"I do not know--I had no suspicion--I never noticed the slightest," stammers she.
"So! You never noticed anything," he repeats after her. "Noticed nothing! So! Did you, perhaps, pick up a lover on the streets?" he sneers at Mascha.
Then she opens her eyes, rests them on him with a touchingly sad, supplicating, humble, reproachful glance. It seems to him that something has snapped within him. The anger is gone; only a great pity yet lives in him, and he bends over the child and takes her in his arms, clasps her to his breast, sobs and covers her pale little face with kisses and tears. Meanwhile he notices that Madame Jeliagin still stands near him, that she watches him. He stands up. "What have you to do here now, you--you who did not know how to guard my child? Go!" And imperiously he points to the door.
Still murmuring, explaining, excusing herself, she vanishes.
The door has closed behind her.
"Mascha, how was it possible?" he asks, softly.
She is silent.
"Mascha, for God's sake, say it, or else I shall go mad," he implores. "There must be something which excuses you. How did it happen? who was it?"
"I will not say; it is no use. You will harm him; I do not wish that any harm should happen to him."
In vain does he urge her further; she gives him no answer. Her little face turned to the wall, she lies there motionless and silent, like a corpse. And at length he is weary of questioning her, and sits by her, weary, relaxed, with the confused expression of a man who has been struck on the head. His thoughts wander to indifferent things. He asks himself if he has taken the key out of his trunk; whether the waiter will post the letter which lies on his desk. Then he hears the house-door open, hears the rustle of a silk dress. Anna has returned. Cold shivers run down his back. Now she will hear it, the arrogant creature who has always looked down upon his darling. He would like to go out and close old Jeliagin's mouth, forbid her to speak.