Valentina Mihailovna raised a hand holding a scented cambric pocket-handkerchief with a large white monogram embroidered in one corner and tried to say something, but Mariana continued passionately:
“You would have been right, a thousand times right, if, instead of counting up all your petty benefits and sacrifices, you could have been in a position to say ‘the girl I loved’ ... but you are too honest to lie about that!” Mariana trembled feverishly. “You have always hated me. And even now you are glad in the bottom of your heart—that same heart you have just mentioned—glad that I am justifying your constant predictions, covering myself with shame and scandal—you are only annoyed because part of this shame is bound to fall on your virtuous, aristocratic house!”
“You are insulting me,” Valentina Mihailovna whispered. “Be kind enough to leave the room!”
But Mariana could no longer contain herself. “Your household, you said, all your household, Anna Zaharovna and everybody knows of my behaviour! And every one is horrified and indignant.... But am I asking anything of you, of all these people? Do you think I care for their good opinion? Do you think that eating your bread has been sweet? I would prefer the greatest poverty to this luxury. There is a gulf between me and your house, an interminable gulf that cannot be crossed. You are an intelligent woman, don’t you feel it too? And if you hate me, what do you think I feel towards you? We won’t go into unnecessary details, it’s too obvious.”
“Sortez, sortez, vous dis-je ...” Valentina Mihailovna repeated, stamping her pretty little foot.
Mariana took a few steps towards the door.
“I will rid you of my presence directly, only do you know what, Valentina Mihailovna? They say that in Racine’s Bajazet even Rachel’s sortez! was not effective, and you don’t come anywhere near her! Then, what was it you said ... Je suis une honnête femme, je l’ai été et le serai toujours? But I am convinced that I am far more honest than you are! Goodbye!”
Mariana went out quickly and Valentina Mihailovna sprang up from her chair. She wanted to scream, to cry, but did not know what to scream about, and the tears would not come at her bidding.
So she fanned herself with her pocket-handkerchief, but the strong scent of it affected her nerves still more. She felt miserable, insulted.... She was conscious of a certain amount of truth in what she had just heard, but how could anyone be so unjust to her? “Am I really so bad?” she thought, and looked at herself in a mirror hanging opposite between two windows. The looking-glass reflected a charming face, somewhat excited, the colour coming and going, but still a fascinating face, with wonderful soft, velvety eyes.... “I? I am bad?” she thought again.... “With such eyes?”
But at this moment her husband entered the room and she again covered her face with her pocket-handkerchief.