Tomsky’s words were nothing more than the customary small talk of the dance, but they sank deep into the soul of the young dreamer.  The portrait, sketched by Tomsky, coincided with the picture she had formed within her own mind, and thanks to the latest romances, the ordinary countenance of her admirer became invested with attributes capable of alarming her and fascinating her imagination at the same time.  She was now sitting with her bare arms crossed and with her head, still adorned with flowers, sunk upon her uncovered bosom.  Suddenly the door opened and Hermann entered.  She shuddered.

“Where were you?” she asked in a terrified whisper.

“In the old Countess’s bedroom,” replied Hermann:  “I have just left her.  The Countess is dead.”

“My God!  What do you say?”

“And I am afraid,” added Hermann, “that I am the cause of her death.”

Lizaveta looked at him, and Tomsky’s words found an echo in her soul:  “This man has at least three crimes upon his conscience!” Hermann sat down by the window near her, and related all that had happened.

Lizaveta listened to him in terror.  So all those passionate letters, those ardent desires, this bold obstinate pursuit—­all this was not love!  Money—­that was what his soul yearned for!  She could not satisfy his desire and make him, happy I The poor girl had been nothing but the blind tool of a robber, of the murderer of her aged benefactress!...  She wept bitter tears of agonised repentance.  Hermann gazed at her in silence:  his heart, too, was a prey to violent emotion, but neither the tears of the poor girl, nor the wonderful charm of her beauty, enhanced by her grief, could produce any impression upon his hardened soul.  He felt no pricking of conscience at the thought of the dead old woman.  One thing only grieved him:  the irreparable loss of the secret from which he had expected to obtain great wealth.

“You are a monster!” said Lizaveta at last.

“I did not wish for her death,” replied Hermann:  “my pistol was not loaded.”

Both remained silent.

The day began to dawn.  Lizaveta extinguished her candle:  a pale light illumined her room.  She wiped her tear-stained eyes and raised them towards Hermann:  he was sitting near the window, with his arms crossed and with a fierce frown upon his forehead.  In this attitude he bore a striking resemblance to the portrait of Napoleon.  This resemblance struck Lizaveta even.

“How shall I get you out of the house?” said she at last.  “I thought of conducting you down the secret staircase, but in that case it would be necessary to go through the Countess’s bedroom, and I am afraid.”

“Tell me how to find this secret staircase—­I will go alone.”

Lizaveta arose, took from her drawer a key, handed it to Hermann and gave him the necessary instructions.  Hermann pressed her cold, limp hand, kissed her bowed head, and left the room.