THE prince understood at last why he shivered with dread every time he thought of the three letters in his pocket, and why he had put off reading them until the evening.
When he fell into a heavy sleep on the sofa on the verandah, without having had the courage to open a single one of the three envelopes, he again dreamed a painful dream, and once more that poor, "sinful" woman appeared to him. Again she gazed at him with tears sparkling on her long lashes, and beckoned him after her; and again he awoke, as before, with the picture of her face haunting him.
He longed to get up and go to her at once--but he COULD NOT. At length, almost in despair, he unfolded the letters, and began to read them.
These letters, too, were like a dream. We sometimes have strange, impossible dreams, contrary to all the laws of nature. When we awake we remember them and wonder at their strangeness. You remember, perhaps, that you were in full possession of your reason during this succession of fantastic images; even that you acted with extraordinary logic and cunning while surrounded by murderers who hid their intentions and made great demonstrations of friendship, while waiting for an opportunity to cut your throat. You remember how you escaped them by some ingenious stratagem; then you doubted if they were really deceived, or whether they were only pretending not to know your hiding-place; then you thought of another plan and hoodwinked them once again. You remember all this quite clearly, but how is it that your reason calmly accepted all the manifest absurdities and impossibilities that crowded into your dream? One of the murderers suddenly changed into a woman before your very eyes; then the woman was transformed into a hideous, cunning little dwarf; and you believed it, and accepted it all almost as a matter of course--while at the same time your intelligence seemed unusually keen, and accomplished miracles of cunning, sagacity, and logic! Why is it that when you awake to the world of realities you nearly always feel, sometimes very vividly, that the vanished dream has carried with it some enigma which you have failed to solve? You smile at the extravagance of your dream, and yet you feel that this tissue of absurdity contained some real idea, something that belongs to your true life,--something that exists, and has always existed, in your heart. You search your dream for some prophecy that you were expecting. It has left a deep impression upon you, joyful or cruel, but what it means, or what has been predicted to you in it, you can neither understand nor remember.
The reading of these letters produced some such effect upon the prince. He felt, before he even opened the envelopes, that the very fact of their existence was like a nightmare. How could she ever have made up her mind to write to her? he asked himself. How could she write about that at all? And how could such a wild idea have entered her head? And yet, the strangest part of the matter was, that while he read the letters, he himself almost believed in the possibility, and even in the justification, of the idea he had thought so wild. Of course it was a mad dream, a nightmare, and yet there was something cruelly real about it. For hours he was haunted by what he had read. Several passages returned again and again to his mind, and as he brooded over them, he felt inclined to say to himself that he had foreseen and known all that was written here; it even seemed to him that he had read the whole of this some time or other, long, long ago; and all that had tormented and grieved him up to now was to be found in these old, long since read, letters.
"When you open this letter" (so the first began), "look first at the signature. The signature will tell you all, so that I need explain nothing, nor attempt to justify myself. Were I in any way on a footing with you, you might be offended at my audacity; but who am I, and who are you? We are at such extremes, and I am so far removed from you, that I could not offend you if I wished to do so."
Farther on, in another place, she wrote: "Do not consider my words as the sickly ecstasies of a diseased mind, but you are, in my opinion--perfection! I have seen you--I see you every day. I do not judge you; I have not weighed you in the scales of Reason and found you Perfection--it is simply an article of faith. But I must confess one sin against you--I love you. One should not love perfection. One should only look on it as perfection--yet I am in love with you. Though love equalizes, do not fear. I have not lowered you to my level, even in my most secret thoughts. I have written 'Do not fear,' as if you could fear. I would kiss your footprints if I could; but, oh! I am not putting myself on a level with you!--Look at the signature--quick, look at the signature!"
"However, observe" (she wrote in another of the letters), "that although I couple you with him, yet I have not once asked you whether you love him. He fell in love with you, though he saw you but once. He spoke of you as of 'the light.' These are his own words--I heard him use them. But I understood without his saying it that you were all that light is to him. I lived near him for a whole month, and I understood then that you, too, must love him. I think of you and him as one."
