Maslova never expected to see him again, and certainly not here and not now; therefore, when she first recognised him, she could not keep back the memories which she never wished to revive. In the first moment she remembered dimly that new, wonderful world of feeling and of thought which had been opened to her by the charming young man who loved her and whom she loved, and then his incomprehensible cruelty and the whole string of humiliations and suffering which flowed from and followed that magic joy. This gave her pain, and, unable to understand it, she did what she was always in the habit of doing, she got rid of these memories by enveloping them in the mist of a depraved life. In the first moment, she associated the man now sitting beside her with the lad she had loved; but feeling that this gave her pain, she dissociated them again. Now, this well-dressed, carefully-got-up gentleman with perfumed beard was no longer the Nekhludoff whom she had loved but only one of the people who made use of creatures like herself when they needed them, and whom creatures like herself had to make use of in their turn as profitably as they could; and that is why she looked at him with a luring smile and considered silently how she could best make use of him.
"That's all at an end," she said. "Now I'm condemned to Siberia," and her lip trembled as she was saying this dreadful word.
"I knew; I was certain you were not guilty," said Nekhludoff.
"Guilty! of course not; as if I could be a thief or a robber."
She stopped, considering in what way she could best get something out of him.
"They say here that all depends on the advocate," she began. "A petition should be handed in, only they say it's expensive."
"Yes, most certainly," said Nekhludoff. "I have already spoken to an advocate."
"No money ought to be spared; it should be a good one," she said.
"I shall do all that is possible."
They were silent, and then she smiled again in the same way.
"And I should like to ask you . . . a little money if you can . . . not much; ten roubles, I do not want more," she said, suddenly.
"Yes, yes," Nekhludoff said, with a sense of confusion, and felt for his purse.
She looked rapidly at the inspector, who was walking up and down the room. "Don't give it in front of him; he'd take it away."
Nekhludoff took out his purse as soon as the inspector had turned his back; but had no time to hand her the note before the inspector faced them again, so he crushed it up in his hand.
"This woman is dead," Nekhludoff thought, looking at this once sweet, and now defiled, puffy face, lit up by an evil glitter in the black, squinting eyes which were now glancing at the hand in which he held the note, then following the inspector's movements, and for a moment he hesitated. The tempter that had been speaking to him in the night again raised its voice, trying to lead him out of the realm of his inner into the realm of his outer life, away from the question of what he should do to the question of what the consequences would be, and what would he practical.
"You can do nothing with this woman," said the voice; "you will only tie a stone round your neck, which will help to drown you and hinder you from being useful to others.
Is it not better to give her all the money that is here, say good-bye, and finish with her forever?" whispered the voice.
But here he felt that now, at this very moment, something most important was taking place in his soul--that his inner life was, as it were, wavering in the balance, so that the slightest effort would make it sink to this side or the other. And he made this effort by calling to his assistance that God whom he had felt in his soul the day before, and that God instantly responded. He resolved to tell her everything now--at once.
"Katusha, I have come to ask you to forgive me, and you have given me no answer. Have you forgiven me? Will you ever forgive me?" he asked.
She did not listen to him, but looked at his hand and at the inspector, and when the latter turned she hastily stretched out her hand, grasped the note, and hid it under her belt.
"That's odd, what you are saying there," she said, with a smile of contempt, as it seemed to him.
Nekhludoff felt that there was in her soul one who was his enemy and who was protecting her, such as she was now, and preventing him from getting at her heart. But, strange to say, this did not repel him, but drew him nearer to her by some fresh, peculiar power. He knew that he must waken her soul, that this was terribly difficult, but the very difficulty attracted him. He now felt towards her as he had never felt towards her or any one else before. There was nothing personal in this feeling: he wanted nothing from her for himself, but only wished that she might not remain as she now was, that she might awaken and become again what she had been.
"Katusha, why do you speak like that? I know you; I remember you--and the old days in Papovo."
"What's the use of recalling what's past?" she remarked, drily.
"I am recalling it in order to put it right, to atone for my sin, Katusha," and he was going to say that he would marry her, but, meeting her eyes, he read in them something so dreadful, so coarse, so repellent, that he could not go on.
At this moment the visitors began to go. The inspector came up to Nekhludoff and said that the time was up.
"Good-bye; I have still much to say to you, but you see it is impossible to do so now," said Nekhludoff, and held out his hand.
"I shall come again."
"I think you have said all."
She took his hand but did not press it.
"No; I shall try to see you again, somewhere where we can talk, and then I shall tell you what I have to say-something very important."
"Well, then, come; why not?" she answered, and smiled with that habitual, inviting, and promising smile which she gave to the men whom she wished to please.
"You are more than a sister to me," said Nekhludoff.
"That's odd," she said again, and went behind the grating.
