And then the orderlies told me how the officers had played an insulting and wicked trick on the tailor's little wife. They took turns to write her a letter every day, declaring their love for her, speaking of their sufferings and of her beauty. She answered them, begging them to leave her in peace, regretting that she had been the cause of unhappiness to any one, and praying God that He would help them to give up loving her. When any one of them received a letter like that, they used to read it all together, and then make up another letter to her, signed by a different person. When they told me this story, the orderlies laughed too, and abused the lady. "She is a wretched fool, the crookback," said Ermokhin in a bass voice, and Sidorov softly agreed with him. "Whatever a woman is, she likes being deceived. She knows all about it." I did not believe that the wife of the cutter-out knew that they were laughing at her, and I resolved at once to tell her about it. I watched for the cook to go down into the cellar, and I ran up the dark staircase to the flat of the little woman, and slipped into the kitchen. It was empty. I went on to the sitting-room. The tailor's wife was sitting at the table. In one hand she held a heavy gold cup, and in the other an open book. She was startled. Pressing the book to her bosom, she cried in a low voice: "Who is that? Auguste! Who are you?" I began to speak quickly and confusedly, expecting every minute that she would throw the book at me. She was sitting in a large, raspberry-colored armchair, dressed in a pale-blue wrap with a fringe at the hem and lace on the collar and sleeves over her shoulders was spread her flaxen, wavy hair. She looked like an angel from the gates of heaven. Leaning against the back of her chair, she looked at me with round eyes, at first angrily, then in smiling surprise. When I had said what I wanted to say, and, losing my courage, turned to the door, she cried after me: "Wait!" Placing the cup on the tray, throwing the book on the table, and folding her hands, she said in a husky, grown-up voice: "What a funny boy you are! Come closer!" I approached very cautiously. She took me by the hand, and, stroking it with her cold, small fingers, said: "Are you sure that no one sent you to tell me this? No? All right; I see that you thought of it yourself." Letting my hand go, she closed her eyes, and said softly and drawingly: "So that is how the soldiers speak of me?" "Leave this place," I advised her earnestly. "Why?" "They will get the better of you." She laughed pleasantly. Then she asked: "Do you study? Are you fond of books?" "I have no time for reading." "If you were fond of it, you would find the time. Well, thank you." She held out a piece of silver money to me, grasped between her first finger and her thumb. I felt ashamed to take that cold thing from her, but I did not dare to refuse. As I went out, I laid it on the pedestal of the stair-banisters.