"In the Countess's bedroom. I have just left her," replied Hermann. "She is dead." "Great heavens! What are you saying?" "I am afraid," he said, "that I am the cause of her death." Lisabeta looked at him in consternation, and remembered Tomski's words: "He has at least three crimes on his conscience." Hermann sat down by the window, and told everything. The young girl listened with terror. So those letters so full of passion, those burning expressions, this daring obstinate pursuit--all this had been inspired by anything but love! Money alone had inflamed the man's soul. She, who had nothing but a heart to offer, how could she make him happy? Poor child! she had been the blind instrument of a robber, of the murderer of her old benefactress. She wept bitterly in the agony of her repentance. Hermann watched her in silence; but neither the tears of the unhappy girl, nor her beauty, rendered more touching by her grief, could move his heart of iron. He had no remorse in thinking of the Countess's death. One sole thought distressed him--the irreparable loss of the secret which was to have made his fortune. "You are a monster!" said Lisabeta, after a long silence. "I did not mean to kill her," replied Hermann coldly. "My pistol was not loaded." They remained for some time without speaking, without looking at one another. The day was breaking, and Lisabeta put out her candle. She wiped her eyes, drowned in tears, and raised them towards Hermann. He was standing close to the window, his arms crossed, with a frown on his forehead. In this attitude he reminded her involuntarily of the portrait of Napoleon. The resemblance overwhelmed her. "How am I to get you away?" she said at last. "I thought you might go out by the back stairs. But it would be necessary to go through the Countess's bedroom, and I am too frightened." "Tell me how to get to the staircase, and I will go alone." She went to a drawer, took out a key, which she handed to Hermann, and gave him the necessary instructions. Hermann took her icy hand, kissed her on the forehead, and departed. He went down the staircase, and entered the Countess's bedroom. She was seated quite stiff in her armchair; but her features were in no way contracted. He stopped for a moment, and gazed into her face as if to make sure of the terrible reality. Then he entered the dark room, and, feeling behind the tapestry, found the little door which opened on to a staircase. As he went down it, strange ideas came into his head. "Going down this staircase," he said to himself, "some sixty years ago, at about this time, may have been seen some man in an embroidered coat with powdered wig, pressing to his breast a cocked hat: some gallant who has long been buried; and now the heart of his aged mistress has ceased to beat." At the end of the staircase he found another door, which his key opened, and he found himself in the corridor which led to the street. FOOTNOTES: