At twelve o'clock on the following day, LavrÉtzky set out for the KalÍtins'. On the way thither, he met PÁnshin, who galloped past him on horseback, with his hat pulled down to his very eyebrows. At the KalÍtins', LavrÉtzky was not admitted,—for the first time since he had known them. MÁrya DmÍtrievna was "lying down,"—so the lackey announced; "they" had a headache. Neither MÁrfa TimofÉevna nor LizavÉta MikhaÍlovna was at home. LavrÉtzky strolled along the garden, in anxious hope of meeting Liza, but saw no one. He returned a couple of hours later, and received the same answer, in connection with which the lackey bestowed a sidelong glance upon him. It seemed to LavrÉtzky impolite to intrude himself upon them for a third time that day—and he decided to drive out to VasÍlievskoe, where, without reference to this, he had business to attend to. On the way he constructed various plans, each more beautiful than the other; but in his aunt's hamlet, sadness fell upon him; he entered into conversation with AntÓn; the old man, as though expressly, had nothing but cheerless thoughts in his mind. He narrated to LavrÉtzky, how GlafÍra PetrÓvna, before her death, had bitten her own hand,—and, after a short pause, he added: "Every man, master—dear little father, is given to devouring himself." It was already late when LavrÉtzky set out on the return journey. The sounds of the preceding day took possession of him, the image of Liza arose in his soul in all its gentle transparency; he melted at the thought that she loved him,—and drove up to his little town-house in a composed and happy frame of mind.

The first thing which struck him on entering the anteroom was the scent of patchouli, which was very repulsive to him; several tall trunks and coffers were standing there. The face of the valet who ran forth to receive him seemed to him strange. Without accounting to himself for his impressions, he crossed the threshold of the drawing-room.... From the couch there rose to greet him a lady in a black gown with flounces, and raising a batiste handkerchief to her pale face, she advanced several paces, bent her carefully-dressed head,—and fell at his feet.... Then only did he recognise her: the lady was—his wife.

It took his breath away.... He leaned against the wall.

"Theodore, do not drive me away!"—she said in French, and her voice cut his heart like a knife.

He glanced at her without comprehending, yet he immediately noticed that she had grown pale and thin.

"Theodore,"—she went on, from time to time raising her eyes, and cautiously wringing her wondrously-beautiful fingers, with rosy, polished nails:—"Theodore, I am to blame toward you, deeply to blame,—I will say more, I am a criminal; but do you listen to me; repentance tortures me, I have become a burden to myself, I could not longer endure my position; how many times have I meditated returning to you, but I feared your wrath;—I have decided to break every connection with the past ... puis, j'ai ÉtÉ si malade,—I have been so ill,"—she added, and passed her hand across her brow and her cheek,—"I have taken advantage of the rumour of my death which had got into circulation, I have abandoned everything; without halting, day and night I have hastened hither; I have hesitated, for a long time, to present myself before you, my judge—paraÎtre devant vous, mon juge,—but, at last, I made up my mind, remembering your invariable kindness, to come to you; I learned your address in Moscow. Believe me," she continued, softly rising from the floor, and seating herself on the very edge of an arm-chair:—"I have often meditated death, and I would have summoned up sufficient courage to take my life—akh, life is now an intolerable burden to me!—but the thought of my daughter, of my Ádotchka, held me back; she is here, she is asleep in the adjoining room, poor child! She is weary,—you shall see her: she, at least, is not guilty toward you,—and I am so unhappy, so unhappy!"—exclaimed Mme. LavrÉtzky, and burst into tears.

LavrÉtzky came to himself, at last; he separated himself from the wall, and moved toward the door.

"You are going away?"—said his wife, in despair:—"oh, this is cruel!—Without saying one word to me, without even one reproach.... This scorn is killing me, this is terrible!"

LavrÉtzky stopped short.

"What is it that you wish to hear from me?"—he uttered, in a toneless voice.

"Nothing, nothing,"—she caught him up with vivacity:—"I know that I have no right to demand anything;—I am not a fool, believe me;—I do not hope, I do not dare to hope for your forgiveness;—I only venture to entreat you, that you will give me directions what I am to do, where I am to live?—I will fulfil your command, whatever it may be, like a slave."

"I have no commands to give you,"—returned LavrÉtzky, in the same voice:—"you know, that everything is at an end between us ... and now more than ever.—You may live where you see fit;—and if your allowance is insufficient...."

"Akh, do not utter such dreadful words,"—VarvÁra PÁvlovna interrupted him:—"spare me, if only ... if only for the sake of that angel...." And, as she said these words, VarvÁra PÁvlovna flew headlong into the next room, and immediately returned with a tiny, very elegantly dressed little girl in her arms. Heavy, ruddy-gold curls fell over her pretty, rosy little face, over her large, black, sleepy eyes; she smiled, and blinked at the light, and clung with her chubby hand to her mother's neck.

"Ada, vois, c'est ton pÈre,"—said VarvÁra PÁvlovna, pushing the curls aside from her eyes, and giving her a hearty kiss:—"prie le avec moi."

"C'est Ça, papa?"—lisped the little girl, brokenly.

"Oui, mon enfant, n'est ce pas, que tu l'aimes?"

But this was too much for LavrÉtzky.

"In what melodrama is it that there is precisely such a scene?"—he muttered, and left the room.

VarvÁra PÁvlovna stood for a while rooted to the spot, slightly shrugged her shoulders, carried the little girl into the other room, undressed her, and put her to bed. Then she got a book, sat down near the lamp, waited for about an hour, and, at last, lay down on the bed herself.

"Eh bien, madame?"—inquired her maid, a Frenchwoman, whom she had brought from Paris, as she removed her corsets.

"Eh bien, Justine,"—she replied;—"he has aged greatly, but it strikes me that he is as good-natured as ever.—Give me my gloves for the night, prepare my high-necked grey gown for to-morrow; and do not forget the mutton chops for Ada.... Really, it will be difficult to obtain them here; but we must make the effort."

"À la guerre, comme À la guerre,"—responded Justine, and put out the light.