myself aloud.

I laid down and tried to sleep, but an hour after I was still leaning on my elbow, and thinking again of that capricious little girl with a forced laugh. She has the figure of La Galathée of Raphael of the Farnese palace, I murmured.—It is well that—and she is not his sister. During this time the widow's letter reposed quietly upon the floor, lighted up by a pale ray of the moon.

V.

The next morning I returned to L. I persuaded myself that I should take the greatest pleasure in seeing Gaguine, but the fact is that I was secretly impelled by the desire of knowing how Annouchka would behave,—if she would act as strangely as the night before. I found them both in the parlor; and a singular thing,—but perhaps because I had been dreaming so long of Russia,—Annouchka seemed to me entirely Russian. I found in her the air of a young girl of the people, almost that of one of the servants. She wore quite an old dress, her hair was drawn back behind her ears, and, seated near the window, she was quietly working at her embroidery, as if she had never done anything else in her life. Her eyes fixed upon her work, she scarcely spoke, and her features had an expression so dull, so commonplace, that I was involuntarily reminded of Macha and Katia[2] at home. To complete the resemblance she began to hum the air,—

While observing her face, the dreams of the night before came back to mind, and without knowing why, I felt an oppression in my heart. The weather was magnificent.

Gaguine told us he intended to go out to sketch. I asked permission to accompany him if it would not trouble him.

"On the contrary," he said, "you can give me some good advice."

He put on his blouse, donned his round Van Dyck hat, took his portfolio under his arm, and started out. I followed him. Annouchka remained at home. On leaving, Gaguine begged her to see that the soup was not made too thin. She promised to keep her eye on the kitchen.

Leading me into the valley, with which I was already familiar, Gaguine seated himself upon a stone, and began to draw an old tufted oak.

I stretched myself upon the grass and took a book, but read two pages of it at the most. Gaguine, on his side, made but a poor daub. In return we did not fail to discuss very fully, and, in my opinion, not without judgment and justness, the best method to follow to work with profit, the dangers to avoid, the end to be aimed at, and the mission of the true artist in the age in which we live. Gaguine ended by declaring that to-day he did not feel sufficiently in spirits, and came and stretched himself at my side. Then we gave ourselves up to the irresistible temptation of one of those conversations so dear to youth, conversations sometimes enthusiastic, sometimes pensive and melancholy, but always sincere and always vague, in which we Russians love so much to indulge. After having talked to satiety, we took the road to the town, very well satisfied with ourselves, as if we had just accomplished a difficult task, or brought a great enterprise to a good end. We found Annouchka exactly as we left her. I observed her with the utmost attention; I could discover in her neither the slightest shade of coquetry, or indication denoting a studied part; it was impossible this time to find in her any vestiges of oddity.

"Decidedly," said Gaguine, "she is fasting and doing penance."

Towards evening she yawned two or three times without the least affectation, and went to bed early. I took leave of Gaguine soon after, and, going home, I did not allow myself to dream. The day came to an end without my mind suffering the least trouble, only it seemed to me, as I lay down, that I said involuntarily aloud,—

"Oh! that little girl—she is, indeed, an enigma. And yet," added I, after a moment's reflection, "and yet she is not his sister!"

VI.

A fortnight elapsed after these events. I went every day to make Gaguine a visit. Annouchka seemed to shun me, and no longer indulged in those head-shakings that had annoyed me so much in the first days of our acquaintance. She seemed to conceal a grief or a secret trouble; she laughed more rarely. I continued to observe her with curiosity.

French and German were quite familiar to her, but a number of things made me divine that she had been without a woman's care in her infancy, that she had received a strange, desultory education, quite different from that of Gaguine. In him, in spite of his blouse and Van Dyck hat, you quickly discovered the Russian gentleman, nonchalant and slightly effeminate; she in no wise resembled a noble lady. All her movements implied a kind of restlessness; she was a seedling newly grafted, a wine that yet fermented. Naturally timid and distrustful of herself, she was vexed at feeling gauche, and sought in spite of it to give herself an unconstrained and bold manner, but not always with success. Several times I led the conversation to her past, and her way of living in Russia; I saw that she replied with a bad grace to my questions. All that I could learn was that at the time she left Russia she was living in the country. One day I found her alone and reading; her head leaning on her hands, her fingers thrust in her hair, she was devouring the book before her with her eyes.

"Bravo!" I cried, approaching. "What, a love of study?"

She raised her head, and, looking at me with a serious and dignified air, "You thought, then, I could do nothing but laugh?" she said, and she rose to leave.

I glanced at the title of the book; it was a bad French novel.

"You might have made a better choice," I said to her.

"What must I read, then?" she cried, and, throwing her book upon the table, she added: "Then, in that case, I am going to amuse myself." And she ran towards the garden.

The same day, in the evening, I read to Gaguine Herrman and Dorothea. As I began to read, Annouchka went to and fro incessantly, then suddenly she stopped, listened, seated herself quietly beside me, and gave me her attention to the end.

The next day I was again surprised in no longer seeing the old Annouchka. I began to comprehend that she had suddenly taken into her head to be a housewife, wrapped up in her duties, like Dorothea. Finally her character seemed inexplicable to me. In spite of the excessive amour propre that I found in her, I felt attracted towards her, even when she made me angry. One thing, at least, appeared certain, and that was that she was not the sister of Gaguine. I did not find in him towards her the conduct of a brother; on her side too much respect and compliance, too little constraint.

A strange circumstance seemed, according to all appearances, to strengthen my suspicions. One evening, approaching the hedge which surrounded Gaguine's house, I found the gate closed. Without stopping at this obstacle I reached a place where, some days before, I had noticed that a part of the hedge was destroyed, and I jumped into the enclosure; some distance from there, a few steps from the path, there was a little arbor of acacias; scarcely had I passed it than I distinguished the voice of Annouchka, who cried out with fervor, weeping,—

"No, I shall never love any one but you; no, no, it is you alone whom I wish to love, and forever!"

"Come, calm yourself," replied Gaguine, "you know very well that I believe you." Their voices left the arbor. I could see them through the thin foliage; they did not observe me.

"You,