“My wife turned her pale face towards me. I was about to kiss her, when she exclaimed: ‘Oh! it is not he! It is not he!’ and fell senseless.

“The witnesses gazed at me in alarm. I turned round and left the church without the least hindrance, flung myself into the kibitka and cried: ‘Drive off!’ ”

“My God!” exclaimed Maria Gavrilovna. “And you do not know what became of your poor wife?”

“I do not know,” replied Bourmin; “neither do I know the name of the village where I was married nor the post station where I set out from. At that time I attached so little importance to the wicked prank, that on leaving the church I fell asleep, and did not awake till the next morning after reaching the third station. The servant, who was then with me, died during the campaign, so that I have no hope of ever discovering the woman upon whom I played such a cruel joke, and who is now so cruelly avenged.”

“My God! my God!” cried Maria Gavrilovna, seizing him by the hand. “Then it was you! And you do not recognize me?”

Bourmin turned pale—and threw himself at her feet.