“Let us hope,” cried Dönhof, “that our Frankfort belle is still alive and has not left New York! By the way,” he added, dropping his voice, “what about that Russian lady, who was staying, do you remember, about that time at Wiesbaden—Madame von Bo … von Bolozov, is she still living?” “No,” answered Sanin, “she died long ago.” Dönhof looked up, but observing that Sanin had turned away and was frowning, he did not say another word, but took his leave. That same day Sanin sent a letter to Madame Gemma Slocum, at New York. In the letter he told her he was writing to her from Frankfort, where he had come solely with the object of finding traces of her, that he was very well aware that he was absolutely without a right to expect that she would answer his appeal; that he had not deserved her forgiveness, and could only hope that among happy surroundings she had long ago forgotten his existence. He added that he had made up his mind to recall himself to her memory in consequence of a chance circumstance which had too vividly brought back to him the images of the past; he described his life, solitary, childless, joyless; he implored her to understand the grounds that had induced him to address her, not to let him carry to the grave the bitter sense of his own wrongdoing, expiated long since by suffering, but never forgiven, and to make him happy with even the briefest news of her life in the new world to which she had gone away. “In writing one word to me,” so Sanin ended his letter, “you will be doing a good action worthy of your noble soul, and I shall thank you to my last breath. I am stopping here at the _White Swan_ (he underlined those words) and shall wait, wait till spring, for your answer.” He despatched this letter, and proceeded to wait. For six whole weeks he lived in the hotel, scarcely leaving his room, and resolutely seeing no one. No one could write to him from Russia nor from anywhere; and that just suited his mood; if a letter came addressed to him he would know at once that it was the one he was waiting for. He read from morning till evening, and not journals, but serious books—historical works. These prolonged studies, this stillness, this hidden life, like a snail in its shell, suited his spiritual condition to perfection; and for this, if nothing more, thanks to Gemma! But was she alive? Would she answer?