you passionately, inconsolably; if you do not want me to go mad,--show
yourself, Clara!'

Aratov had hardly uttered this last word, when all at once he felt that
some one was swiftly approaching him from behind--as that day on the
boulevard--and laying a hand on his shoulder. He turned round, and
saw no one. But the sense of _her_ presence had grown so distinct, so
unmistakable, that once more he looked hurriedly about him....

What was that? On an easy-chair, two paces from him, sat a woman, all in
black. Her head was turned away, as in the stereoscope.... It was she! It
was Clara! But what a stern, sad face!

Aratov slowly sank on his knees. Yes; he was right, then. He felt neither
fear nor delight, not even astonishment.... His heart even began to beat
more quietly. He had one sense, one feeling, 'Ah! at last! at last!'

'Clara,' he began, in a faint but steady voice, 'why do you not look at me?
I know that it is you ... but I may fancy my imagination has created an
image like _that one_ ... '--he pointed towards the stereoscope--'prove to
me that it is you.... Turn to me, look at me, Clara!'

Clara's hand slowly rose ... and fell again.

'Clara! Clara! turn to me!'

And Clara's head slowly turned, her closed lids opened, and her dark eyes
fastened upon Aratov.

He fell back a little, and uttered a single, long-drawn-out, trembling