Lavrétzky came to himself, at last; he separated himself from the wall, and moved toward the door.
"You are going away?"—said his wife, in despair:—"oh, this is cruel!—Without saying one word to me, without even one reproach.... This scorn is killing me, this is terrible!"
Lavrétzky stopped short.
"What is it that you wish to hear from me?"—he uttered, in a toneless voice.
"Nothing, nothing,"—she caught him up with vivacity:—"I know that I have no right to demand anything;—I am not a fool, believe me;—I do not hope, I do not dare to hope for your forgiveness;—I only venture to entreat you, that you will give me directions what I am to do, where I am to live?—I will fulfil your command, whatever it may be, like a slave."
"I have no commands to give you,"—returned Lavrétzky, in the same voice:—"you know, that everything is at an end between us ... and now more than ever.—You may live where you see fit;—and if your allowance is insufficient...."
"Akh, do not utter such dreadful words,"—Varvára Pávlovna interrupted him:—"spare me, if only ... if only for the sake of that angel...." And, as she said these words, Varvára Pávlovna flew headlong into the next room, and immediately returned with a tiny, very elegantly dressed little girl in her arms. Heavy, ruddy-gold curls fell over her pretty, rosy little face, over her large, black, sleepy eyes; she smiled, and blinked at the light, and clung with her chubby hand to her mother's neck.
"Ada, vois, c'est ton père,"—said Varvára Pávlovna, pushing the curls aside from her eyes, and giving her a hearty kiss:—"prie le avec moi."
"C'est ça, papa?"—lisped the little girl, brokenly.
"Oui, mon enfant, n'est ce pas, que tu l'aimes?"