“Ah, you!” she said with a cruel smile. “Come here.” I went up to her. She put her hand on my head, and suddenly catching hold of my hair, began pulling it. “It hurts me,” I said at last. “Ah! does it? And do you suppose nothing hurts me?” she replied. “Ai!” she cried suddenly, seeing she had pulled a little tuft of hair out. “What have I done? Poor M’sieu Voldemar!” She carefully smoothed the hair she had torn out, stroked it round her finger, and twisted it into a ring. “I shall put your hair in a locket and wear it round my neck,” she said, while the tears still glittered in her eyes. “That will be some small consolation to you, perhaps … and now good-bye.” I went home, and found an unpleasant state of things there. My mother was having a scene with my father; she was reproaching him with something, while he, as his habit was, maintained a polite and chilly silence, and soon left her. I could not hear what my mother was talking of, and indeed I had no thought to spare for the subject; I only remember that when the interview was over, she sent for me to her room, and referred with great displeasure to the frequent visits I paid the princess, who was, in her words, _une femme capable de tout_. I kissed her hand (this was what I always did when I wanted to cut short a conversation) and went off to my room. Zinaïda’s tears had completely overwhelmed me; I positively did not know what to think, and was ready to cry myself; I was a child after all, in spite of my sixteen years. I had now given up thinking about Malevsky, though Byelovzorov looked more and more threatening every day, and glared at the wily count like a wolf at a sheep; but I thought of nothing and of no one. I was lost in imaginings, and was always seeking seclusion and solitude. I was particularly fond of the ruined greenhouse. I would climb up on the high wall, and perch myself, and sit there, such an unhappy, lonely, and melancholy youth, that I felt sorry for myself—and how consolatory were those mournful sensations, how I revelled in them!… One day I was sitting on the wall looking into the distance and listening to the ringing of the bells…. Suddenly something floated up to me—not a breath of wind and not a shiver, but as it were a whiff of fragrance—as it were, a sense of some one’s being near…. I looked down. Below, on the path, in a light greyish gown, with a pink parasol on her shoulder, was Zinaïda, hurrying along. She caught sight of me, stopped, and pushing back the brim of her straw hat, she raised her velvety eyes to me. “What are you doing up there at such a height?” she asked me with a rather queer smile. “Come,” she went on, “you always declare you love me; jump down into the road to me if you really do love me.”