“I will wait for the officer’s visit till ten o’clock,” he reflected next morning, as he dressed, “and then let him come and look for me!” But Germans rise early: it had not yet struck nine when the waiter informed Sanin that the Herr Seconde Lieutenant von Richter wished to see him. Sanin made haste to put on his coat, and told him to ask him up. Herr Richter turned out, contrary to Sanin’s expectation, to be a very young man, almost a boy. He tried to give an expression of dignity to his beardless face, but did not succeed at all: he could not even conceal his embarrassment, and as he sat down on a chair, he tripped over his sword, and almost fell. Stammering and hesitating, he announced to Sanin in bad French that he had come with a message from his friend, Baron von Dönhof; that this message was to demand from Herr von Sanin an apology for the insulting expressions used by him on the previous day; and in case of refusal on the part of Herr von Sanin, Baron von Dönhof would ask for satisfaction. Sanin replied that he did not mean to apologise, but was ready to give him satisfaction. Then Herr von Richter, still with the same hesitation, asked with whom, at what time and place, should he arrange the necessary preliminaries. Sanin answered that he might come to him in two hours’ time, and that meanwhile, he, Sanin, would try and find a second. (“Who the devil is there I can have for a second?” he was thinking to himself meantime.) Herr von Richter got up and began to take leave … but at the doorway he stopped, as though stung by a prick of conscience, and turning to Sanin observed that his friend, Baron von Dönhof, could not but recognise … that he had been … to a certain extent, to blame himself in the incident of the previous day, and would, therefore, be satisfied with slight apologies (“_des exghizes léchères_.”) To this Sanin replied that he did not intend to make any apology whatever, either slight or considerable, since he did not consider himself to blame. “In that case,” answered Herr von Richter, blushing more than ever, “you will have to exchange friendly shots—_des goups de bisdolet à l’amiaple_!” “I don’t understand that at all,” observed Sanin; “are we to fire in the air or what?” “Oh, not exactly that,” stammered the sub-lieutenant, utterly disconcerted, “but I supposed since it is an affair between men of honour … I will talk to your second,” he broke off, and went away. Sanin dropped into a chair directly he had gone, and stared at the floor. “What does it all mean? How is it my life has taken such a turn all of a sudden? All the past, all the future has suddenly vanished, gone,—and all that’s left is that I am going to fight some one about something in Frankfort.” He recalled a crazy aunt of his who used to dance and sing: “O my lieutenant! My little cucumber! My little love! Dance with me, my little dove!”