“Je vous aimais toute ma vie … vingt ans!”
She remained silent for two or three minutes.
“And when you were getting yourself up for Dasha you sprinkled yourself with scent,” she said suddenly, in a terrible whisper.
Stepan Trofimovitch was dumbfounded.
“You put on a new tie …”
Again silence for two minutes.
“Do you remember the cigar?”
“My friend,” he faltered, overcome with horror.
“That cigar at the window in the evening … the moon was shining … after the arbour … at Skvoreshniki? Do you remember, do you remember?” She jumped up from her place, seized his pillow by the corners and shook it with his head on it. “Do you remember, you worthless, worthless, ignoble, cowardly, worthless man, always worthless!” she hissed in her furious whisper, restraining herself from speaking loudly. At last she left him and sank on the chair, covering her face with her hands. “Enough!” she snapped out, drawing herself up. “Twenty years have passed, there’s no calling them back. I am a fool too.”
“Je vous aimais.” He clasped his hands again.