“I saw you come out from that room at dawn,” she said, in a low whisper and with, trembling lips. “You saw?…” And Gzhatski blushed deeply. “Well, then. Of course you now think I am a scoundrel. I am not going to try and justify myself. I ask you only one thing—do not, for Heaven’s sake, lower yourself in my eyes by being jealous of that disgusting creature. If only you could understand what an abyss separates you from her! To me she is not a woman. She is—a glass of whisky that I must drink sometimes, a cigarette that one has the need of smoking at certain moments.… Forgive me—I have no right to tell you these things. But it is incredible that you girls can pass through life without understanding them. What am I to say, how am I to prove to you that that miserable worm simply does not exist for me? If it can please you, let us go immediately to the North Cape or to Central Africa. She will not follow us there! What is the matter? Oh! what is it? What is it?” Irene had fallen to the ground with a cry, and was writhing on the carpet. Gzhatski fell on his knees beside her and caught her up in his arms. “Irene! Irene! My darling! My dearest one! Tell me. What is it? Don’t frighten me so!” “I am lost!” whispered Irene in terror, clinging spasmodically to Gzhatski, and only just then realizing to the full what she had done to herself. “I am dying; I have poisoned myself with sublimate!” “Poisoned yourself! How? Purposely? Because of that accursed Frenchwoman?” “Yes!” whispered Irene shamefacedly. Gzhatski gazed at her for a moment in horror. “Oh! madness! madness!” he cried helplessly. Then, regaining his presence of mind, he tore himself from her embrace, and rushed to the door. “A doctor! A doctor!” His voice rang wildly through the corridor. “Too late—too late!” muttered Irene. And the agony set in. [3] A famous Russian poet. BILLING AND SONS, LTD., PRINTERS, GUILDFORD, ENGLAND End of Project Gutenberg's The Emigrant, by Lyubov Fyodorovna Dostoieffskaya