In my room she told me she had loved me for a long time, more than a year.  She vowed eternal love, cried and begged me to take her away with me.  I repeatedly took her to the window to look at her face in the moonlight, and she seemed to me a lovely dream, and I made haste to hold her tight to convince myself of the truth of it.  It was long since I had known such raptures. . . .  Yet somewhere far away at the bottom of my heart I felt an awkwardness, and I was ill at ease.  In her love for me there was something incongruous and burdensome, just as in Dmitri Petrovitch’s friendship.  It was a great, serious passion with tears and vows, and I wanted nothing serious in it—­no tears, no vows, no talk of the future.  Let that moonlight night flash through our lives like a meteor and—­basta!

At three o’clock she went out of my room, and, while I was standing in the doorway, looking after her, at the end of the corridor Dmitri Petrovitch suddenly made his appearance; she started and stood aside to let him pass, and her whole figure was expressive of repulsion.  He gave a strange smile, coughed, and came into my room.

“I forgot my cap here yesterday,” he said without looking at me.

He found it and, holding it in both hands, put it on his head; then he looked at my confused face, at my slippers, and said in a strange, husky voice unlike his own: 

“I suppose it must be my fate that I should understand nothing. . . .  If you understand anything, I congratulate you.  It’s all darkness before my eyes.”

And he went out, clearing his throat.  Afterwards from the window I saw him by the stable, harnessing the horses with his own hands.  His hands were trembling, he was in nervous haste and kept looking round at the house; probably he was feeling terror.  Then he got into the gig, and, with a strange expression as though afraid of being pursued, lashed the horses.

Shortly afterwards I set off, too.  The sun was already rising, and the mist of the previous day clung timidly to the bushes and the hillocks.  On the box of the carriage was sitting Forty Martyrs; he had already succeeded in getting drunk and was muttering tipsy nonsense.

“I am a free man,” he shouted to the horses.  “Ah, my honeys, I am a nobleman in my own right, if you care to know!”

The terror of Dmitri Petrovitch, the thought of whom I could not get out of my head, infected me.  I thought of what had happened and could make nothing of it.  I looked at the rooks, and it seemed so strange and terrible that they were flying.

“Why have I done this?” I kept asking myself in bewilderment and despair.  “Why has it turned out like this and not differently?  To whom and for what was it necessary that she should love me in earnest, and that he should come into my room to fetch his cap?  What had a cap to do with it?”

I set off for Petersburg that day, and I have not seen Dmitri Petrovitch nor his wife since.  I am told that they are still living together.