felt vaguely that it was death coming
to me, I took leave of life, of you, of everything; I gave up hope....
And this return to life so suddenly; this light after the darkness,
you--you--near me, with me--your voice, your breath.... It's more than
I can stand! I feel I love you passionately, I hear you call yourself
mine, I cannot answer for myself... You must go!'

'Dmitri,' whispered Elena, and she nestled her head on his shoulder.
Only now she understood him.

'Elena,' he went on, 'I love you, you know that; I am ready to give my
life for you.... Why have you come to me now, when I am weak, when I
can't control myself, when all my blood's on fire... you are mine, you
say... you love me------'

'Dmitri,' she repeated; she flushed all over, and pressed still closer
to him.

'Elena, have pity on me; go away, I feel as if I should die.... I can't
stand these violent emotions... my whole soul yearns for you ... think,
death was almost parting us.. and now you are here, you are in my
arms... Elena----'

She was trembling all over. 'Take me, then,' she whispered scarcely
above her breath.

XXIX

Nikolai Artemyevitch was walking up and down in his study with a scowl
on his face. Shubin was sitting at the window with his legs crossed,
tranquilly smoking a cigar.

'Leave off tramping from corner to corner, please,' he observed,
knocking the ash off his cigar. 'I keep expecting you to speak;
there's a rick in my neck from watching you. Besides, there's something
artificial, melodramatic in your striding.'

'You can never do anything but joke,' responded Nikolai Artemyevitch.
'You won't enter into my position, you refuse to realise that I am used
to that woman, that I am attached to her in fact, that her absence is
bound to distress me. Here it's October, winter is upon us. ... What can
she be doing in Revel?'

'She must be knitting stockings--for herself; for herself--not for you.'

'You may laugh, you may laugh; but I tell you I know no woman like her.
Such honesty; such disinterestedness.'

'Has she cashed that bill yet?' inquired Shubin.

'Such disinterestedness,' repeated Nikolai Artemyevitch; 'it's
astonishing. They tell me there are a million other women in the world,
but I say, show me the million; show me the million, I say; _ces femmes,
qu'on me les montre_! And she doesn't write--that's what's killing me!'

'You're eloquent as Pythagoras,' remarked Shubin; 'but do you know what
I would adv