was the
Smith and Wesson's. Sigaev picked up a pistol of that pattern, gazed
blankly at it, and sank into brooding. His imagination pictured how
he would blow out their brains, how blood would flow in streams
over the rug and the parquet, how the traitress's legs would twitch
in her last agony. . . . But that was not enough for his indignant
soul. The picture of blood, wailing, and horror did not satisfy
him. He must think of something more terrible.

"I know! I'll kill myself and him," he thought, "but I'll leave her
alive. Let her pine away from the stings of conscience and the
contempt of all surrounding her. For a sensitive nature like hers
that will be far more agonizing than death."

And he imagined his own funeral: he, the injured husband, lies in
his coffin with a gentle smile on his lips, and she, pale, tortured
by remorse, follows the coffin like a Niobe, not knowing where to
hide herself to escape from the withering, contemptuous looks cast
upon her by the indignant crowd.

"I see, M'sieu, that you like the Smith and Wesson make," the shopman
broke in upon his broodings. "If you think it too dear, very well,
I'll knock off five roubles. . . . But we have other makes, cheaper."

The little Frenchified figure turned gracefully and took down another
dozen cases of revolvers from the shelf.

"Here, M'sieu, price thirty roubles. That's not expensive, especially
as the rate of exchange has dropped terribly and the Customs duties
are rising every hour. M'sieu, I vow I am a Conservative, but even
I am beginning to murmur. Why, with the rate of exchange and the
Customs tariff, only the rich can purchase firearms. There's nothing
left for the poor but Tula weapons and phosphorus matches, and Tula
weapons are a misery! You may aim at your wife with a Tula revolver
and shoot yourself through the shoulder-blade."

Sigaev suddenly felt mortified and sorry that he would be dead, and
would miss seeing the agonies of the traitress. Revenge is only
sweet when one can see and taste its fruits, and what sense would
there be in it if he were lying in his coffin, knowing nothing about
it?

"Hadn't I better do this?" he pondered. "I'll kill him, then I'll
go to his funeral and look on, and after the funeral I'll kill
myself. They'd arrest me, though, before the funeral, and take away
my pistol. . . . And so I'll kill him, she shall remain alive, and
I . . . for the time, I'll not kill myself, but go and be arrested.
I sha