"Kill Christian Tueski?"
"Did I kill him? No, child, certainly not." I spoke in the greatest astonishment.
"Oaths may bind you to secrecy, I know. But for God's sake, tell me the truth—the truth. You can tell me. I am...." I felt her shudder.
"Is it this which has been driving you distracted? There is no cause. I know no more by whose hand that man came by his death than a babe unborn."
"Say that again, Alexis. Say it again. It is the sweetest music I have heard in all my life."
I repeated the assurance, and a smile of genuine relief broke out over her face. Next she cried and laughed and cried again, and then sat down as if completely overcome by the rush of relief from a too heavy strain.
"What does all this mean?" I asked quietly, after a while. "Try and tell me."
"I have been like a mad thing for two days. Let me wait awhile. I will tell you presently. Oh, thank God, thank God for what you have said. It drove me mad to think you should have been driven to this by me; and that perhaps for my sake you might have been urged to do such a horrible thing. Waking and sleeping alike I have thought of nothing but of your suffering torture and death. And all through me—through me." She covered her face in horror at the remembrance of her thoughts: but a moment later took away her hands to smile at me.
"You have not told me yet what made you think anything of the sort."
"I will tell you. As soon as I heard the news, I knew of course that as I had been mixed up in some old Nihilist troubles, it would be hopeless for me to think of leaving Moscow; and when the police agent came I let him understand that I had given up all thought of travelling yet. Then I was all anxiety for news of you, and in the afternoon I went to your rooms. I found the door shut and could hear nothing. Then I began to fear for you. I am only a woman."