I began to pace the room up and down, and, happening to glance at the mirror, I saw a face which I could with difficulty recognise as my own.
“Look here,” at last said I to my visitor, “dry your tears. You must know that I myself was the victim of the most abominable deceit.” I began relating to her everything that had passed. “You see,” said I, finishing, “God is merciful, and I am still alive. Now in your turn; explain.”
The stranger could not for a long time utter one word. Having given her some water, I invited her to follow me into the garden. Here, finally, she recovered her power of speech. Two or three times she looked at me humbly, as though asking for pardon, then at length she began.
“My tale is sadder than yours is,” she said, sobbing, after we had taken a few turns in the garden, and had sat down; “but I have been so guilty towards you,” covering her face with her hands, “that you will never forgive me.”
“Forget all about that,” said I, recovering my composure. “I am ready to forgive everything.… All comes from God.… Everything is in His hands.…”
The stranger turned towards me her pale, sorrowful countenance, and taking me by the hand again began sobbing.
“You are so generous,” she whispered. “Did you ever hear of the fate of Merovitch?”
“Oh, yes! of course!”
“Well! I am—the guilty cause of his tentative.… I was his affianced bride, Polixena Pchelkina.”