f the wounded officer limping painfully along. The poor fellow's
right leg is lame from his wound, and on his left arm he has one
of the variegated young ladies. His face expresses resignation to
destiny.

We go back to the house to drink tea, after which we play croquet
and listen to one of the variegated young ladies singing a song:
"No, no, thou lovest not, no, no." At the word "no" she twists her
mouth till it almost touches one ear.

"_Charmant!_" wail the other young ladies, "_Charmant!_"

The evening comes on. A detestable moon creeps up behind the bushes.
There is perfect stillness in the air, and an unpleasant smell of
freshly cut hay. I take up my hat and try to get away.

"I have something I must say to you!" Mashenka whispers to me
significantly, "don't go away!"

I have a foreboding of evil, but politeness obliges me to remain.
Mashenka takes my arm and leads me away to a garden walk. By this
time her whole figure expresses conflict. She is pale and gasping
for breath, and she seems absolutely set on pulling my right arm
out of the socket. What can be the matter with her?

"Listen!" she mutters. "No, I cannot! No! . . ." She tries to say
something, but hesitates. Now I see from her face that she has come
to some decision. With gleaming eyes and swollen nose she snatches
my hand, and says hurriedly, "_Nicolas_, I am yours! Love you I
cannot, but I promise to be true to you!"

Then she squeezes herself to my breast, and at once springs away.

"Someone is coming," she whispers. "Farewell! . . . To-morrow at
eleven o'clock I will be in the arbour. . . . Farewell!"

And she vanishes. Completely at a loss for an explanation of her
conduct and suffering from a painful palpitation of the heart, I
make my way home. There the "Past and Future of the Dog Licence"
is awaiting me, but I am quite unable to work. I am furious. . . .
I may say, my anger is terrible. Damn it all! I allow no one to
treat me like a boy, I am a man of violent temper, and it is not
safe to trifle with me!

When the maid comes in to call me to supper, I shout to her: "Go
out of the room!" Such hastiness augurs nothing good.

Next morning. Typical holiday weather. Temperature below freezing,
a cutting wind, rain, mud, and a smell of naphthaline, because my
_maman_ has taken all her wraps out of her trunks. A devilish
morning! It is the 7th of August, 1887, the date of the solar
eclipse. I may here remark that at the time of an eclip