It was December – six months after the young Russian and I had first met in the railroad carriage. We had become very intimate. We lived in the same quarter of Paris, we had a good many friends in common, we often dined at the same restaurant, and we rarely passed a day without seeing each other. I grew much interested in my new acquaintance. Stachovitch professed a good many strange ideas on various subjects, but it was evident he always spoke and acted without any kind of affectation. I also discovered that the young Russian possessed excellent qualities of heart and mind. He was sincere, charitable, generous and singularly amiable; he loved knowledge, and considering his age and his position, he had read and learned considerably.

He was truly lovable. I may also add that he inspired me with pity. There was no doubt that Stachovitch was an unhappy man, but I could not discover the cause of his melancholy. He never complained, and when I delicately endeavored to question him, he answered me evasively, and with so much reserve and embarrassment, that at last, fearing to be tempted to go too far with him, I ceased to question him about his secret sorrow.