"She lives apart from me. She has returned to her house in Paris," I said. "Ah! it is best," she answered mechanically. "It is best for both of you." "But we love one another, and although she fears to tell me the truth regarding all this mystery that has enveloped her for so long, you, nevertheless, are in a position to explain everything. Therefore I have come to you. You were my wife's friend, Sonia," I went on. "Tell me why she has acted with all this secrecy." "Her friend," she echoed blankly. "Yes, you are right," she sighed. "It was a strange friendship, ours; she, a Grand Duchess against whom never a word of scandal had been uttered, and I--well I was notorious. The people in Vienna and Paris pointed at me in the streets, and fashionable women copied my manners and my dress. Yet there was, nay there still is, a strong tie between us, a tie that can never be severed." "Tell me of it," I urged, when, pausing, she turned her pale agitated face away from me towards the small grimy window that overlooked the great sunlit steppe. "Once I believed that she was your enemy, and told you so. I feared that because of her position she would never marry you. Yet it seems she was really in earnest, therefore I now withdraw that allegation. She evidently loves you." "Yes, but we are living apart because she fears the revelation of some terrible secret if she acknowledges me as her husband." "And that is why you have come here--to learn of her past!" she cried in a hoarse hollow voice, as if the truth had suddenly dawned upon her. I nodded gravely in the affirmative, then told her of our meeting in Paris, and her refusal to make any satisfactory explanation. "I envied Elizaveta once," she said reflectively at last. "I envied her because she was so supremely happy in your love. Yet it now seems as if I, degraded outcast that I am, have even more happiness and freedom." "You were once her friend--she visited you every day. You can be her friend now; and by telling me the truth, bring joy and confidence to both of us. You can make our lives happy, if you only will." "No," she answered coldly, her face hard and set. There was a cruel look in her eyes. "Why should I? Why should I strive for the happiness of one to whom I owe all my grief and despair?" "Surely no misfortune of yours is due to her?" I protested quickly.