Her little head, with its soft brown hair from which the fur cap had
fallen, lay helpless on his breast. The pathetic white face, with its
childish curves and long eyelashes, resting on her cheek, made no
movement. The faint, sweet scent of a great bunch of violets crushed in
her belt came up to him.
And as he fiercely bent to kiss her white, unconscious lips, suddenly
he drew back and all the savage exultation went out of him.
He gazed at her for a moment, and then carried her tenderly to the
couch and laid her down. She never stirred. Was she dead? Oh, God!
In frightful anguish he put his ear to her heart; it did not seem to
beat.
In wild fear he tore open her blouse and wrenched apart her fine
underclothing, the better to listen. Yes, now through only the bare
soft skin he heard a faint sound. Ah! saints in heaven! she was not
dead.
Then he took off her boots and rubbed her cold little silk-stockinged
feet, and her cold damp hands, and presently as he watched, it seemed
as if some color came back to her cheeks, and at last she gave a sigh
and moved her head without opening her eyes--and then he saw that she
was not unconscious now, but sleeping.
Then the bounds of all his mad passion burst, and as he knelt beside
the couch, great tears suffused his eyes and trickled down his cheeks.
"My Doushka! my love!" he whispered, brokenly. "Oh, God! and I would
have hurt you!"
He rose quickly, and going to the window opened the ventilator at the
top, picked up the pistol from the table and replaced it in his belt,
and then he knelt once more beside Tamara, and with deepest reverence
bent down and kissed her feet.
"Sleep, sleep, my sweet Princess," he said softly, and then crept
stealthily from the room.