"I did not wish for her death," replied Hermann, "my pistol was not
loaded." Both remained silent. The day began to dawn. Lizaveta
extinguished her candle, a pale light illumined her room. She
wiped her tear-stained eyes, and raised them towards Hermann. He
was sitting near the window, with his arms crossed, and with a
fierce frown upon his forehead. In this attitude he bore a
striking resemblance to the portrait of Napoleon. This resemblance
struck Lizaveta even.

"How shall I get you out of the house?" said she at last. "I
thought of conducting you down the secret staircase."

"I will go alone," he answered.

Lizaveta arose, took from her drawer a key, handed it to Hermann,
and gave him the necessary instructions. Hermann pressed her cold,
inert hand, kissed her bowed head, and left the room.

He descended the winding staircase, and once more entered the
Countess's bedroom. The dead old lady sat as if petrified, her
face expressed profound tranquillity. Hermann stopped before her,
and gazed long and earnestly at her, as if he wished to convince
himself of the terrible reality. At last he entered the cabinet,
felt behind the tapestry for the door, and then began to descend
the dark staircase, filled with strange emotions. "Down this very
staircase," thought he, "perhaps coming from the very same room,
and at this very same hour sixty years ago, there may have glided,
in an embroidered coat, with his hair dressed a l'oiseau royal, and
pressing to his heart his three-cornered hat, some young gallant