On arriving at Monte Carlo Irene had developed, on account of the strong sea air, a slight rash on her face. Having just at that time been very particular about her appearance, she had applied to a doctor, who had given her a lotion composed of a solution of sublimate, with the warning that it was a strong poison, for external application only. Irene had prepared the solution each evening, in readiness for use the following morning, and a glassful of it was now standing temptingly on her table. She approached. In her imagination she saw frightful tortures and frantic pains. “Nonsense, nonsense,” she whispered to herself encouragingly. “Are you such a coward? What are a few hours of physical pain compared to the unbearable mental sufferings which, with your tiresome good health, might last another forty years! And however cruel your sufferings have been till now, at least you had some faith in God, in His miracles and His power. What would life be like now, when even this last straw of comfort has been taken from you?” Irene shuddered. Struggling with the animal instinct of “Life at all costs,” she alternately stretched out her hand towards the glass, and withdrew it again. Suddenly a strange thought came into her mind. “Could it be that Nature, foreseeing the possibility of her having children by Gzhatski, and finding it necessary to protect these future children from inheriting her moral disease, from suffering, from leading useless, miserable lives and spreading darkness and despair along their path, had purposely sent her out to see the sun rise that morning, and was now hurrying her to drink the glass of poison?” A strong feeling of resentment accompanied this thought. “But why such tender solicitude for these unborn creatures?” thought the unfortunate girl, “and such cold, cruel indifference to me and my sufferings?” And she felt inclined to upset the glass, throw away the tempting poison, and live on, just to spite Nature.… There was a knock at the door. “Irene Pavlovna, are you still asleep?” Gzhatski’s gay voice resounded in the passage. “Do get up and come out! It is a glorious morning, just like the one Fett[3] sings about. Do you remember? “‘I have brought to thee a greeting From this rosy summer morn; Come! the golden hours are fleeting.…’” The blood rushed to Irene’s head. “He is gay and happy!” she thought. “In whose arms has he gleaned this joy?” And such an insufferable sense of insult and of irony conveyed itself to her mind through Gzhatski’s light-hearted greeting, that with a sudden impulse she seized the glass and swallowed the poison in one draught. The door opened, and Gzhatski entered. “Oh! you are quite ready!” he exclaimed. “Why didn’t you answer? There I stood, like a Spanish hidalgo, declaiming at your door! What is the matter? Why do you look so tragic?” Irene looked at him in silence, and crossed her arms on her chest.