way." However, I managed to get rid of him somehow that time. But the old lady made a greater fuss than ever; ten thousand roubles, she said, she wouldn't grudge over the business. You see, when she saw me, she suddenly took an idea into her head to marry me to her young lady companion in green; that I found out later; that was why she was so spiteful. What ideas won't these great ladies take into their heads!... It comes through being dull, I suppose. Things went badly with me: I didn't spare money, and I kept Matrona in hiding. No, they harassed me, and turned me this way and that: I got into debt; I lost my health.... So one night, as I lay in my bed, thinking, "My God, why should I suffer so? What am I to do, since I can't get over loving her?... There, I can't, and that's all about it!" into the room walked Matrona. I had hidden her for the time at a farmhouse a mile and a half from my house. I was frightened. "What? have they discovered you even there?" "No, Piotr Petrovitch," said she, "no one disturbs me at Bubnova; but will that last long? My heart," she said, "is torn, Piotr Petrovitch; I am sorry for you, my dear one; never shall I forget your goodness, Piotr Petrovitch, but now I've come to say good-bye to you." "What do you mean, what do you mean, you mad girl?... Good-bye, how good-bye?"... "Yes... I am going to give myself up." "But I'll lock you up in a garret, mad girl!... Do you mean to destroy me? Do you want to kill me, or what?" The girl was silent; she looked on the floor. "Come, speak, speak!" "I can't bear to cause you any more trouble, Piotr Petrovitch." Well, one might talk to her as one pleased... "But do you know, little fool, do you know, mad..." And Piotr Petrovitch sobbed bitterly. 'Well, what do you think?' he went on, striking the table with his fist and trying to frown, while the tears still coursed down his flushed cheeks; 'the girl gave herself up.... She went and gave herself up...' 'The horses are ready,' the overseer cried triumphantly, entering the room. We both stood up. 'What became of Matrona?' I asked. Karataev waved his hand. * * * * * A year after my meeting with Karataev, I happened to go to Moscow. One day, before dinner, for some reason or other I went into a _café_ in the Ohotny row--an original Moscow _café_. In the billiard-room, across clouds of smoke, I caught glimpses of flushed faces, whiskers, old-fashioned Hungarian coats, and new-fangled Slavonic costumes. Thin little old men in sober surtouts were reading the Russian papers. The waiters flitted airily about with trays, treading softly on the green carpets. Merchants, with painful concentration, were drinking tea. Suddenly a man came out of the billiard-room, rather dishevelled, and not quite steady on his legs. He put his hands in his pockets, bent his head, and looked aimlessly about. 'Ba, ba, ba! Piotr Petrovitch!... How are you?'