XII.

She reappeared in about an hour at the door, and beckoned me to her.

"Listen," said she; "if I should die, would you be sorry?"

"What singular ideas you have to-day," I exclaimed.

"I don't think that I shall live long; it often seems to me that everything about me is bidding me good-by. It is better to die than to live as--Ah! don't look at me so; I a.s.sure you that I'm not pretending; otherwise, I shall begin again to be afraid of you."

"Were you afraid of me then?"

"If I am queer, you must not reproach me. See, already I can no longer laugh."

She remained sad and preoccupied until the end of the evening. I could not understand what had come over her. Her eyes often rested upon me; my heart was oppressed under her enigmatic look. She appeared calm; nevertheless, in looking at her, I could not keep from saying something to lessen her trouble. I contemplated her with emotion; I found a touching charm in the pallor spread over her features, in the timidity of her indecisive movements. She all the while imagined that I was in a bad humor.

"Listen," she said to me before I left, "I fear that you do not take me seriously. In future believe all that I tell you; but you, in your turn, be frank with me; be sure that I shall never tell you anything but the truth,--I give you my word of honor!"

This expression, "word of honor," made me smile once more.

"Ah! don't laugh," said she vivaciously, "or I shall repeat what you told me yesterday, 'Why do you laugh?' Do you remember," added she, after a moment's silence, "that yesterday you spoke to me of wings?

These wings have sprung forth. I don't know where to fly."

"Come, then," I replied, "all roads are open to you."

She looked at me earnestly for some moments.

"You have a bad opinion of me to-day," she said, frowning slightly.

"I! a bad opinion of you?"

"Why are you standing there, with those dismal faces?" asked Gaguine at that moment. "Do you wish me to play a waltz for you, as I did yesterday?"

"No, no," cried she, clasping her hands; "not for the world to-day!"

"Don't excite yourself; I don't wish to force you."

"Not for the world," repeated she, growing pale.

"Does she love me?" I thought, as I approached the Rhine, whose dark waters rushed rapidly along.

XIII.

"Does she love me?" I asked myself the next morning on awakening. I feared to question myself more. I felt that her image--the image of the young girl with the "_rire force_"--was engraved on my mind, and that I could not easily efface it. I returned to L., and remained there the entire day, but I only caught a glimpse of Annouchka. She was indisposed; she had a headache. She only came down for a few moments, a handkerchief wrapped about her forehead. Pale and unsteady, with her eyes half closed, she smiled a little, and said,--

"It will pa.s.s away; it is nothing. Everything pa.s.ses away, doesn't it?"

and she went out.

I felt wearied, moved by a sensation of emptiness and sadness, and yet I could not decide to go away. Later on I went home without having seen her again.

I pa.s.sed all the next morning in a kind of moral somnolence. I tried to lose myself by working; impossible, I could do nothing. I tried to force myself to think of nothing; that succeeded no better. I wandered about the town; I re-entered the house, then came out again.

"Are you not Monsieur N----?" said suddenly behind me the voice of a little boy.

I turned about,--a child had accosted me.

"From Mademoiselle Anna."

And he handed me a letter.

I opened it and recognized her handwriting, hasty and indistinct:--

"I must see you. Meet me to-day at four o'clock in the stone chapel, on the road that leads to the ruins.--I have been very imprudent. Come, for heaven's sake! You shall know everything. Say to the bearer, Yes."

"Is there any answer?" asked the little boy.

"Say to the young lady, _Yes_," I replied. And he ran away.

XIV.

I went back to my room, and, sitting down, began to reflect. My heart beat quickly. I read Annouchka's letter over several times. I looked at my watch; it was not yet noon.

The door opened and Gaguine entered. He looked gloomy. He took my hand and pressed it fervently. You could see that he was under the influence of a deep emotion.

"What has happened?" I asked him. Gaguine took a chair, and seated himself by my side.

"Three days ago," he said to me, with an uneasy smile and a constrained voice, "I told you some things that surprised you; to-day I am going to astonish you still more. To another than you, I would not speak so frankly; but you are a man of honor, and a friend, I hope; then listen.

My sister Annouchka loves you."

I started, and rose quickly.

"Your sister, you tell me--?"

"Yes," he replied bruskly, "I said so. It is foolish; she will drive me mad. Fortunately, she cannot lie, and confides everything to me. Ah!

what a heart that child has; but she will surely ruin herself!"

"You are certainly in error," I exclaimed, interrupting him.

"No, I am not mistaken. Yesterday she remained in bed the entire day without taking anything. It is true she did not complain; but she never does complain. I felt no uneasiness, but towards evening she had a little fever. About two in the morning our landlady came and awoke me.