and related all that had happened.

Lizaveta listened to him in terror. So all those passionate letters,
those ardent desires, this bold, obstinate pursuit--all this was not
love! Money--that was what his soul yearned for! She could not satisfy
his desire and make him happy. The poor girl had been nothing but the
blind tool of a robber, of the murderer of her aged benefactress! She
wept bitter tears of agonized repentance. Hermann gazed at her in
silence; his heart, too, was a prey to violent emotion, but neither
the tears of the poor girl, nor the wonderful charm of her beauty,
enhanced by her grief, could produce any impression upon his hardened
soul. He felt no pricking of conscience at the thought of the dead old
woman. One thing only grieved him: the irreparable loss of the secret
from which he had expected to obtain great wealth.

"You are a monster!" said Lizaveta at last.

"I did not wish for her death," replied Hermann, "my pistol was not
loaded." Both remained silent. The day began to dawn. Lizaveta
extinguished her candle, a pale light illumined her room. She wiped
her tear-stained eyes, and raised them towards Hermann. He was sitting
near the window, with his arms crossed, and with a fierce frown upon
his forehead. In this attitude he bore a striking resemblance to the
portrait of Napoleon. This resemblance struck Lizaveta even.

"How shall I get you out of the house?" said she at last. "I thought
of conducting you down the secret staircase."

"I will go alone," he answered.

Lizaveta arose, took from her drawer a key, handed it to Hermann, and
gave him the necessary instructions. Hermann pressed her cold, inert
hand, kissed her bowed head, and left the room.

He descended the winding staircase, and once more entered the
Countess's bedroom. The dead old lady sat as if petrified, her face
expressed profound tranquillity. Hermann stopped before her, and gazed
long and earnestly at her, as if he wished to convince himself of the
terrible reality. At last he entered the cabinet, felt behind the
tapestry for the door, and then began to descend the dark staircase,
filled with strange emotions. "Down this very staircase," thought he,
"perhaps coming from the very same room, and at this very same hour
sixty years ago, there may have glided, in an embroidered coat, with
his hair dressed _a l'oiseau royal_, and pressing to his heart his
three-cornered hat, some young gallant who has long been mouldering in
th