parched lips.
"Who will guarantee me now, that in Petersburg...." And he did not finish
the question, and yawned again, quivering and writhing all over. The
bright and the dark memories tormented him equally; it suddenly occurred
to him, that a few days previously, in his presence and in that of
Ernest, she had seated herself at the piano and had sung: "Old husband,
menacing husband!" He recalled the expression of her face, the strange
glitter of her eyes, and the flush on her cheeks,--and he rose from his
chair; he wanted to go and to say to them: "You have made a mistake in
trifling with me; my great-grandfather used to hang the peasants up by
the ribs, and my grandfather himself was a peasant"--and kill them both.
Then, all of a sudden, it seemed to him, that everything which was taking
place with him was a dream, and not even a dream, but merely some
nonsense or other: that all he had to do was to shake himself, to look
about him.... He did look about him, and as the hawk buries his claws in
the bird he has captured, anguish pierced more and more deeply into his
heart. To crown all, Lavretzky was hoping at the end of a few months to
become a father.... The past, the future, his whole life was poisoned. He
returned, at last, to Paris, put up at a hotel, and sent Varvara
Pavlovna the note of M--r Ernest, with the following letter:

"The accompanying document will explain everything to you. I will
say to you, by the way, that I did not recognise you: you, always
such a precise person, to drop such an important paper!" (This
phrase poor Lavretzky had prepared and cherished for the space of
several hours.) "I can see you no more; I assume that you, also,
cannot wish to meet me. I have assigned fifteen thousand francs a
year to you; I cannot give more. Send your address to the office of
the estate. Do what you will, live where you please. I wish you
happiness. No answer is necessary."

Lavretzky wrote to his wife, that no answer was necessary ... but he
waited, he thirsted for an answer, an explanation of this incomprehensible,
this incredible affair. Varvara Pavlovna, that very day, sent him a long
letter in French. It made an end of him; his last doubts vanished,--and he
felt ashamed that he had still cherished doubts. Varvara Pavlovna did not
defend herself: she merely wished to see him, she entreated him not to
condemn her irrevocably. The letter was cold and constrained, although the
traces of tear