e
thought there was a strange expression on the face of the servant who
hastily came to meet him. He did not stop to analyze his impressions,
but went straight into the drawing-room.

A lady, who wore a black silk dress with flounces, and whose pale face
was half hidden by a cambric handkerchief, rose from the sofa, took
a few steps to meet him, bent her carefully-arranged and perfumed
locks--and fell at his feet. Then for the first time, he recognized
her. That lady was his wife!

His breathing stopped. He leaned against the wall.

"Do not drive me from you, Theodore!" she said in French; and her
voice cut him to the heart like a knife. He looked at her without
comprehending what he saw, and yet, at the same time, he involuntarily
remarked that she had grown paler and stouter.

"Theodore!" she continued, lifting her eyes from time to time towards
heaven, her exceedingly pretty fingers, tipped with polished nails of
rosy hue, writhing the while in preconcerted agonies--"Theodore, I am
guilty before you--deeply guilty. I will say more--I am a criminal;
but hear what I have to say. I am tortured by remorse; I have become a
burden to myself; I can bear my position no longer. Ever so many times
I have thought of addressing you, but I was afraid of your anger. But
I have determined to break every tie with the past--_puis, j'ai ete si
malade_. I was so ill," she added, passing her hand across her brow
and cheek, "I took advantage of the report which was spread abroad
of my death, and I left everything. Without stopping anywhere, I
travelled day and night to come here quickly. For a long time I was in
doubt whether to appear before you, my judge--_paraitre devant vous
man juge_; but at last I determined to go to you, remembering your
constant goodness. I found out your address in Moscow. Believe me,"
she continued, quietly rising from the ground and seating herself upon
the very edge of an arm-chair, "I often thought of death, and I
could have found sufficient courage in my heart to deprive myself of
life--ah! life is an intolerable burden to me now--but the thought of
my child, my little Ada, prevented me. She is here now; she is asleep
in the next room, poor child. She is tired out You will see her,
won't you? She, at all events, is innocent before you; and so
unfortunate--so unfortunate!" exclaimed Madame Lavretsky, and melted
into tears.

Lavretsky regained his consciousness at last. He stood away from the
wall, and