Glancing one day at a bundle of French newspapers that had been lying on the table unopened for a fortnight, Lavretsky suddenly came upon a paragraph announcing "Mournful intelligence: That charming, fascinating Moscow lady, Mme. Lavretsky, died suddenly yesterday."
He hastened over to O----and communicated the news to Lisa, requesting her to keep it secret for a time. They walked in the garden; Lavretsky discussed his newly won freedom.
"Stop!" said Lisa, "don't talk like that. Of what use is your freedom to you? You ought to be thinking of forgiveness."
"I forgave her long ago."
"You don't understand! You ought to be seeking to be forgiven."
"You are right," said Lavretsky after a pause; "what good is my freedom to me?"
"When did you get that paper?" said Lisa without heeding his question.
"The day after your visit."
"And is it possible that you did not shed tears?"
"What is there to weep over now? Though, indeed, who knows? I might perhaps have been more grieved a fortnight sooner."