And, casting herself upon her knees, she lifted my hand to her lips, covering it with passionate kisses. “Madame,” I said, withdrawing my hand firmly, “this interview is painful. The _tête-à-tête_ we had some months ago amused us; it had a savour of romance, but I did not dream that you had taken my foolish words seriously. Let us part, and forget all that has passed between us to-day.” For a moment she was pale and mute, her hands clenched, her body rigid as marble. Then, struggling to her feet, she gave vent to a sudden passionate outburst, tearing the furs from her throat. “You cast me aside!” she cried. “You!—who declared your affection for me—prefer that red-faced, uncouth furrier’s wench! So! We shall see!” “Pray calm yourself,” I exclaimed. “Calm myself! _Davolno_, Anton Prèhznev! Have I not been befooled? This latest idol of yours has gone to Siberia, and you will follow! Good! When you are toiling in the gloom of the lead-mines beyond Irkutsk you will perhaps remember that you forsook the woman who loves you better than her life—that she whom you insulted was Agraféna Teréshkevna.” With a momentary glance at the mirror over the mantel-shelf she rearranged her bonnet. Then, mortified and affronted, she bowed stiffly, swept past me, and disappeared, slamming the door after her. Six weary, anxious weeks passed. Under a grey, lowering sky, a boundless, snow-covered plain stretched far away into the mist. It was already sixteen days since my driver and myself had left Ekaterinbourg—the last Russian town—and a fortnight since we had gained the great Siberian post road. With three horses, which we changed at the post-stations, we had travelled almost night and day; yet I did not experience fatigue, for the expectation of finding Mariána sustained me. Sitting back in the sleigh, wrapped in a heavy otter _shuba_, and half buried under thick rugs, painful thoughts were produced within me by the loneliness and gloom as the last rays of the short wintry day were fading amidst the icy vapours. The snorting of the horses, the jingling of the bells on the wooden arch over their heads, and the hissing of the sleigh-runners, combined to produce a noise that was indescribably irritating and monotonous. I had already visited Tiumen, where there is a great exile-forwarding prison, through which all persons condemned to banishment, colonisation, or penal servitude have to pass. On inquiry at the _Prikaz o Silnikh_, or Chief Bureau of Exile Administration, I had learnt that Mariána had left a week before with a convoy of _katorzhniki_ (hard-labour convicts) on foot for Tomsk. With the object of overtaking them, I was now travelling incessantly. The thought that she, innocent of crime, was compelled to mix with murderers, robbers, and common criminals, sharing the same filth, enduring the terrible hardships of the march, and living in the same _entourage_ in the vile, fever-infected _étapes_, goaded me almost to madness.