Stepan Trofimovitch sat trembling, opening his eyes wider and wider.

He heard it all, but he could not realise it clearly.

He tried to speak, but his voice kept breaking.

All he knew was that everything would be as she said, that to protest and refuse to agree would be useless, and that he was a married man irrevocably.
_"Mais, ma bonne amie!_...for the third time, and at my age...and to such a child." He brought out at last, _"Mais, c'est une enfant!"_ "A child who is twenty years old, thank God.

Please don't roll your eyes, I entreat you, you're not on the stage.