"I would like to see Mascha. I--I would like to give her a kiss before I go," murmured the old woman, and tears are on her wrinkled cheeks. "She was a good child--always very good to me. Please--please let me in to her."
He steps back, lets her in. She bends over the bed, over the girl glowing and trembling with fever. "Maschenka, good-by, my little soul. I love you. I will always love you," murmured she, and stroked the child and wished to kiss her; but Maschenka hid her face in the pillows, and half mad with shame, repulsed her aunt with an impatient shrug of her shoulders, and suppressed weeping.
"God keep you, Maschenka!" murmured the old woman.
"What shall he keep?" cried out Lensky, pointing to the bed, with horrible bitterness. Then, seizing her roughly by her thin arm, he pushed her out of the room.
Now she has gone; the house has been empty for an hour. He sits near Mascha's bed as he has sat there since yesterday, and she lies there silently, with her face to the wall. It is eight o'clock. The front door bell rings--rings again. It is so long before the door is opened. Who may it be? The kitchen maid knocks at the door.
"What is it?"
"A lady desires to speak with monsieur."
"No one can see me."
"I told her that, but she would not be denied; she desires to see monsieur. It is about something very important, she said."
"Did she, at least, give her name?"