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She had finished her studies in a boarding-school and had been married to a man she did not love; then she had thrown in her lot with Laevsky, and had spent all her time with him on this empty, desolate coast, always expecting something better. Was that life? "I ought to be married though," she thought, but remembering Kirilin and Atchmianov she flushed and said: "No, it's impossible.
If you don't come, something dreadful will happen." "Strange . . ." muttered Laevsky, unable to understand why Atchmianov was so excited and what mysteries there could be in this dull, useless little town. "Strange," he repeated in hesitation. "Come along, though; I don't care." Atchmianov walked rapidly on ahead and Laevsky followed him. They walked down a street, then turned into an alley.
The choristers sing, the babies cry, the corncrakes call, the lark carols. . . . Then they make a stand and sprinkle the herd with holy water. . . . They go on again, and then kneeling pray for rain. Then lunch and talk. . . . "And that's nice too . . ." thought the deacon. Kirilin and Atchmianov climbed up the mountain by the path.
"At eight o'clock; good-bye!" Nadyezhda Fyodorovna made her appearance near the garden. Without noticing that Atchmianov was sitting on the bench, she passed beside him like a shadow, opened the gate, and leaving it open, went into the house.
And she suddenly felt a longing to make him love her, to plunder him, throw him over, and then to see what would come of it. "Allow me to give you one piece of advice," Atchmianov said timidly. "I beg you to beware of Kirilin. He says horrible things about you everywhere."
On his angry, exhausted face she read hatred, pity and vexation with himself, and her heart sank at once. She realised instantly that she had gone too far, had been too free and easy in her behaviour, and overcome with misery, feeling herself heavy, stout, coarse, and drunk, she got into the first empty carriage together with Atchmianov.
Near his lodgings Laevsky met Atchmianov. The young man was breathless and excited. "I am looking for you, Ivan Andreitch," he said. "I beg you to come quickly. . . ." "Where?" "Some one wants to see you, some one you don't know, about very important business; he earnestly begs you to come for a minute.
Oh, if only you knew!" Nadyezhda Fyodorovna had an impulse to tell her about Kirilin, and how the evening before she had met handsome young Atchmianov at the harbour, and how the mad, ridiculous idea had occurred to her of cancelling her debt for three hundred; it had amused her very much, and she returned home late in the evening feeling that she had sold herself and was irrevocably lost.
"Who's there?" he heard Olga's voice. "Is Nadyezhda Fyodorovna at home?" "No, she has not come in yet." "Strange . . . very strange," thought Atchmianov, feeling very uneasy. "She went home. . . ." He walked along the boulevard, then along the street, and glanced in at the windows of Sheshkovsky's. Laevsky was sitting at the table without his coat on, looking attentively at his cards.
The windows of the house where Kirilin lived were dark, and there was a policeman sitting asleep on a little bench at the gate. Everything was clear to Atchmianov when he looked at the windows and the policeman. He made up his mind to go home, and set off in that direction, but somehow found himself near Nadyezhda Fyodorovna's lodgings again.
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