"Tell me, tell me, tell me. I won't let you go."
He smiled a piteous smile.
"Shall I?—No, it is impossible. And there is nothing to tell."
Perhaps he might have told her, but at that moment the wet-nurse entered to ask if she should go for a walk. Liza went out to dress the baby.
"Then you will tell me? I will be back directly."
"Yes, perhaps . . ."
She never could forget the piteous smile with which he said this. She went out.
Hurriedly, stealthily like a robber, he seized the revolver and took it out of its case. It was loaded, yes, but long ago, and one cartridge was missing.
"Well, how will it be?" He put it to his temple and hesitated a little, but as soon as he remembered Stepanida,—his decision not to see her, his struggle, temptation, fall, and renewed struggle,—he shuddered with horror. "No, this is better," and he pulled the trigger . . .
When Liza ran into the room—she had only had time to step down from the balcony—he was lying face downwards on the floor: black, warm blood was gushing from the wound, and his corpse was twitching.