"What was the matter yesterday?" (she wrote on another sheet). "I passed by you, and you seemed to me to BLUSH. Perhaps it was only my fancy. If I were to bring you to the most loathsome den, and show you the revelation of undisguised vice--you should not blush. You can never feel the sense of personal affront. You may hate all who are mean, or base, or unworthy--but not for yourself--only for those whom they wrong. No one can wrong YOU. Do you know, I think you ought to love me--for you are the same in my eyes as in his-you are as light. An angel cannot hate, perhaps cannot love, either. I often ask myself--is it possible to love everybody? Indeed it is not; it is not in nature. Abstract love of humanity is nearly always love of self. But you are different. You cannot help loving all, since you can compare with none, and are above all personal offence or anger. Oh! how bitter it would be to me to know that you felt anger or shame on my account, for that would be your fall--you would become comparable at once with such as me.
"Yesterday, after seeing you, I went home and thought out a picture.
"Artists always draw the Saviour as an actor in one of the Gospel stories. I should do differently. I should represent Christ alone--the disciples did leave Him alone occasionally. I should paint one little child left with Him. This child has been playing about near Him, and had probably just been telling the Saviour something in its pretty baby prattle. Christ had listened to it, but was now musing--one hand reposing on the child's bright head. His eyes have a far-away expression. Thought, great as the Universe, is in them--His face is sad. The little one leans its elbow upon Christ's knee, and with its cheek resting on its hand, gazes up at Him, pondering as children sometimes do ponder. The sun is setting. There you have my picture.
"You are innocent--and in your innocence lies all your perfection--oh, remember that! What is my passion to you?--you are mine now; I shall be near you all my life--I shall not live long!"
At length, in the last letter of all, he found:
"For Heaven's sake, don't misunderstand me! Do not think that I humiliate myself by writing thus to you, or that I belong to that class of people who take a satisfaction in humiliating themselves--from pride. I have my consolation, though it would be difficult to explain it--but I do not humiliate myself.
"Why do I wish to unite you two? For your sakes or my own? For my own sake, naturally. All the problems of my life would thus be solved; I have thought so for a long time. I know that once when your sister Adelaida saw my portrait she said that such beauty could overthrow the world. But I have renounced the world. You think it strange that I should say so, for you saw me decked with lace and diamonds, in the company of drunkards and wastrels. Take no notice of that; I know that I have almost ceased to exist. God knows what it is dwelling within me now--it is not myself. I can see it every day in two dreadful eyes which are always looking at me, even when not present. These eyes are silent now, they say nothing; but I know their secret. His house is gloomy, and there is a secret in it. I am convinced that in some box he has a razor hidden, tied round with silk, just like the one that Moscow murderer had. This man also lived with his mother, and had a razor hidden away, tied round with white silk, and with this razor he intended to cut a throat.
"All the while I was in their house I felt sure that somewhere beneath the floor there was hidden away some dreadful corpse, wrapped in oil-cloth, perhaps buried there by his father, who knows? Just as in the Moscow case. I could have shown you the very spot!
"He is always silent, but I know well that he loves me so much that he must hate me. My wedding and yours are to be on the same day; so I have arranged with him. I have no secrets from him. I would kill him from very fright, but he will kill me first. He has just burst out laughing, and says that I am raving. He knows I am writing to you."
There was much more of this delirious wandering in the letters-- one of them was very long.
At last the prince came out of the dark, gloomy park, in which he had wandered about for hours just as yesterday. The bright night seemed to him to be lighter than ever. "It must be quite early," he thought. (He had forgotten his watch.) There was a sound of distant music somewhere. "Ah," he thought, "the Vauxhall! They won't be there today, of course!" At this moment he noticed that he was close to their house; he had felt that he must gravitate to this spot eventually, and, with a beating heart, he mounted the verandah steps.
No one met him; the verandah was empty, and nearly pitch dark. He opened the door into the room, but it, too, was dark and empty. He stood in the middle of the room in perplexity. Suddenly the door opened, and in came Alexandra, candle in hand. Seeing the prince she stopped before him in surprise, looking at him questioningly.
It was clear that she had been merely passing through the room from door to door, and had not had the remotest notion that she would meet anyone.
"How did you come here?" she asked, at last.
"I-I--came in--"
"Mamma is not very well, nor is Aglaya. Adelaida has gone to bed, and I am just going. We were alone the whole evening. Father and Prince S. have gone to town."
"I have come to you--now--to--"
"Do you know what time it is?"
"N--no!"
"Half-past twelve. We are always in bed by one."
"I-I thought it was half-past nine!"
"Never mind!" she laughed, "but why didn't you come earlier? Perhaps you were expected!"
"I thought" he stammered, making for the door.
"Au revoir! I shall amuse them all with this story tomorrow!"
