"'Go and see your sister,' she said to me; 'I think she is ill.'

"I ran to Annouchka's room, and found her still dressed, consumed with fever, in tears; her head was on fire; her teeth chattered.

"'What is the matter with you?' I asked.

"She threw herself upon my neck and begged me to take her away, if I valued her life. Without being able to understand anything, I tried to calm her; her sobs redoubled, and, suddenly, in the depth of her grief, she confessed to me,--in a word, I learned that she loves you.--There!

You and I are grown men, governed by reason. Well! we will never understand how deep are the sentiments that Annouchka feels, and with what violence they manifest themselves; it is something at once unforeseen and irresistible, like the bursting of a storm. You are, without doubt, a very attractive man," continued Gaguine, "but yet, how have you inspired such a violent pa.s.sion? I cannot conceive of it, I confess it! She pretends that, as soon as she saw you, she was attracted towards you. That is why she wept so much of late in a.s.suring me that she would never love any one in the world but me. She thinks that you look down upon her, knowing probably her origin. She asked me if I had told you her story. I told her No, as you may imagine, but her penetration frightens me. She had but one thought, that was to go away, and quickly. I stayed with her until morning. She made me promise that we should start to-morrow, and only then was she quieted. After mature reflection, I decided to come and confer with you upon the subject. In my opinion, my sister is right; the best thing is to leave, and I should have taken her away to-day if an idea had not occurred to me, and stopped me. Who knows? Perhaps my sister pleases you; if so, why then should we part? So I decided, and putting aside my pride, relying upon some observations that I had made--yes--I decided to come--to come and ask you"--

Here Gaguine, disconcerted, stopped short.

"Pray excuse me--pardon--I am not accustomed to interviews of this kind."

I took his hand.

"You wish to know if your sister pleases me!" I said to him firmly. "She does please me!"

Gaguine fixed his eyes upon me. "But, in short," replied he, hesitating,--"would you marry her?"

"How can I answer that question. I make you the judge of it.--Can I do it now?"

"I know it, I know it," cried Gaguine; "no, I have no right to expect an answer from you, and the question that I have asked you is unconventional in every particular, but force of circ.u.mstances compelled me to do so. It is not safe to play with fire! You don't understand what Annouchka is. She may fall ill, or run away, or even--or even give you a rendezvous. Another would know how to conceal her feelings and wait, but she cannot. It is her first experience, that's the worst of it! If you could have seen to-day the way in which she sobbed at my feet, you would share my fears."

I began to reflect. The words of Gaguine, "_Give you a rendezvous_,"

oppressed my heart. It seemed shameful to me not to answer his honest frankness by a loyal confession.

"Yes!" I at length said to him, "you are right. I received, about an hour ago, a letter from your sister; there it is." He took it, ran through it rapidly, and again let his hands fall upon his knees. The astonishment that his features expressed would have been laughable, if I could have laughed at that moment.

"You are a man of honor," he said. "I am not the less embarra.s.sed to know what to do. How! She asks me to fly, and in this letter she reproaches herself for her imprudence! But when, then, did she have the time to write to you? and what are her intentions in regard to you?"

I rea.s.sured him, and we applied ourselves, with as much coolness as was possible, to discuss what we should do. This is the plan which we finally determined upon to prevent all unhappiness. It was agreed that I should go to the rendezvous and speak plainly with Annouchka. Gaguine promised to remain at home, without showing that he had read the letter; and it was decided, moreover, that we should meet in the evening.

"I have full confidence in you," he said, pressing my hand; "have consideration for her and for me; but, nevertheless, we will leave to-morrow," added he, rising, "since it is settled that you will not marry her."

"Give me until this evening," I replied.

"So be it! you will not marry her!"

He took his departure; I threw myself upon the divan and closed my eyes.

I was dazed; too many thoughts at once crowded into my brain. I was angry with Gaguine for his frankness; I was angry with Annouchka: her love filled me with joy--and yet I was afraid of it.

I could not account for her having made a full confession to her brother. That which above all caused me great pain was the absolute necessity of making a sudden and almost instantaneous decision.

"Marry a girl of seventeen, with a disposition like that; it is impossible!" I cried, rising.

XV.

At the hour agreed upon I crossed the Rhine, and the first person I met on the bank was the same little boy who had found me in the morning. He seemed to be waiting for me. "From Mademoiselle Anna," he said to me, in a low voice, and he gave me another note.

Annouchka announced to me that she had changed the place of the rendezvous. She told me to meet her in an hour and a half--not at the chapel, but at Dame Louise's; I was to knock at the door, enter, and go up three flights.

"Again _Yes_?" asked the little boy.

"Yes," I replied, and walked along the river bank. I had not time enough to return to my house, and did not wish to wander about the streets.

Behind the walls of the town stretched a little garden, with a bowling-alley covered with a roof, and some tables for beer-drinkers. I entered it.

Several middle-aged Germans were bowling; the b.a.l.l.s rolled noisily along; exclamations could be heard from time to time. A pretty little waiting-maid, her eyes swollen from crying, brought me a jug of beer; I looked her in the face, she turned away bruskly and withdrew.

"Yes, yes!" muttered a stout German with very red cheeks, who was seated near me; "our Hannchen is in great distress to-day; her sweetheart is drawn in the conscription." I looked at her at this moment; retiring into a corner, she was resting her cheek upon her hand, and great tears slowly rolled between her fingers. Some one asked for beer; she brought him a jug, and went back to her place. This grief reacted upon me, and I began to think of my rendezvous with sadness and uneasiness.

It was not with a light heart that I was going to this interview. I must not give myself up to the joys of a reciprocal love. Must keep to my word, fulfil a difficult duty. "_It is not safe to play with fire._"

This expression, which Gaguine had used in speaking of his sister, pierced me like a sharp arrow to the bottom of my soul. Yet three days before, in that boat carried along by the stream, was I not tormented by a thirst for happiness? Now I could satisfy it, and I hesitated. I thrust back this happiness; it was my duty to do so; the unforeseen something which it presented frightened me. Annouchka herself, with her impulsive nature, her education, this girl strange and full of fascination, I confess it, frightened me.

I struggled a long time with these feelings. The moment fixed upon approached. "I can not marry her," at last I said to myself; "she will not know that I have loved her."

I arose, put a thaler into poor Hannchen's hand (she did not even thank me), and proceeded towards the house of Dame Louise.

The shades of night were already in the air, and above the dark street stretched a narrow band of sky, reddened by the setting sun. I gently tapped at the door; it was immediately opened.

I crossed the threshold and found myself in complete darkness.

"This way," said a cracked voice, "you are expected."

I groped along in the dark a few steps; a bony hand seized mine.

"Is it you, Dame Louise?" I asked.

"Yes!" answered the same voice, "it is I, my fine young man."

The old woman took me up a very steep staircase, and stopped upon the landing of the third story. I recognized then, by the faint glimmer from a little garret window, the wrinkled face of the burgomaster's widow. A sly and mawkish smile half opened her toothless mouth, and made her dull eyes glitter. She pointed out a door. I opened it with a convulsive movement, and slammed it after me.

XVI.

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 Nicolaevna!" 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.