‘Yes, perhaps.… It’s ugly. I am here not for long, passing through. I am going on to-day.’

‘Where?’

‘To the Crimea … that is, to the Caucasus.’

‘Oh! For long?’

‘I don’t know.’

Katya gets up, and, with a cold smile, holds out her hand without looking at me.

I want to ask her, ‘Then, you won’t be at my funeral?’ but she does not look at me; her hand is cold and, as it were, strange. I escort her to the door in silence. She goes out, walks down the long corridor without looking back; she knows that I am looking after her, and most likely she will look back at the turn.

No, she did not look back. I’ve seen her black dress for the last time: her steps have died away. Farewell, my treasure!