"Take me to her," said the usurper, rising.
It was impossible to hesitate. Chvabrine led Pugatchéf to Marya Ivánofna's room. I followed them. Chvabrine stopped on the stairs.
"Tzar," said he, "you can constrain me to do as you list, but do not permit a stranger to enter my wife's room."
"You are married!" cried I, ready to tear him in pieces.
"Hush!" interrupted Pugatchéf, "it is my concern. And you," continued he, turning towards Chvabrine, "do not swagger; whether she be your wife or no, I take whomsoever I please to see her. Your lordship, follow me."
At the door of the room Chvabrine again stopped, and said, in a broken voice—
"Tzar, I warn you she is feverish, and for three days she has been delirious."
"Open!" said Pugatchéf.
Chvabrine began to fumble in his pockets, and ended by declaring he had forgotten the key.
Pugatchéf gave a push to the door with his foot, the lock gave way, the door opened, and we went in. I cast a rapid glance round the room and nearly fainted. Upon the floor, in a coarse peasant's dress, sat Marya, pale and thin, with her hair unbound. Before her stood a jug of water and a bit of bread. At the sight of me she trembled and gave a piercing cry. I cannot say what I felt. Pugatchéf looked sidelong at Chvabrine, and said to him with a bitter smile—