Darkness came down. Kranitski smoked cigarettes one after another, and was so sunk in thought that he trembled throughout his body. When widow Clemens brought in a lamp, with a milk-colored globe, which filled the room with a white, mild light, Kranitski looked at the head of the old woman in the white lamp-light, and, for the first time in a number of hours, he spoke:
"Come, mother, come nearer!" said he.
When she came he seized her rude fist in both his hands and shook it vigorously.
"What could I do; what would happen to me now, if you were not with me? No living soul of my own here! Alone, alone, as in a desert."
The onrush of tenderness burst through all obstructions. Confidences flowed on. He had loved for the last time in life, le dernier amour, and all had ended. She had forbidden him to see her. That decision of hers had been ripening for a long time. Reproaches of conscience, shame, despair as to her children. One daughter knew everything; the other might know it any day. She had let out of her hands the rudder of those hearts and consciences, for when she was talking with them her own fault closed her lips, like a red-hot seal. She thought herself the most pitiful of creatures. She did not wish to make further use of her husband's wealth, or the position which it give her in society. She wished to go away, to settle down in some silent corner, vanish from the eyes of people.
Kranitski was so excited that he almost sobbed; here his speech was interrupted by a rough, sarcastic voice:
"It is well that she came to her senses at last—"
"What senses? What are you weaving, mother? You know nothing. Love is never an offense. Ils ont peche, mais le ceil est un don."
"You are mad, Tulek! Am I some madam that you must speak French to me?" Still he finished:
"Ils ont souffert, c'est le sceau du pardon. I will translate this for thee: They have sinned, but heaven is a gift——-They have suffered; suffering is the seal of pardon."