He walked along the road towards his own house. His heart was beating, his thoughts were confused, everything around seemed to be part of a dream.
And suddenly, just as twice already he had awaked from sleep with the same vision, that very apparition now seemed to rise up before him. The woman appeared to step out from the park, and stand in the path in front of him, as though she had been waiting for him there.
He shuddered and stopped; she seized his hand and pressed it frenziedly.
No, this was no apparition!
There she stood at last, face to face with him, for the first time since their parting.
She said something, but he looked silently back at her. His heart ached with anguish. Oh! never would he banish the recollection of this meeting with her, and he never remembered it but with the same pain and agony of mind.
She went on her knees before him--there in the open road--like a madwoman. He retreated a step, but she caught his hand and kissed it, and, just as in his dream, the tears were sparkling on her long, beautiful lashes.
"Get up!" he said, in a frightened whisper, raising her. "Get up at once!"
"Are you happy--are you happy?" she asked. "Say this one word. Are you happy now? Today, this moment? Have you just been with her? What did she say?"
She did not rise from her knees; she would not listen to him; she put her questions hurriedly, as though she were pursued.
"I am going away tomorrow, as you bade me--I won't write--so that this is the last time I shall see you, the last time! This is really the LAST TIME!"
"Oh, be calm--be calm! Get up!" he entreated, in despair.
She gazed thirstily at him and clutched his hands.
"Good-bye!" she said at last, and rose and left him, very quickly.
The prince noticed that Rogojin had suddenly appeared at her side, and had taken her arm and was leading her away.
"Wait a minute, prince," shouted the latter, as he went. "I shall be back in five minutes."
He reappeared in five minutes as he had said. The prince was waiting for him.
