“Down here,” said Shapkin, pointing to a little stone of white marble. “Some subaltern or other put up the monument on her grave.” Usielkov slowly took off his hat and showed his bald pate to the snow. Eying him, Shapkin also took off his hat, and another baldness shone beneath the sun. The silence round about was like the tomb, as though the air were dead, too. The friends looked at the stone, silent, thinking. “She is asleep!” Shapkin broke the silence. “And she cares very little that she took the guilt upon herself and drank cognac. Confess, Boris Pietrovich!” “What?” asked Usielkov, sternly. “That, however loathsome the past may be, it’s better than this.” And Shapkin pointed to his grey hairs. “In the old days I did not even think of death.... If I’d met her, I would have circumvented her, but now ... well, now!” Sadness took hold of Usielkov. Suddenly he wanted to cry, passionately, as he once desired to love.... And he felt that these tears would be exquisite, refreshing. Moisture came out of his eyes and a lump rose in his throat, but.... Shapkin was standing by his side, and Usielkov felt ashamed of his weakness before a witness. He turned back quickly and walked towards the church. Two hours later, having arranged with the churchwarden and examined the church, he seized the opportunity while Shapkin was talking away to the priest, and ran to shed a tear. He walked to the stone surreptitiously, with stealthy steps, looking round all the time. The little white monument stared at him absently, so sadly and innocently, as though a girl and not a wanton _divorcée_ were beneath. “If I could weep, could weep!” thought Usielkov. But the moment for weeping had been lost. Though the old man managed to make his eyes shine, and tried to bring himself to the right pitch, the tears did not flow and the lump did not rise in his throat.... After waiting for about ten minutes, Usielkov waved his arm and went to look for Shapkin.