“I hope you will not cause me to repent of my condescension.”
He was silent, and seemed to be collecting himself.
“Circumstances demand—I am obliged to leave you,” he said at last. “It may be that you will soon hear—but before going away, I must have an explanation with you.”
Maria Kirilovna made no reply. In these words she saw the preface to the expected declaration.
“I am not what you suppose,” continued he, lowering his head: “I am not the Frenchman Desforges—I am Doubrovsky.”
Maria Kirilovna uttered a cry.
“Do not be alarmed, for God’s sake! You need not be afraid of my name. Yes, I am that unhappy person, whom your father, after depriving him of his last crust of bread, drove out of his paternal home and sent on to the highway to rob. But you need not be afraid, either on your own account or on his. All is over.... I have forgiven him; you have saved him. My first crime of blood was to have been accomplished upon him. I prowled round his house, determining where the fire should burst out, where I should enter his bedroom, and how I should cut him off from all means of escape; at that moment you passed by me like a heavenly vision, and my heart was subdued. I understood that the house, in which you dwelt, was sacred; that not a single person, connected with you by the ties of blood, could lie beneath my curse. I looked upon vengeance as madness, and dismissed the thought of it from my mind. Whole days I wandered around the gardens of Pokrovskoe, in the hope of seeing your white robe in the distance. In your incautious walks I followed you, stealing from bush to bush, happy in the thought that for you there was no danger, where I was secretly present. At last an opportunity presented itself.... I established myself in your house. Those three weeks were for me days of happiness; the recollection of them will be the joy of my sad life.... To-day I received news which renders it impossible for me to remain here any longer. I part from you to-day—at this very moment.... But before doing so, I felt that it was necessary that I should reveal myself to you, so that you might not curse me nor despise me. Think sometimes of Doubrovsky. Know that he was born for another fate, that his soul was capable of loving you, that never——”
Just then a loud whistle resounded, and Doubrovsky became silent. He seized her hand and pressed it to his burning lips. The whistle was repeated.
“Farewell,” said Doubrovsky: “they are calling me. A moment’s delay may destroy me.”
He moved away.... Maria Kirilovna stood motionless. Doubrovsky returned and once more took her by the hand.