“Ada, vois, c’est ton pere,” said Varvara Pavlovna, removing the curls from the child’s eyes, and kissing her demonstratively. “Prie-le avec moi.”

“C’est la, papa?” the little girl lispingly began to stammer.

“Oui, mon enfant, n’est-ce pas que tu l’aimes?”

But the interview had become intolerable to Lavretsky. ;’

“What melodrama is it just such a scene occurs; in?” he muttered, and left the room.

Varvara Pavlovna remained standing where she was for some time, then she slightly shrugged her shoulders, took the little girl back into the other room, undressed her, and put her to bed.  Then she took a book and sat down near the lamp.  There she waited about an hour, but at last she went to bed herself.

“Eh bien, madame?” asked her maid,—­a Frenchwoman whom she had brought with her from Paris,—­as she unlaced her stays.

“Eh bien, Justine!” replied Varvara Pavlovna.  “He has aged a great deal, but I think he is just as good as ever.  Give me my gloves for the night, and get the gray dress, the high one, ready for to-morrow morning—­and don’t forget the mutton cutlets for Ada.  To be sure it will be difficult to get them here, but we must try.”

“A la guerre comme a la guerre!” replied Justine as she put out the light.

XXXV.

For more than two hours Lavretsky wandered about the streets.  The night he had spent in the suburbs of Paris came back into his mind.  His heart seemed rent within him, and his brain felt vacant and as it were numbed, while the same set of evil, gloomy, mad thoughts went ever circling in his mind.  “She is alive; she is here,” he whispered to himself with constantly recurring amazement.  He felt that he had lost Liza.  Wrath seemed to suffocate him.  The blow had too suddenly descended upon him.  How could he have so readily believed the foolish gossip of a feuilleton, a mere scrap of paper?  “But if I had not believed it,” he thought, “what would have been the difference?  I should not have known that Liza loves me.  She would not have known it herself.”  He could not drive the thought of his wife out of his mind; her form, her voice, her eyes haunted him.  He cursed himself, he cursed every thing in the world.

Utterly tired out, he came to Lemm’s house before the dawn.  For a long time he could not get the door opened; at last the old man’s nightcapped head appeared at the window.  Peevish and wrinkled, his face bore scarcely any resemblance to that which, austerely inspired, had looked royally down upon Lavretsky twenty-four hours before, from all the height of its artistic grandeur.

“What do you want?” asked Lemm.  “I cannot play every night.  I have taken a tisane.”

But Lavretsky’s face wore a strong expression which could not escape notice.  The old man shaded his eyes with his hand, looked hard at his nocturnal visitor, and let him in.