That year Bugrov, too, visited the Crimea.  He did not take the villa opposite, but pottered about, going from one town to another with Mishutka.  He spent his time eating, drinking, sleeping, and playing cards.  He had lost all relish for fishing, shooting and the French women, who, between ourselves, had robbed him a bit.  He had grown thin, lost his broad and beaming smiles, and had taken to dressing in canvas.  Ivan Petrovitch from time to time visited Groholsky’s villa.  He brought Liza jam, sweets, and fruit, and seemed trying to dispel her ennui.  Groholsky was not troubled by these visits, especially as they were brief and infrequent, and were apparently paid on account of Mishutka, who could not under any circumstances have been altogether deprived of the privilege of seeing his mother.  Bugrov came, unpacked his presents, and after saying a few words, departed.  And those few words he said not to Liza but to Groholsky . . . .  With Liza he was silent and Groholsky’s mind was at rest; but there is a Russian proverb which he would have done well to remember:  “Don’t fear the dog that barks, but fear the dog that’s quiet. . . .”  A fiendish proverb, but in practical life sometimes indispensable.

As he was walking in the garden one day, Groholsky heard two voices in conversation.  One voice was a man’s, the other was a woman’s.  One belonged to Bugrov, the other to Liza.  Groholsky listened, and turning white as death, turned softly towards the speakers.  He halted behind a lilac bush, and proceeded to watch and listen.  His arms and legs turned cold.  A cold sweat came out upon his brow.  He clutched several branches of the lilac that he might not stagger and fall down.  All was over!

Bugrov had his arm round Liza’s waist, and was saying to her: 

“My darling! what are we to do?  It seems it was God’s will. . . .  I am a scoundrel. . . .  I sold you.  I was seduced by that Herod’s money, plague take him, and what good have I had from the money?  Nothing but anxiety and display!  No peace, no happiness, no position . . . .  One sits like a fat invalid at the same spot, and never a step forwarder. . . .  Have you heard that Andrushka Markuzin has been made a head clerk?  Andrushka, that fool!  While I stagnate. . . .  Good heavens!  I have lost you, I have lost my happiness.  I am a scoundrel, a blackguard, how do you think I shall feel at the dread day of judgment?”

“Let us go away, Vanya,” wailed Liza.  “I am dull. . . .  I am dying of depression.”

“We cannot, the money has been taken. . . .”

“Well, give it back again.”

“I should be glad to, but . . . wait a minute.  I have spent it all.  We must submit, my girl.  God is chastising us.  Me for my covetousness and you for your frivolity.  Well, let us be tortured. . . .  It will be the better for us in the next world.”

And in an access of religious feeling, Bugrov turned up his eyes to heaven.