Evgenie Pavlovitch?” He suddenly turned on Evgenie with this question. “Tell me now, have I troubled you or not?”
“Well, it was a little drawn out, perhaps; but—”
“Come, speak out! Don’t lie, for once in your life—speak out!” continued Hippolyte, quivering with agitation.
“Oh, my good sir, I assure you it’s entirely the same to me. Please leave me in peace,” said Evgenie, angrily, turning his back on him.
“Good-night, prince,” said Ptitsin, approaching his host.
“What are you thinking of? Don’t go, he’ll blow his brains out in a minute!” cried Vera Lebedeff, rushing up to Hippolyte and catching hold of his hands in a torment of alarm. “What are you thinking of? He said he would blow his brains out at sunrise.”