“Theodore!” she continued, lifting her eyes from time to time towards heaven, her exceedingly pretty fingers, tipped with polished nails of rosy hue, writhing the while in preconcerted agonies—­“Theodore, I am guilty before you—­deeply guilty.  I will say more—­I am a criminal; but hear what I have to say.  I am tortured by remorse; I have become a burden to myself; I can bear my position no longer.  Ever so many times I have thought of addressing you, but I was afraid of your anger.  But I have determined to break every tie with the past—­puis, j’ai ete si malade.  I was so ill,” she added, passing her hand across her brow and cheek, “I took advantage of the report which was spread abroad of my death, and I left everything.  Without stopping anywhere, I travelled day and night to come here quickly.  For a long time I was in doubt whether to appear before you, my judge—­paraitre devant vous man juge; but at last I determined to go to you, remembering your constant goodness.  I found out your address in Moscow.  Believe me,” she continued, quietly rising from the ground and seating herself upon the very edge of an arm-chair, “I often thought of death, and I could have found sufficient courage in my heart to deprive myself of life—­ah! life is an intolerable burden to me now—­but the thought of my child, my little Ada, prevented me.  She is here now; she is asleep in the next room, poor child.  She is tired out You will see her, won’t you?  She, at all events, is innocent before you; and so unfortunate—­so unfortunate!” exclaimed Madame Lavretsky, and melted into tears.

Lavretsky regained his consciousness at last.  He stood away from the wall, and turned towards the door.

“You are going away?” exclaimed his wife, in accents of despair.  “Oh, that is cruel! without saying a single word to me—­not even one of reproach!  This contempt kills me; it is dreadful!”

Lavretsky stopped.

“What do you want me to say to you?” he said in a hollow tone.

“Nothing—­nothing!” she cried with animation.  “I know that I have no right to demand anything.  I am no fool, believe me.  I don’t hope, I don’t dare to hope, for pardon.  I only venture to entreat you to tell me what I ought to do, where I ought to live.  I will obey your orders like a slave, whatever they may be.”

“I have no orders to give,” replied Lavretsky in the same tone as before.  “You know that all is over between us—­and more than ever now.  You can live where you like; and if your allowance is too small—­”

“Ah, don’t say such terrible things!” she said, interrupting him.  “Forgive me, if only—­if only for the sake of this angel.”

And having uttered these words, Varvara Pavlovna suddenly rushed into the other room, and immediately returned with a very tastefully-dressed little girl in her arms.  Thick flaxen curls fell about the pretty little rosy face and over the great black, sleepy eyes of the child, who smilingly blinked at the light, and held on to her mother’s neck by a chubby little arm.