"No one can be your judge now," Mavriky Nikolaevich said firmly, "God forgive you, and least of all will I be your judge!"

But it would be strange to describe their conversation. And meanwhile the two were walking arm in arm, quickly, hurrying, as if half crazed. They were making straight for the fire. Mavriky Nikolaevich had still not lost hope of meeting some cart at least, but no one came along. A fine drizzle pervaded all the surroundings, absorbing every sheen and every shade, and turning everything into one smoky, leaden, indifferent mass. It had long been day, yet it seemed that dawn had still not come. Then suddenly, out of this cold, smoky haze, a figure materialized, strange and absurd, walking towards them. Picturing it now, I think I would not have believed my eyes, even if I had been in Lizaveta Nikolaevna's place; and yet she cried out joyfully and recognized the approaching man at once. It was Stepan Trofimovich. How he had left, in what way the insane, cerebral notion of his flight could have been carried out—of that later. I will only mention that he was already in a fever that morning, but even illness did not stop him: he strode firmly over the wet ground; one could see that he had thought the enterprise over as best he could, alone with all his bookish inexperience. He was dressed in "traveling fashion"—that is, in a greatcoat with sleeves and a wide patent-leather belt with a buckle, as well as high new boots with his trousers tucked into them. Probably he had long pictured a traveling man in this way, and several days earlier had provided himself with the belt and the high boots with their gleaming hussar tops, in which he did not know how to walk. A wide-brimmed hat, a worsted scarf wrapped tightly around his neck, a stick in his right hand, and in his left an extremely small but exceedingly tightly packed valise, completed the outfit. There was, besides, an open umbrella in that same right hand. These three objects—the umbrella, the stick, and the valise—had been very awkward to carry for the first half mile, and simply heavy for the second.

"Can it really be you?" Liza cried out, looking him over in sorrowful surprise, which replaced her first impulse of unconscious joy.

"Lise!" Stepan Trofimovich also cried out, rushing to her also almost in delirium. "Chère, chère, can it be that you, too ... in such fog? Do you see: a glow! Vous êtes malheureuse, n 'est-ce pas?^[cliii]I see, I see, don't tell, but don't question me either. Nous sommes tous malheureux, mais il faut les pardonner tous. Pardonnons, Lise,^[cliv] and be free forever. To settle accounts with the world and be fully free—il faut pardonner, pardonner, et pardonner!"

"But why are you kneeling down?"

"Because, as I am bidding the world farewell, I want to bid farewell, in your image, to the whole of my past!" He began to weep and brought both her hands to his weeping eyes. "I kneel before all that was beautiful in my life, I kiss and give thanks! I've now broken myself in two: there—a madman who dreamed of soaring up into the sky, vingt-deux ans!^[clv]Here—a crushed and chilled old tutor... chez ce marchand, s'il existe pourtant ce marchand^[clvi] ... But how soaked you are, Lise!" he cried, jumping to his feet, feeling that his knees, too, had become soaked on the sodden ground, "and how is this possible, you, in this dress?... and on foot, and in this field... You're crying? Vous êtes malheureuse? Hah, I heard something... But where are you coming from now?" he quickened his questions, with a timorous look, glancing in deep perplexity at Mavriky Nikolaevich, "mais savez-vous l'heure qu'il est!"^[clvii]

"Stepan Trofimovich, did you hear anything there about murdered people ... Is it true? Is it?"

"Those people! I saw the glow of their deeds all night. They couldn't have ended otherwise..." (His eyes began to flash again.) "I'm running from a delirium, from a feverish dream, running to seek Russia, existe-t-elle la Russie? Bah, c'est vous, cher capitaine!^[clviii] I never doubted but that I'd meet you somewhere at some lofty deed... But do take my umbrella and—why must you go on foot? For God's sake, at least take my umbrella, and I'll hire a carriage somewhere anyway. I'm on foot only because Stasie (that is, Nastasya) would have started shouting for the whole street to hear, if she'd found out I was leaving; so I slipped away as incognito as possible. I don't know, in the Voice they're writing about robberies everywhere, but it can't be, I thought, that the moment I get out on the road, there will be a robber? Chère Lise, it seems you said someone murdered someone? O, mon Dieu, you're not well!"

"Let's go, let's go!" Liza cried out as if in hysterics, again drawing Mavriky Nikolaevich after her. "Wait, Stepan Trofimovich," she suddenly went back to him, "wait, poor dear, let me make a cross over you. It might be better to tie you up, but I'd better make a cross over you. You, too, pray for 'poor' Liza—just so, a little, don't trouble yourself too much. Mavriky Nikolaevich, give this child back his umbrella, you must give it back. There... Let's go now! Let's go!"

Their arrival at the fatal house occurred precisely at the moment when the thick crowd thronging in front of the house had heard a good deal about Stavrogin and how it was profitable for him to kill his wife. But still, I repeat, the great majority went on listening silently and motionlessly. Only bawling drunkards and "breaking-loose" people like that arm-waving tradesman lost control of themselves. Everyone knew him as even a quiet man, but it was as if he would suddenly break loose and fly off somewhere if something suddenly struck him in a certain way. I did not see Liza and Mavriky Nikolaevich arrive. I first noticed Liza, to my stupefied amazement, when she was already far away from me in the crowd, and in the beginning I did not even make out Mavriky Nikolaevich. It seems there was a moment when he lagged a couple of steps behind her because of the crowd, or else he was forced aside. Liza, who was tearing through the crowd without seeing or noticing anything around her, like someone in a fever, like someone escaped from a hospital, of course drew attention to herself all too quickly: there was loud talk and suddenly shouting. Then someone yelled: "That's Stavrogin's woman!" And from the other side: "They don't just kill, they also come and look!" Suddenly I saw someone's hand, above her head, from behind, raised and lowered; Liza fell. There came a terrible cry from Mavriky Nikolaevich, who tore to her aid and struck the man who was between him and Liza with all his strength. But at the same moment that tradesman seized him from behind with both arms. For some time it was impossible to make anything out in the ensuing scuffle. It seems Liza got up, but fell again from another blow. Suddenly the crowd parted and a small empty circle formed around the prostrate Liza, with the bloody, crazed Mavriky Nikolaevich standing over her, shouting, weeping, and wringing his hands. I do not remember with complete precision how things went after that; I only remember that Liza was suddenly being carried away. I ran after her; she was still alive, and perhaps still conscious. From among the crowd, the tradesman and another three men were seized. These three up to now have denied any participation in the evil-doing, stubbornly insisting that they were seized by mistake; perhaps they are right. The tradesman, though clearly exposed, being a witless man, has been unable up to now to explain coherently what happened. I, too, had to give my evidence at the investigation, as a witness, though a distant one: I declared that everything had happened to the highest degree by chance, through people who, though perhaps of a certain inclination, had very little awareness, were drunk, and had already lost the thread. I am still of that opinion.