e.

Carried away by my own narrative, I confess, I did not pay proper
attention to the queer behaviour of my strange visitor. Having lost all
restraint, she now clasped my hands, now pushed them away, she cried and
availing herself of each pause in my speech, she implored:

"Don't, don't, don't! Stop speaking! I can't listen to it!"

And at the moment when I least expected it she tore the veil from her
face, and before my eyes--before my eyes appeared her face, the face of
my love, of my dream, of my boundless and bitter sorrow. Perhaps because
I lived all my life dreaming of her alone, with her alone I was young,
with her I had developed and grown old, with her I was advancing to the
grave--her face seemed to me neither old nor faded--it was exactly as I
had pictured it in my dreams--it seemed endlessly dear to me.

What has happened to me? For the first time in tens of years I forgot
that I had a face--for the first time in tens of years I looked
helplessly, like a youngster, like a criminal caught red-handed, waiting
for some deadly blow.

"You see! You see! It is I. It is I! My God, why are you silent? Don't
you recognise me?"

Did I recognise her? It were better not to have known that face at all!
It were better for me to have grown blind rather than to see her again!

"Why are you silent? How terrible you are! You have forgotten me!"

"Madam--"

Of course, I should have continued in this manner; I saw how she
staggered. I saw how with trembling fingers, almost falling, she was
looking for her veil; I saw that another word of courageous truth,
and the terrible vision would vanish never to appear again. But
some stranger within me--not I--not I--uttered the following absurd,
ridiculous phrase, in which, despite its chilliness, rang so much
jealousy and hopeless sorrow:

"Madam, you have deceived me. I don't know you. Perhaps you entered the
wrong door. I suppose your husband and your children are waiting for
you. Please, my servant will take you down to the carriage."

Could I think that these words, uttered in the same stern and cold
voice, would have such a strange effect upon the woman's heart? With
a cry, all the bitter passion of which I could not describe, she threw
herself before me on her knees, exclaiming:

"So you do love me!"

Forgetting that our life had already been lived, that we were old, that
all had been ruined and scattered like dust by Time, and that it can
never return again; forg