Liza was as quiet as usual, but more than usually pale.  She took the folded leaf of the newspaper from her pocket, and handed it to Lavretsky.

“That is terrible news,” she said.

Lavretsky made no reply.

“But, after all, perhaps it may not be true.”

“That is why I asked you not to mention it to any one.”

Liza walked on a little farther.

“Tell me,” she began, “are not you sorry?—­not at all sorry?”

“I don’t know myself what I feel,” answered Lavretsky.

“But you loved her once?”

“I did.”

“Very much?”

—­“Yes.”

“And yet you are not sorry for her death?”

“It is not only now that she has become dead for me.”

“You are saying what is sinful.  Don’t be angry with me.  You have called me your friend.  A friend may say anything.  And it really seems terrible to me.  The expression on your face yesterday was not good to see.  Do you remember your complaining about her not long ago?  And at that very time, perhaps, she was already no longer among the living.  It is terrible.  It is just as if it had been sent you as a punishment.”

Lavretsky laughed bitterly.

“You think so?—­at all events I am free now.”

Liza shuddered.

“Do not speak so any more.  What use is your freedom to you?  You should not be thinking of that now, but of forgiveness—­”

“I forgave her long ago,” interrupted Lavretsky, with an impatient gesture.

“No, I don’t mean that,” answered Liza, reddening; “you have not understood me properly.  It is you who ought to strive to get pardoned.”

“Who is there to pardon me?”

“Who?  Why God.  Who can pardon us except God?”

Lavretsky grasped her hand.

“Ah!  Lizaveta Mikhailovna!” he exclaimed, “believe me, I have already been punished enough—­I have already expiated all, believe me.”

“You cannot tell that,” said Liza, in a low voice.  “You forget.  It was not long ago that you and I were talking, and you were not willing to forgive her.”

Both of them walked along the alley for a time in silence.

“And about your daughter?” suddenly asked Liza, and then stopped short.

Lavretsky shuddered.

“Oh! don’t disturb yourself about her.  I have already sent off letters in all directions.  The future of my daughter, as you—­as you say—­is assured.  You need not trouble yourself on that score.”

Liza smiled sadly.

“But you are right,” continued Lavretsky.  “What am I to do with my freedom—­what use is it to me?”

“When did you get this paper?” asked Liza, without answering his question.

“The day after your visit.”

“And have not you—­have not you even shed a tear?”

“No; I was thunderstruck.  But whither should I look for tears?  Should I cry over the past?  Why, all mine has been, as it were, consumed with fire.  Her fault did not actually destroy my happiness; it only proved to me that for me happiness had never really existed.  What, then, had I to cry for?  Besides—­who knows?—­perhaps I should have been more grieved if I had received this news a fortnight sooner.”