“Rogojin said something about it yesterday, but nothing definite.”
“Yesterday! Morning or evening? Before the music or after?”
“After—it was about twelve o’clock.”
“Ah! Well, if it was Rogojin—but do you know what she writes to me about?”
“I should not be surprised by anything. She is mad!”
“There are the letters.” (Aglaya took three letters out of her pocket and threw them down before the prince.) “For a whole week she has been entreating and worrying and persuading me to marry you. She—well, she is clever, though she may be mad—much cleverer than I am, as you say. Well, she writes that she is in love with me herself, and tries to see me every day, if only from a distance. She writes that you love me, and that she has long known it and seen it, and that you and she talked about me—there. She wishes to see you happy, and she says that she is certain only I can ensure you the happiness you deserve. She writes such strange, wild letters—I haven’t shown them to anyone. Now, do you know what all this means? Can you guess anything?”
“It is madness—it is merely another proof of her insanity!” said the prince, and his lips trembled.
“You are crying, aren’t you?”
“No, Aglaya. No, I’m not crying.” The prince looked at her.
“Well, what am I to do? What do you advise me? I cannot go on receiving these letters, you know.”
“Oh, let her alone, I entreat you!” cried the prince. “What can you do in this dark, gloomy mystery? Let her alone, and I’ll use all my power to prevent her writing you any more letters.”