"I've put her in the carriage," he said; "it has been waiting round the corner there since ten o'clock. She expected that you would be with THEM all the evening. I told her exactly what you wrote me. She won't write to the girl any more, she promises; and tomorrow she will be off, as you wish. She desired to see you for the last time, although you refused, so we've been sitting and waiting on that bench till you should pass on your way home."
"Did she bring you with her of her own accord?"
"Of course she did!" said Rogojin, showing his teeth; "and I saw for myself what I knew before. You've read her letters, I suppose?"
"Did you read them?" asked the prince, struck by the thought.
"Of course--she showed them to me herself. You are thinking of the razor, eh? Ha, ha, ha!"
"Oh, she is mad!" cried the prince, wringing his hands. "Who knows? Perhaps she is not so mad after all," said Rogojin, softly, as though thinking aloud.
The prince made no reply.
"Well, good-bye," said Rogojin. "I'm off tomorrow too, you know. Remember me kindly! By-the-by," he added, turning round sharply again, "did you answer her question just now? Are you happy, or not?"
"No, no, no!" cried the prince, with unspeakable sadness.
"Ha, ha! I never supposed you would say 'yes,'" cried Rogojin, laughing sardonically.
And he disappeared, without looking round again.
公爵终于明白，为什么每次当他触及这三封信时他就浑身发凉，为什么他要把读信的时刻推迟到晚上。还是早晨的时候，他始终没有决心拆开这三封信中的哪一封，就在自己的沙发床上昏昏入睡，做起恶梦来，他又梦见那个“有罪的女人”向他走来。她又用那双有着长长睫毛闪闪发亮的眼睛望着他，又叫他跟她走，他又像刚才那样惊醒过来，痛苦地回忆着她的脸容。他本想立即去她那里，但他不能去；最后，几乎是在没有办法的情况下，他打开了信，读了起来。
这些信也像梦一般，有时会做一些奇怪的梦，不可能也是不自然的；当您醒来时，您会清晰地记起这些梦，并对梦里怪诞的事实感到惊异：您首先会记得，在您做梦的整个过程中理智并没有离开您；您甚至会回想起，在整个这段很长很长的时间里，您被凶手包围了，他们对您耍花招，他们对您很友好，隐瞒了自己的图谋，实际上他们已经准备好武器，他们不过是等某个信号，而您在这段时间里却巧妙而且合乎逻辑地周旋着；您还会回忆起，最后您怎么狡猾地骗过了他们，躲开了他们；后来您猜到了，他们识透了您的欺骗，只不过在您面前不露声色，装做不知道您躲在哪里；但是您更狡猾，又一次欺骗了他们，这一切您都能清晰地回忆起来。但是为什么在那当口您的理智会容忍这样显而易见是荒谬和不可能的事，让它们充斥您的梦境呢？您的一个凶手在您的眼里变成了一个女人，又从女人变成了一个又小又狡猾又坏的侏懦，而您却立即将这一切当作既成事实，几乎没有丝毫疑虑地容忍了，并恰恰是在这同时，从另一方面来说，您的理智却处于最为强烈的紧张状态，显露出非凡的力量、机智、悟性、逻辑，--这是为什么？当您从梦中醒来，已经完全进入了现实，您几乎每次都感觉到，有时怀着一股不同寻常的力量感觉到这么一种印象，您把某个您未曾解开的谜连同梦境一起留下了，--这又是为什么？您嘲笑您所做的梦的荒诞，与此同时又感觉到，在这些荒诞离奇的交织中又包含着某种思想，而这个思想已经是现实的了，是属于您的真正生活，是过去一直存在、现在也仍然存在于您心问的，您的梦似乎告诉了您某种预言式的、您所期待的新东西，您的印象是强烈的。它令人高兴或者令人痛苦，但它究竟包含着什么、告诉您什么--这一切您却是无法理解、无法记住的。
