While going the next morning to Gaguine's, I did not ask myself if I was
in love with Annouchka, but did not cease to dream of her, to ponder on
her fate; I rejoiced in our unforeseen reconciliation. I felt that I had
not understood her until the previous evening; up to that time she was
an enigma. Now, at length, she was revealed to me; in what an entrancing
light was her image enshrouded, how new she was to me, and what did she
not promise!
I followed deliberately the road that I had gone over so many times,
glancing at every step at the little white house that was seen in the
distance. I thought not of the far-off future; I did not even give a
thought to the next day; I was happy.
When I entered the room Annouchka blushed. I noticed that she had again
dressed herself with care, but by the expression of her face she was not
entirely at her ease, and I--I was happy. I even thought I noticed a
movement to run away, as usual, but, making an effort, she remained.
Gaguine was in that particular state of excitement which, like a fit of
madness, suddenly takes hold of the _dilettanti_, when they imagine that
they have caught Nature in the act and can hold her.
He was standing, quite dishevelled and covered with paint, before his
canvas, bestowing upon it, right and left, great strokes of his brush.
He greeted me with a nod that had something quite fierce about it, going
back a few steps, half closing his eyes, then again dashing at his
picture. I did not disturb him, but went and sat by Annouchka. Her dark
eyes turned slowly towards me.
"You are not the same to-day as you were yesterday," I said, after
vainly trying to smile.
"It is true, I am not the same," she replied in a slow and dull voice;
"but that's nothing. I have not slept well. I was thinking all night
long."
"Upon what?"
"Ah, mon Dieu, upon a great many things. It is a habit of my childhood,
of the time that I still lived with my mother."