The letter was in Prilukoff's handwriting, but was signed "Ivan
Troubetzkoi." The prince (whom I scarcely remembered, and whom I had not
seen for more than six years) begged me to marry him, and as proof of
his devotion offered to make a will in my favor and, in addition, to
insure his life for half a million francs.
Paul Kamarowsky was aghast.
"Is everybody trying to steal you away from me, Mura?" he exclaimed
brokenly; then he sat down on the sofa with his head in his hands. I
gazed at him, feeling as if I should die with sorrow and remorse.
For a long time he did not speak. Then he drew me to him.
"Dear one, do not heed the offers of other people. No one, whether he be
prince or moujik, can love you more than I do. No one will do more for
you than I am willing to do. I, also, am ready to make a will in your
favor; I, also, will insure my life for half a million francs."
"No, no," I cried, crushed with misery and shame.
"Oh, yes, I will. It shall be done immediately. To-day."
And it was done.
"You see?" cried Prilukoff triumphantly, "I am not quite a fool yet, am
I? Hush now, don't cry. Remember that it is not for ourselves, but to
make an honorable act of restitution."
"But a hundred thousand francs would have been enough for that," I
sobbed.
"The other four hundred thousand we shall give to the poor," said
Prilukoff. "It will be a meritorious deed."