all."

"Well, thank you for it. Do you think I am not grateful?" And Anatole
sighed and embraced Dolokhov.

"I helped you, but all the same I must tell you the truth; it is a
dangerous business, and if you think about it--a stupid business. Well,
you'll carry her off--all right! Will they let it stop at that? It
will come out that you're already married. Why, they'll have you in the
criminal court...."

"Oh, nonsense, nonsense!" Anatole ejaculated and again made a grimace.
"Didn't I explain to you? What?" And Anatole, with the partiality
dull-witted people have for any conclusion they have reached by their
own reasoning, repeated the argument he had already put to Dolokhov
a hundred times. "Didn't I explain to you that I have come to this
conclusion: if this marriage is invalid," he went on, crooking one
finger, "then I have nothing to answer for; but if it is valid, no
matter! Abroad no one will know anything about it. Isn't that so? And
don't talk to me, don't, don't."

"Seriously, you'd better drop it! You'll only get yourself into a mess!"

"Go to the devil!" cried Anatole and, clutching his hair, left the room,
but returned at once and dropped into an armchair in front of Dolokhov
with his feet turned under him. "It's the very devil! What? Feel how it
beats!" He took Dolokhov's hand and put it on his heart. "What a foot,
my dear fellow! What a glance! A goddess!" he added in French. "What?"

Dolokhov with a cold smile and a gleam in his handsome insolent eyes
looked at him--evidently wishing to get some more amusement out of him.

"Well and when the money's gone, what then?"

"What then? Eh?" repeated Anatole, sincerely perplexed by a thought
of the future. "What then?... Then, I don't know.... But why talk
nonsense!" He glanced at his watch. "It's time!"

Anatole went into the back room.

"Now then! Nearly ready? You're dawdling!" he shouted to the servants.

Dolokhov put away the money, called a footman whom he ordered to bring
something for them to eat and drink before the journey, and went into
the room where Khvostikov and Makarin were sitting.

Anatole lay on the sofa in the study leaning on his elbow and smiling
pensively, while his handsome lips muttered tenderly to himself.

"Come and eat something. Have a drink!" Dolokhov shouted to him from the
other room.

"I don't want to," answered Anatole continuing to smile.

"Come! Balaga is here."

Anatole rose and went into the dining room. B