CHAPTER XVI.
Happening to go one day in Varvara Pavlovna's absence into her boudoir, Lavretsky saw on the floor a carefully folded little paper.
He mechanically picked it up, unfolded it, and read the following note, written in French: "Sweet angel Betsy (I never can make up my mind to call you Barbe or Varvara), I waited in vain for you at the corner of the boulevard; come to our little room at half-past one to-morrow.

Your stout good-natured husband (ton gros bonhomme de mari) is usually buried in his books at that time; we will sing once more the song of your poet Pouskine (de botre poete Pouskine) that you taught me: 'Old husband, cruel husband!' A thousand kisses on your little hands and feet.

I await you.
"Ernest." Lavretsky did not at once understand what he had read; he read it a second time, and his head began to swim, the ground began to sway under his feet like the deck of a ship in a rolling sea.

He began to cry out and gasp and weep all at the same instant.
He was utterly overwhelmed.

He had so blindly believed in his wife; the possibility of deception, of treason, had never presented itself to his mind.