"Stay, stay, old man,"--I began, almost in desperation;--"how uncommunicative thou art to-day, really.... Tell me, at least, has your mistress risen yet?" "She has." "And .... is she at home?" "No, she 's not at home." "Has she gone off on a visit, pray?" "No, sir; she has gone to Moscow." "To Moscow! How is that? Why, she was here this morning!" "She was." "And she passed the night here?" "She did." "And she came hither recently?" "Yes." "What next, my good man?" "Why, this: it must be about an hour since she deigned to start back to Moscow." "To Moscow!" I stared in petrification at Lukyánitch; I had not expected this, I admit. Lukyánitch stared at me.... A crafty, senile smile distended his withered lips and almost beamed in his melancholy eyes. "And did she go away with her sister?"--I said at last. "Yes." "So that now there is no one in the house?" "No one...." "This old man is deceiving me,"--flashed through my head.--"'T is not without cause that he is grinning so craftily.--Listen, Lukyánitch,"--I said aloud;--"dost wish to do me one favour?" "What is it you wish?"--he enunciated slowly, evidently beginning to feel annoyed by my questions. "Thou sayest that there is no one in the house; canst thou show it to me? I should be very grateful to thee." "That is, you want to inspect the rooms?" "Yes, the rooms." Lukyánitch remained silent for a space. "Very well,"--he said at last.--"Pray, enter...." And bending down, he stepped across the threshold of the wicket-gate. I followed him. After traversing a tiny courtyard, we ascended the tottering steps of the porch. The old man gave the door a push; there was no lock on it: a cord with a knot stuck out through the key-hole.... We entered the house. It consisted in all of five or six low-ceiled rooms, and, so far as I could make out in the faint light, which streamed sparsely through the rifts in the shutters, the furniture in these rooms was extremely plain and decrepit. In one of them (namely, in the one which opened on the garden) stood a small, antiquated piano.... I raised its warped lid and struck the keys: a shrill, hissing sound rang out and died feebly away, as though complaining of my audacity. It was impossible to discern from anything that people had recently left the house; it had a dead and stifling sort of smell--the odour of an uninhabited dwelling; here and there, indeed, a discarded paper gave one to understand, by its whiteness, that it had been dropped there recently. I picked up one such bit of paper; it proved to be a scrap of a letter; on one side in a dashing feminine handwriting were scrawled the words "_se taire?_" on the other I made out the word "_bonheur_."... On a small round table near the window stood a nosegay of half-faded flowers in a glass, and a green, rumpled ribbon was lying there also .... I took that ribbon as a souvenir.--Lukyánitch opened a narrow door, pasted over with wall-paper.