Next day at eleven o'clock in the morning Kister's second, an old major
of tried merit, came for him. The good old man growled to himself, bit
his grey moustaches, and wished Avdey Ivanovitch everything
unpleasant.... The carriage was brought to the door. Kister handed the
major two letters, one for his mother, the other for Masha.
'What's this for?'
'Well, one can never tell...'
'Nonsense! we'll shoot him like a partridge...'
'Any way it's better...'
The major with vexation stuffed the two letters in the side pocket of
his coat.
'Let us start.'
They set off. In a small copse, a mile and a half from the village of
Kirilovo, Lutchkov was awaiting them with his former friend, the
perfumed adjutant. It was lovely weather, the birds were twittering
peacefully; not far from the copse a peasant was tilling the ground.
While the seconds were marking out the distance, fixing the barrier,
examining and loading the pistols, the opponents did not even glance at
one another.... Kister walked to and fro with a careless air, swinging a
flower he had gathered; Avdey stood motionless, with folded arms and
scowling brow. The decisive moment arrived. 'Begin, gentlemen!' Kister
went rapidly towards the barrier, but he had not gone five steps before
Avdey fired, Kister started, made one more step forward, staggered. His
head sank... His knees bent under him... He fell like a sack on the
grass. The major rushed up to him.... 'Is it possible?' whispered the
dying man.
Avdey went up to the man he had killed. On his gloomy and sunken face
was a look of savage, exasperated regret.... He looked at the adjutant
and the major, bent his head like a guilty man, got on his horse without
a word, and rode slowly straight to the colonel's quarters.
Masha... is living to this day.