"But what if she did not set her soul on me at all? What if she killed herself merely because life had become a burden to her?—What if she, in conclusion, did not come to that tryst with the object of obtaining declarations of love at all?"
But at that moment Clara before her parting on the boulevard rose up before him…. He recalled that sorrowful expression on her face, and those tears, and those words:—"Akh, you have understood nothing!"
No! He could not doubt for what object and for what person she had laid down her life….
Thus passed that day until nightfall.
XV
Arátoff went early to bed, without feeling particularly sleepy; but he hoped to find rest in bed. The strained condition of his nerves caused him a fatigue which was far more intolerable than the physical weariness of the journey and the road. But great as was his fatigue, he could not get to sleep. He tried to read … but the lines got entangled before his eyes. He extinguished his candle, and darkness took possession of his chamber.—But he continued to lie there sleepless, with closed eyes…. And now it seemed to him that some one was whispering in his ear…. "It is the beating of my heart, the rippling of the blood," he thought…. But the whisper passed into coherent speech. Some one was talking Russian hurriedly, plaintively, and incomprehensibly. It was impossible to distinguish a single separate word…. But it was Clara's voice!
Arátoff opened his eyes, rose up in bed, propped himself on his elbows…. The voice grew fainter, but continued its plaintive, hurried, unintelligible speech as before….
It was indubitably Clara's voice!
Some one's fingers ran over the keys of the piano in light arpeggios…. Then the voice began to speak again. More prolonged sounds made themselves audible … like moans … always the same. And then words began to detach themselves….
"Roses … roses … roses."….