"I don't think that I shall live long; it often seems to me that everything about me is bidding me good-by. It is better to die than to live as--Ah! don't look at me so; I assure you that I'm not pretending; otherwise, I shall begin again to be afraid of you." "Were you afraid of me then?" "If I am queer, you must not reproach me. See, already I can no longer laugh." She remained sad and preoccupied until the end of the evening. I could not understand what had come over her. Her eyes often rested upon me; my heart was oppressed under her enigmatic look. She appeared calm; nevertheless, in looking at her, I could not keep from saying something to lessen her trouble. I contemplated her with emotion; I found a touching charm in the pallor spread over her features, in the timidity of her indecisive movements. She all the while imagined that I was in a bad humor. "Listen," she said to me before I left, "I fear that you do not take me seriously. In future believe all that I tell you; but you, in your turn, be frank with me; be sure that I shall never tell you anything but the truth,--I give you my word of honor!" This expression, "word of honor," made me smile once more. "Ah! don't laugh," said she vivaciously, "or I shall repeat what you told me yesterday, 'Why do you laugh?' Do you remember," added she, after a moment's silence, "that yesterday you spoke to me of wings? These wings have sprung forth. I don't know where to fly." "Come, then," I replied, "all roads are open to you." She looked at me earnestly for some moments. "You have a bad opinion of me to-day," she said, frowning slightly. "I! a bad opinion of you?" "Why are you standing there, with those dismal faces?" asked Gaguine at that moment. "Do you wish me to play a waltz for you, as I did yesterday?" "No, no," cried she, clasping her hands; "not for the world to-day!" "Don't excite yourself; I don't wish to force you." "Not for the world," repeated she, growing pale. "Does she love me?" I thought, as I approached the Rhine, whose dark waters rushed rapidly along. XIII. "Does she love me?" I asked myself the next morning on awakening. I feared to question myself more. I felt that her image--the image of the young girl with the "_rire forcé_"--was engraved on my mind, and that I could not easily efface it. I returned to L., and remained there the entire day, but I only caught a glimpse of Annouchka. She was indisposed; she had a headache. She only came down for a few moments, a handkerchief wrapped about her forehead. Pale and unsteady, with her eyes half closed, she smiled a little, and said,-- "It will pass away; it is nothing. Everything passes away, doesn't it?" and she went out. I felt wearied, moved by a sensation of emptiness and sadness, and yet I could not decide to go away. Later on I went home without having seen her again.