读了这几封信后几乎也是这样。但是，在还没有打开它们时公爵就感觉到，这些信存在和可能的事实本身简直就像一场恶梦。晚上他一个人徘徊的时候（有时甚至自己也不记得，他在什么地方踢囚）他间自己，她怎么有决心给她写信？她怎么能写这种事？她的头脑中怎么会产生这么失去理智的非分之想？但是这种非非之想已经在实施了，对他来说最为惊讶的是，在他看这些信时，他自己几乎相信有可能实现这一非非之想，甚至相信这种想法是有理由的。当然，这是梦，是恶梦，是失去理智。但是这里也包含着某种现实得令人难受、正确得令人痛苦的道理，这一道理为这梦，为这恶梦，为这失去理智做了辩护。一连几小时他仿佛发诸语一般对读到的信口中念念有词，不时记起其中的片断，有时停留在那些字句上，沉思良久。有时他甚至想对自己说，他早就预料到这一切，过去就预料到了。他甚至觉得，他仿佛在很久很久以前就已读到过这一切，而从那时起他一直为之忧愁、为之煎熬，为之担忧的一切，全都包含在他早已读过的这几封信中。
“当您展开这封信的时候（第一封信这样开头的），您首先会看一下暑名。署名会告诉您一切，说明一切，因为我没什么要在您面前辨白的，也没什么要向您解释清楚的、假若我多少与您一样的话，您可能还会对这种无礼而生气；但是我是谁，您又是谁？我们是如此相反的两极，我在您面前又是那样的坏，我无论如何已经不能使您生气了，甚至假如我想要那样也不行。”
下面在另一个地方她写道：
“别认为我的话是一个精神病患者的病态的亢奋，但对于我来说您是完美的！我看见过您，我每天都看见您。我可不是在评论您；我不是凭理性得出您是完美的结论的；我不过是相信这点。但是在您面前我是有罪孽的：我爱您。完美可是不能爱的；对完美只能像看完美那样来看，不是吗？然而我却爱上了您。虽然爱情使人们平等，但是，请别担心，我不把您与我自己相提并论，即使在最隐秘的思想中也不这样做。我对您写： ‘请别担心；，难道您会不放心吗？……假如可以的话，我愿意吻您的脚印。哦，我跟您不可同日而语……您看署名吧，尽快看署名吧！”
“然而，我发现（她在另一封信里写道），我把您与他联结起来，都一次也还没有问过，您是否爱他？他只看见您一次就爱上您了。他回忆起您犹如回忆起‘光明’；这是他自己的话，我是从他那儿听说的。但是没有这句话我也明白，对他来说您就是光明。我在他身边生活了整整一个月，这才明白，您也爱他；对我来说您与他是一回事。”
“这是怎么回事（她还写道），昨天我经过您身边时，您似乎脸红了？这不可能，我只是这么觉得而已。即使把您带到最肮脏的藏垢纳污的场所，让您看赤裸棵的邪恶，您也不应该脸红；您无论如何不会因为受了屈辱而愤慨。您可能会仇恨所有卑鄙下流之徒，但不是为自己，而是为别人，为那些受到他们侮辱的人。您却不会受到任何人的侮辱。知道吗，我觉得，您甚至应当爱我。您对于我来说就像对他来说一样是光明之神，而天使是不会憎恨的，不会不爱的。我常常对自己提这样的问题：是否可以爱大家，爱所有的人，爱所有自己亲近的人？当然不能，甚至是不自然的。在抽象的爱人类中几乎总是只爱自己一个人。但是这对我们来说是不可能的，而您只是另一回事：当您不能把自己与任何人相比较的时候，当您超越任何侮辱、超越任何个人的愤恨的时候，您怎么会不爱哪怕是某个人呢？只有您：一人能无私地爱，，只有您一人能不是为了自己个人去爱，而是为了忽所爱的人去爱。哦，当我知道您因为我而感到羞耻或愤怒的时候，我是多么痛苦！这下您就完了：您一下子把自己与我相提并论了……
昨天遇见您以后我回到家，虚构出一幅画来，画家们总是按照福音书上的故事来画基督，要是我就画成另一种样子：我要画他一个人，因为他的门徒有时是留下他一个人的。我只画一个小孩子与他在一起。孩子在他身边玩；也许，他用自己孩子的话语对他讲述什么，基督听着他，但此刻却在沉思：他的一只手不由自主地、出神地停在孩子长着浅色头发的脑袋上。他望着远处天涯，如整个世界一般宏伟的思想在他的目光中安然常驻；他的脸容是忧郁的，孩子不再作声，胳膊肘撑在他的膝盖上，一只手托住脸颊，仰若头，仪孩子们有时沉思那样若有所思地凝神望着他。夕阳西下……这就是我的画！您是纯结无暇的，您的全部完美就在这纯洁无暇中，哦。只是要记住这一点！我对您的热烈情感又关您什么事！您现在已经是我的了，我将一辈子追随您的左右……我很快就要死了。”
未了，在最后一封信中写道：
“看在上帝面上，请什么也别想我；也别认为我这样给你写信是在贬低我自己，或者认为我是属于以贬低自己为乐的那种人（哪怕甚至是出于自尊而这样做）。不，我有自己的慰藉；但我很准向您讲清楚这一点。我甚至难以对自己讲清楚这一点，尽管我常为此而苦恼。但是我知道，即便是自尊心发作也不能贬低自己。但出于心灵纯洁的自我贬低我也做不到。因而我根本不是贬低自己。
