“Perhaps,” said Alyosha, “though I’ve heard nothing about it.”
“It’s he, it’s he! No ‘perhaps’ about it. You know I turned him out of the house. … You know all that story, don’t you?”
“I know that you asked him not to visit you for the future, but why it was, I haven’t heard … from you, at least.”
“Ah, then you’ve heard it from him! He abuses me, I suppose, abuses me dreadfully?”
“Yes, he does; but then he abuses everyone. But why you’ve given him up I haven’t heard from him either. I meet him very seldom now, indeed. We are not friends.”
“Well, then, I’ll tell you all about it. There’s no help for it, I’ll confess, for there is one point in which I was perhaps to blame. Only a little, little point, so little that perhaps it doesn’t count. You see, my dear boy”—Madame Hohlakov suddenly looked arch and a charming, though enigmatic, smile played about her lips—“you see, I suspect … You must forgive me, Alyosha. I am like a mother to you. … No, no; quite the contrary. I speak to you now as though you were my father—mother’s quite out of place. Well, it’s as though I were confessing to Father Zossima, that’s just it. I called you a monk just now. Well, that poor young man, your friend, Rakitin (Mercy on us! I can’t be angry with him. I feel cross, but not very), that frivolous young man, would you believe it, seems to have taken it into his head to fall in love with me. I only noticed it later. At first—a month ago—he only began to come oftener to see me, almost every day; though, of course, we were acquainted before. I knew nothing about it … and suddenly it dawned upon me, and I began to notice things with surprise. You know, two months ago, that modest, charming, excellent young man, Pyotr Ilyitch Perhotin, who’s in the service here, began to be a regular visitor at the house. You met him here ever so many times yourself. And he is an