A fortnight elapsed after these events. I went every day to make Gaguine a visit. Annouchka seemed to shun me, and no longer indulged in those head-shakings that had annoyed me so much in the first days of our acquaintance. She seemed to conceal a grief or a secret trouble; she laughed more rarely. I continued to observe her with curiosity.

French and German were quite familiar to her, but a number of things made me divine that she had been without a woman's care in her infancy, that she had received a strange, desultory education, quite different from that of Gaguine. In him, in spite of his blouse and Van Dyck hat, you quickly discovered the Russian gentleman, nonchalant and slightly effeminate; she in no wise resembled a noble lady. All her movements implied a kind of restlessness; she was a seedling newly grafted, a wine that yet fermented. Naturally timid and distrustful of herself, she was vexed at feeling gauche, and sought in spite of it to give herself an unconstrained and bold manner, but not always with success. Several times I led the conversation to her past, and her way of living in Russia; I saw that she replied with a bad grace to my questions. All that I could learn was that at the time she left Russia she was living in the country. One day I found her alone and reading; her head leaning on her hands, her fingers thrust in her hair, she was devouring the book before her with her eyes.

"Bravo!" I cried, approaching. "What, a love of study?"

She raised her head, and, looking at me with a serious and dignified air, "You thought, then, I could do nothing but laugh?" she said, and she rose to leave.

I glanced at the title of the book; it was a bad French novel.

"You might have made a better choice," I said to her.

"What must I read, then?" she cried, and, throwing her book upon the table, she added: "Then, in that case, I am going to amuse myself." And she ran towards the garden.

The same day, in the evening, I read to Gaguine Herrman and Dorothea. As I began to read, Annouchka went to and fro incessantly, then suddenly she stopped, listened, seated herself quietly beside me, and gave me her attention to the end.

The next day I was again surprised in no longer seeing the old Annouchka. I began to comprehend that she had suddenly taken into her head to be a housewife, wrapped up in her duties, like Dorothea. Finally her character seemed inexplicable to me. In spite of the excessive amour propre that I found in her, I felt attracted towards her, even when she made me angry. One thing, at least, appeared certain, and that was that she was not the sister of Gaguine. I did not find in him towards her the conduct of a brother; on her side too much respect and compliance, too little constraint.

A strange circumstance seemed, according to all appearances, to strengthen my suspicions. One evening, approaching the hedge which surrounded Gaguine's house, I found the gate closed. Without stopping at this obstacle I reached a place where, some days before, I had noticed that a part of the hedge was destroyed, and I jumped into the enclosure; some distance from there, a few steps from the path, there was a little arbor of acacias; scarcely had I passed it than I distinguished the voice of Annouchka, who cried out with fervor, weeping,—

"No, I shall never love any one but you; no, no, it is you alone whom I wish to love, and forever!"

"Come, calm yourself," replied Gaguine, "you know very well that I believe you." Their voices left the arbor. I could see them through the thin foliage; they did not observe me.

"You, you only," she repeated; and, throwing herself on his neck, she clung to him with convulsive sobs, covering him with kisses.

"Calm yourself, calm yourself," he kept repeating, passing his hand over the hair of the young girl.

I remained quiet for some moments, then I came to my senses.—Should I approach them? "No, not for the world," I immediately said.

I quickly regained the hedge, and, passing it at a stride, I again took the road to my house, running. I smiled, I rubbed my hands, I wondered at the chance that had unexpectedly confirmed my suppositions; the least doubt seemed no longer possible, and at the same time I felt in my heart an intense bitterness.

"I must confess," I said to myself, "that they can dissimulate well! But what is their object? And I—why should they make me their dupe? I should not expect such a thing from him. Then, what a melodramatic scene!"