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 heart became petrified as before.