"You find fault with your son for lying, and yet you yourself have, in
his presence, told a whopping lie. You said this seat was occupied by a
gentleman. Where is that gentleman? Show him to me."
The pedagogue went purple, and his eyes dilated.
"I beg you, don't interfere with people who don't interfere with you.
Mind your own business. How scandalous! Conductor, please warn this
passenger that he will not be allowed to interfere with other people in
the railway carriage. Please take measures, or I'll report the matter
to the gendarme, and write in the complaint book."
The conductor screwed up his eyes in a fatherly expression, and went
out. But the pedagogue went on, unconsoled:
"No one speaks to you. No one was interfering with you. Good Lord!
a decent-looking man too, in a hat and a collar, clearly one of the
_intelligentia._ ... A peasant now, or a workman ... but no, an
intelligent!"
Intel-li-gent! The executioner had named me executioner! It was
ended.... He had pronounced his own sentence.
I took out of the pocket of my overcoat a revolver, examined the
charge, pointed it at the pedagogue between the eyes, and said calmly:
"Say your prayers."
He turned pale and shrieked:
"Guard-d-d!..."
That was his last word. I pulled the trigger.
I have finished, gentlemen. I repeat: I do not repent. There is no
sorrow for him in my soul. One desolating doubt remains, however, and
it will haunt me to the end of my days, should I finish them in prison
or in an asylum.
He has a son left! What if he takes on his father's nature?