“And she?” Bugrov repeated, this time not in an ironical tone.

“She . . . she loves me!  We love each other, Ivan Petrovitch!  Kill us, despise us, pursue us, do as you will, but we can no longer conceal it from you.  We are standing face to face—­you may judge us with all the severity of a man whom we . . . whom fate has robbed of happiness!”

Bugrov turned as red as a boiled crab, and looked out of one eye at Liza.  He began blinking.  His fingers, his lips, and his eyelids twitched.  Poor fellow!  The eyes of his weeping wife told him that Groholsky was right, that it was a serious matter.

“Well!” he muttered.  “If you. . . .  In these days. . . .  You are always. . . .”

“As God is above,” Groholsky shrilled in his high tenor, “we understand you.  Do you suppose we have no sense, no feeling?  I know what agonies I am causing you, as God’s above!  But be indulgent, I beseech you!  We are not to blame.  Love is not a crime.  No will can struggle against it. . . .  Give her up to me, Ivan Petrovitch!  Let her go with me!  Take from me what you will for your sufferings.  Take my life, but give me Liza.  I am ready to do anything. . . .  Come, tell me how I can do something to make up in part at least!  To make up for that lost happiness, I can give you other happiness.  I can, Ivan Petrovitch; I am ready to do anything!  It would be base on my part to leave you without satisfaction. . . .  I understand you at this moment.”

Bugrov waved his hand as though to say, ‘For God’s sake, go away.’  His eyes began to be dimmed by a treacherous moisture—­in a moment they would see him crying like a child.

“I understand you, Ivan Petrovitch.  I will give you another happiness, such as hitherto you have not known.  What would you like?  I have money, my father is an influential man. . . .  Will you?  Come, how much do you want?”

Bugrov’s heart suddenly began throbbing. . . .  He clutched at the window curtains with both hands. . . .

“Will you have fifty thousand?  Ivan Petrovitch, I entreat you. . . .  It’s not a bribe, not a bargain. . . .  I only want by a sacrifice on my part to atone a little for your inevitable loss.  Would you like a hundred thousand?  I am willing.  A hundred thousand?”

My God!  Two immense hammers began beating on the perspiring temples of the unhappy Ivan Petrovitch.  Russian sledges with tinkling bells began racing in his ears. . . .

“Accept this sacrifice from me,” Groholsky went on, “I entreat you!  You will take a load off my conscience. . . .  I implore you!”

My God!  A smart carriage rolled along the road wet from a May shower, passed the window through which Bugrov’s wet eyes were looking.  The horses were fine, spirited, well-trained beasts.  People in straw hats, with contented faces, were sitting in the carriage with long fishing-rods and bags. . . .  A schoolboy in a white cap was holding a gun.  They were driving out into the country to