"Drink a drop of wine," says he, really anxious And taking a silver goblet from the sideboard, he fills it with champagne. Thirsting with inward fever, she places it to her lips, without knowing in her excitement whether she drinks water or wine. He lays his arm round her to support her; he does not as yet think of misusing her confidence.
Then he hears a whispering in the adjoining room, then a quick succession of steps; the entrance door opens and closes. His friends have withdrawn discreetly.
His blood burns in every finger-tip. He has forgotten Sylvia Anthropos, all clear idea of life and its duties has left him.
"Mascha, oh, my sweet little angel! Do you suspect how I love you?" whispers he. "Do not reproach yourself, even if I should die for you; it seems to me beautiful to be able to surrender my life for you. But Mascha, my angel, my treasure, do not grudge me one more happy moment before I die. Maschenka, my darling, my love--one kiss!"
Without hesitating, sobbing, beside herself, with a passionate vehemence of which a few minutes before she had had no suspicion, she throws both arms round his neck.
The Jeliagins had gone when Mascha came home. With deeply lowered head, hurriedly, without looking to the right or left, she went up to her room.
The lamp burned. The young Russian's glance was gloomy and defiant. She held her head high. What had happened had happened, she would not be ashamed of it. She loved him, indeed, and he was in mortal danger.
Why did her heart beat so loudly? Why did the light pain her so? Why was it as if she could never raise her eyes to any one? Aimlessly, with weary steps, she crept about her room. She put out the light and got into bed and turned her face to the wall.
And the hours dragged on and would not end. How long the night was!