Since that time I have never met Mísha, but I learned his final fate in the following manner.
VIII
Three years later I again found myself in the country; suddenly a servant entered and announced that Madame Pólteff was inquiring for me. I knew no Madame Pólteff, and the servant who made the announcement was grinning in a sarcastic sort of way, for some reason or other. In reply to my questioning glance he said that the lady who was asking for me was young, poorly clad, and had arrived in a peasant-cart drawn by one horse which she was driving herself! I ordered that Madame Pólteff should be requested to do me the favour to step into my study.
I beheld a woman of five-and-twenty,—belonging to the petty burgher class, to judge from her attire,—with a large kerchief on her head. Her face was simple, rather round in contour, not devoid of agreeability; her gaze was downcast and rather melancholy, her movements were embarrassed.
"Are you Madame Pólteff?" I asked, inviting her to be seated.
"Just so, sir," she answered, in a low voice, and without sitting down.—"I am the widow of your nephew, Mikhaíl Andréevitch Pólteff."
"Is Mikhaíl Andréevitch dead? Has he been dead long?—But sit down, I beg of you."
She dropped down on a chair.
"This is the second month since he died."
"And were you married to him long ago?"