In truth I do not know whether I felt dismayed or glad. It was as if I were in a dream.
Since I had begun to take cocaine again, that twilight sensation of unreality had descended anew like a misty veil upon all my perceptions.
I could not distinguish facts from illusions. Prilukoff had immediately disappeared—or had I only fancied that I saw him?
Trembling a little, I rose from my place, and while many of the guests were still talking and laughing with their host I excused myself on the plea of fatigue. They toasted me a last time, and Kamarowsky kissed me ceremoniously before them all.
With cheeks and heart aflame I hurried to my apartments, glad to think that I should find them dark and silent. My temples were throbbing, the coronet of diamonds—a gift of Kamarowsky's—weighed heavy on my brow, and my eyes seemed to be pierced with red-hot needles.
I opened the door of my sitting-room, where a lamp, turned low, glimmered like a star veiled in red vapor. Behind it I could see yawning blackly the open door leading to my bedroom, which was in complete darkness.
I had a strange feeling that I was not alone. Some one was in the room—some one whom I could not discern was near to me.
Yes, a footstep approached; a strong arm encircled me. Nicolas Naumoff's voice spoke in thrilling accents: “Marie! Marie! My heart is breaking.”
With a sigh of infinite weariness merging into a sense of infinite repose I laid my head against his breast. I longed to die. I felt as if I had nothing more to ask for, nothing more to desire.
But the anguish that was passing from my soul seemed to have entered into his.