为什么我希望你们结合：为你们还是为自己？当然是为自己，这样我的一切伺题都迎刃而解，我早就这样对自己说……我听说，您姐姐阿杰莱达当时曾议论过我的照片，说有这样的美貌可以翻转乾坤。但是我不要乾坤；听见我说这话，您会觉得可笑，因为您看见我听明穿着镶花边的衣服，戴着钻石首饰、跟一批酒鬼和坏蛋混在一起，您别去看这些，我几乎已经不存在了，我知道这一点：上帝知道，取代我活在我躯体上的究竟是什么。我每天在两只可怕的眼睛里看到这一点，这两只眼睛经常在望着我，甚至不在我面前时也是这样，这双眼睛现在沉默着（它们始终是沉默的），但我知道它们蕴含的秘密。他家的房子阴森，沉闷，那里也有秘密。我相信，在他的抽屉里藏着一把用绸子包起来的剃刀，就位莫斯科那个杀人犯一样；那个人也和母亲住在一幢房子里，也用丝绸包着剃刀，以便割断一条喉咙；我在他们家的时候，始终一直觉得在什么地方，在地板的哪块木板下面有个死人，可能还是他父亲藏的，盖着一块漆布，就像那个莫斯科的尸体一样，周围摆满了装着日丹诺夫防腐剂的玻璃瓶，我甚至可以指给您看在哪个角落。他老是默默无语，但是我可知道，他爱我爱得已经恨不起我来了。你们的婚礼将和我的婚礼一起进行，我跟他是这么商定的。我对他没有秘密。不然我会因恐惧而把他杀死……但是他会先杀死我的……现在他笑了起来说，我是在说呓语，他知道我在给您写信。”
在这些信里还有许多许多这样的吃语。其中一封，是第二封，用蝇头书写槽了两张大号的信纸。
最后，公爵从幽暗的公园里走了出来，像昨天一样，他在那里蹀踱良久。他觉得清彻明亮的的夜色比平时更为明亮；“难道时间还那么早？”他心里想。（他忘了带表。）他仿佛听到了远处什么地方的音乐；“大概是在车站那儿，”他又想， “当然，他们今天是不会去那里的。”刚想到这点，他看见自己已经站在他们别墅门前了；他就料到，最后他一定会来到这里的，于是，他屏息静心跨上了廊台；没有人来迎接他，廊台上空荡荡的。他等了一会，推开了去厅屋的门。“这扇门他们是从来也不关的，”他头脑中闪过这个念头，但厅屋里也空无一人，里面几乎漆黑一团。他站在屋子中间困惑不解。突然门开了，亚历山德拉·伊万诺夫娜手拿蜡烛走了进来。看见公爵在那里，她很惊讶，像是询问一般停在他面前。显然，她只是穿过这间屋子，从一扇门到另一扇门，完全没有想到会撞见什么人。
“您怎么在这里？”她终于说。
“我……顺便来……”
“妈妈不大舒服，阿格拉娅也是。阿杰莱达躺下睡了，我也要去睡。今天整个晚上就我们呆在家里，爸爸和公爵在彼得堡，”
“我来……我到你们这儿来！……现在……”
“您知道现在几点了？”
“不知道……”
“１２点半。我们总在１点钟睡的。”
“啊，我以为……是９点半。”
“没关系！”她笑了起来，“为什么您刚才不来？也许，有人还等过您呢。”
“我……以为……”他喃喃着走了。
“再见！明天我会让大家发笑的。”
他顺着绕公园的路走回家去。他的心怦抨直跳，思绪万干，他周围的一切仿佛都像梦境。突然，就像刚才他两次梦见同一个幻影醒来时一样，那个幻影又出现在他面前。还是那个女人从公园里走出来，站在他面前。就像在这里等着他似的。他颤粟了一下，停住了，她抓住他的手，紧紧握着它。“不，这不是幻影。”
她终于面对面站在他面前，这是他们分离后第一次见面，她对他说了些什么话，但他只是默默望着她；他的心百感交集，痛苦得发出了呻吟。呵，后来他永远也忘不了跟她的这次见面，并总是怀着同样的痛苦回忆起当时的情景，她发狂似的一下子在马路中间跪倒在他面前；他吓得后退了一步，而她抓住他的手，吻它，就像刚才梦中那样，她那长长的睫毛上此刻正闪烁着泪花。
“起来，起来！”他一边扶她起来，一边惊恐地喃喃说，“快起来！”
“你幸福吗？幸福吗？”她连连问，“你只要对我说一句活，你现在幸福吗？今天，此刻？在她身边？她说了什么？”
她没有起来，她不听公爵的；她间得仓促，说得也急促，犹如有人在追赶她一样。
“我将照你吩咐的那样明天就走。我不再……我现在可是最后一次见你了，最后一次！现在可完全是最后一次了！”
“镇静些，起来吧！”他绝望地说。
她贪婪地盯着他，仍紧紧抓住他的手。
“别了！”她最后说着，站起身就很快地离开他，几乎是跑着离去。公爵看见，在她身旁突然出现了罗戈任，他扶着她的胳膊带她走开。
“等一等，公爵，”罗戈任喊道，“过５分钟我会回来一下的。”
过５分钟他真的来了；公爵在原地等着他。
“我把她安顿上了马车，”他说，“１０点钟起马车就在那边角落上等着，她就知道你会整个晚上都呆在那一位身边。刚才你给我写的那些话，我准确无误地转告了。她再也不会给那一位写信了；她许诺的；按照你的愿望，明天她就离开这里。她想最后见你一面，虽然你拒绝了；于是我们就在这个地方等候你回来，就在那里，在那张长椅上。”
“是她自己带你一起来的？”
“那又怎么啦？”罗戈任咧嘴笑着说，“我看见的是我早已知道的事。看来，你看过信了？”
“难道你真的看过这些信？”公爵问道，这个念头使他大为吃惊。
“这还用说；所有的信她自己都给我看过。你记得有关剃刀那一段话吗，嘻－嘻！”
“真是个疯子！”公爵扳捏着双手嚷了起来。
“谁知道那回事，也许不是，”罗戈任似是自言自语轻轻地说。
公爵没有回答。
“好，告辞了，”罗戈任说，“要知道明天我也走，有什么对不起的地方，请原谅！啊，兄弟，”他很快又转过身来补充说，“你干嘛什么也不回答她？‘你到底幸福不幸福？’”
“不，不，不！”公爵无限悲痛地喊道。
“还会说‘是的’吗？”罗戈任狞笑着，头也不回地走了。