“No peace, damn them!” he muttered, angry he knew not with whom. “Ah yes, there was something else important, very important, that I was keeping till I should be in bed. The bolts? No, I told him about them. No, it was something, something in the drawing room. Princess Márya talked some nonsense. Dessalles, that fool, said something. Something in my pocket⁠—can’t remember.⁠ ⁠…”

“Tíkhon, what did we talk about at dinner?”

“About Prince Mikháil⁠ ⁠…”

“Be quiet, quiet!” The prince slapped his hand on the table. “Yes, I know, Prince Andréy’s letter! Princess Márya read it. Dessalles said something about Vítebsk. Now I’ll read it.”

He had the letter taken from his pocket and the table⁠—on which stood a glass of lemonade and a spiral wax candle⁠—moved close to the bed, and putting on his spectacles he began reading. Only now in the stillness of the night, reading it by the faint light under the green shade, did he grasp its meaning for a moment.