other--a beautiful young woman, with an aquiline nose, forehead curls,
and a rose in her powdered hair. In the corner stood porcelain
shepherds and shepherdesses, dining-room clocks from the workshop of
the celebrated Lefroy, bandboxes, roulettes, fans, and the various
playthings for the amusement of ladies that were in vogue at the end
of the last century, when Montgolfier's balloons and Niesber's
magnetism were the rage. Hermann stepped behind the screen. At the
back of it stood a little iron bedstead; on the right was the door
which led to the cabinet; on the left, the other which led to the
corridor. He opened the latter, and saw the little winding staircase
which led to the room of the poor companion. But he retraced his steps
and entered the dark cabinet.

The time passed slowly. All was still. The clock in the drawing-room
struck twelve, the strokes echoed through the room one after the
other, and everything was quiet again. Hermann stood leaning against
the cold stove. He was calm, his heart beat regularly, like that of a
man resolved upon a dangerous but inevitable undertaking. One o'clock
in the morning struck; then two, and he heard the distant noise of
carriage-wheels. An involuntary agitation took possession of him. The
carriage drew near and stopped. He heard the sound of the carriage
steps being let down. All was bustle within the house. The servants
were running hither and thither, there was a confusion of voices, and
the rooms were lit up. Three antiquated chambermaids entered the
bedroom, and they were shortly afterwards followed by the Countess,
who, more dead than alive, sank into a Voltaire armchair. Hermann
peeped through a chink. Lizaveta Ivanovna passed close by him, and he
heard her hurried steps as she hastened up the little spiral
staircase. For a moment his heart was assailed by something like a
pricking of conscience, but the emotion was only transitory, and his