"Now you know everything,"--I went on, when I had finished my story.--"I will not undertake to describe to you what an overwhelming impression you made on me: to see you and not to be bewitched by you is impossible. On the other hand, there is no need for me to tell you what the nature of that impression was. Remember under what conditions I beheld you both times.... Believe me, I am not fond of indulging in senseless hopes, but you must understand also that inexpressible agitation which has seized upon me to-day, and you must pardon the awkward artifice to which I decided to have recourse in order to attract your attention, if only for a moment ...." She listened to my confused explanations without raising her head. "What do you want of me?"--she said at last. "I?... I want nothing ... I am happy as I am.... I have too much respect for such secrets." "Really? But, up to this point, apparently .... However,"--she went on,--"I will not reproach you. Any man would have done the same in your place. Moreover, chance really has brought us together so persistently ... that would seem to give you a certain right to frankness on my part. Listen: I am not one of those uncomprehended and unhappy women who go to masquerades for the sake of chattering to the first man they meet about their sufferings, who require hearts filled with sympathy.... I require sympathy from no one; my own heart is dead, and I have come hither in order to bury it definitively." She raised a handkerchief to her lips. "I hope"--she went on with a certain amount of effort--"that you do not take my words for the ordinary effusions of a masquerade. You must understand that I am in no mood for that...." And, in truth, there was something terrible in her voice, despite all the softness of its tones. "I am a Russian,"--she said in Russian;--up to that point she had expressed herself in the French language:--"although I have lived little in Russia.... It is not necessary for me to know your name. Anna Feódorovna is an old friend of mine; I really did go to Mikhaílovskoe under the name of her sister... It was impossible at that time for me to meet him openly... And even without that, rumours had begun to circulate ... at that time, obstacles still existed--he was not free... Those obstacles have disappeared ... but he whose name should become mine, he with whom you saw me, has abandoned me." She made a gesture with her hand, and paused awhile.... "You really do not know him? You have not met him?" "Not once." "He has spent almost all this time abroad. But he is here now.... That is my whole history,"--she added;--"you see, there is nothing mysterious about it, nothing peculiar." "And Sorrento?"--I timidly interposed. "I made his acquaintance in Sorrento,"--she answered slowly, becoming pensive.