The little room in which I found myself was quite dark, and it was some moments before I saw Annouchka. She was seated near the window, enveloped in a large shawl, her head turned away and almost concealed, like a startled bird. I felt a deep pity for her. I approached; she turned away her head still more.

"Anna NicolaËvna!" I said to her. She turned quickly and tried to fasten her look upon mine, but had not the strength. I took her hand; it was like a dead person's, motionless and cold in mine.

"I would like," said she, attempting to smile, but her pale lips would not allow of it; "I would like—no, impossible," she murmured. She was silent; indeed, her voice grew fainter at every word.

I sat down by her.

"Anna NicolaËvna!" I said again, and, in my turn, I could say nothing more. There was a long silence. Retaining her hand in mine, I gazed at her. Sinking down, she breathed quickly, biting her lower lip, in order to keep back the tears which were ready to flow. I continued to gaze at her; there was in her motionless and timorous attitude an expression of weakness deeply touching. It was as if she had fallen crushed upon the chair and could not stir. My heart was filled with pity.

"Annouchka!" I said in a low voice. She slowly raised her eyes to mine. O the look of a woman whose heart has just opened to love! how find words to describe it?—They beseech, those eyes! they question, they give themselves up.—I could not resist them—a subtle fire ran through my veins. I bent over her head and covered it with kisses.—Suddenly my ear was struck by a trembling sound like a stifled sob. I felt a hand which trembled like a leaf pass over my hair. I raised my head and saw her face.—What a sudden transfiguration had come over it!—Fright had disappeared; her eyes had a far-away look that seemed to ask mine to join with them; her lips were slightly apart; her forehead was as pale as marble, whilst her curls floated behind her head, as if a breath of air had blown them back!

I forgot everything. I drew her towards me. She offered no resistance. Her shawl slipped from her shoulders, her head fell and rested gently upon my breast, under the kisses of my burning lips.

"I am yours!" she murmured feebly.

Suddenly the thought of Gaguine flashed across me.

"What are we doing?" I cried, pushing her from me convulsively. "Your brother knows everything; he knows that we are here together!"

Annouchka fell back upon the chair.

"Yes," I said, rising and going away from her, "your brother knows everything! I was forced to tell him all."

"Forced?" she stammered. She seemed hardly to understand me.

"Yes, yes," I repeated harshly, "and it is your fault,—yours, yours alone! What reason had you to give up your secret? Were you forced to tell your brother everything? He came to me this morning and repeated all you had told him."

I tried not to look any more at her, and paced the room.

"Now," I replied, "all is lost,—all, absolutely all."

Annouchka attempted to rise.

"Stay!" I cried. "Stay, I beseech you; fear nothing, you have to do with a man of honor! But, for heaven's sake, speak! What has frightened you? Have I changed towards you? As to myself, when your brother came to me yesterday, I could not do otherwise than tell him what our relations were."

"Why tell her all that?" I thought to myself, and the idea that I was a cowardly deceiver, that Gaguine was aware of our rendezvous, that all was disclosed—lost beyond redemption—immediately crossed my mind.

"I did not send for my brother last night," she said, with a choking voice, "he came of himself."

"But do you see what this has led to? Now you wish to go away."

"Yes, I must go," she said, in a very low voice. "I besought you to come here to say farewell."

"And you think, perhaps, that to part from you costs me nothing?"

"But why was it necessary to confide in my brother?" replied Annouchka in a stupefied tone.

"I repeat to you, I could not do otherwise. If you had not betrayed yourself"—

"I was shut up in my room," she replied naÏvely. "I did not know that the landlady had another key."

This innocent excuse at the moment put me in a rage; and now I cannot think of it without deep emotion. Poor child, what an upright and frank soul!

"So all is at an end," I replied once more; "at an end—; and we must part."

I looked at her furtively. The color mounted to her face; shame and terror—I felt it only too keenly—seized her. On my side, I walked to and fro, speaking as if in delirium.

"There was in my heart," I continued, "a feeling just springing up, which, if you had left it to time, would have developed! You have yourself broken the bond that united us; you have failed to put confidence in me."

While I spoke, Annouchka leaned forward more and more.—Suddenly she fell upon her knees, hid her face in her hands, and began to sob. I ran to her, I attempted to raise her, but she resisted obstinately.

Woman's tears thoroughly upset me. I cried out to her:—

"Anna NicolaËvna! Annouchka,—pray, for heaven's sake,—calm yourself,—I beseech you."

And I took her hand in mine.

But at the moment when I least expected it, she suddenly arose, then, like a flash, ran towards the door and disappeared.

Dame Louise, who entered the room a few moments later, found me in the same place, as if struck by a thunderbolt.

I could not understand how this interview could have ended so abruptly, and in such a ridiculous manner, before I had expressed a hundredth part of what I had to say; before I even could foresee what the consequences of it were.

"Mademoiselle has gone?" Dame Louise asked me, raising her yellow eyebrows.

I looked at her with a stupefied air, and left.