I hastened down the path that passed through the vineyards and entered
the town; after hurrying through all the streets and looking in every
direction, even at Dame Louise's windows, I came back to the Rhine, and
ran along the river bank. Here and there was a figure of a woman, but
none of them Annouchka's. It was no longer vexation that consumed me,
but a secret terror; still more it was repentance that I felt, boundless
pity, finally love--yes, the deepest love. I threw my arms about; I
called Annouchka; at first, as the shades of night were deepening, in a
low voice, then louder and louder; I repeated a hundred times that I
loved her, swearing never to leave her; I would have given all that I
possessed to press once more her cold hand, to hear once more her timid
voice, to see her once more before me. She had been so near me; she had
come to me with such resolution, in all the frankness of her heart; she
had brought me her young life, her purity,--and I did not take her in
my arms; I had foregone the happiness of seeing her sweet face
brighten.--The thought drove me mad!
"Where can she have gone? what could she have done?" I cried, in the
impotent rage of despair.
Something whitish suddenly appeared at the edge of the water. I
recognized the place. There, above the grave of a man who drowned
himself seventy years before, arose a stone cross, half sunken in the
ground, covered with characters almost illegible. My heart was beating
as though it would break. The white figure had disappeared.
"Annouchka," I cried, in such a fierce voice, that I even frightened
myself.
But no one answered; I finally decided to go and find out whether
Gaguine had not found her.