envied. A sofa with its American-leather torn and peeling, a humble
greasy-looking chair, a table covered with a little of paper, and
a wretched oleograph on the wall, that was all I saw. Damp, gloomy,
and grey.

"What a wind!" said the sick man, without opening his eyes, "How
it whistles!"

"Yes," I said. "I say, I fancy I know you. Didn't you take part in
some private theatricals in General Luhatchev's villa last year?"

"What of it?" he asked, quickly opening his eyes.

A cloud seemed to pass over his face.

"I certainly saw you there. Isn't your name Vassilyev?"

"If it is, what of it? It makes it no better that you should know
me."

"No, but I just asked you."

Vassilyev closed his eyes and, as though offended, turned his face
to the back of the sofa.

"I don't understand your curiosity," he muttered. "You'll be asking
me next what it was drove me to commit suicide!"

Before a minute had passed, he turned round towards me again, opened
his eyes and said in a tearful voice: