The dwarf shook her cap.
"Won't grandfather intercede for me, or my aunt."
"No, miss, the negro during your illness managed to bewitch everybody. Master is mad about him, the prince dreams of him alone, and Tatiana Afanassievna says it is a pity he is a negro, otherwise we could not wish for a better bridegroom."
"My God, my God!" sobbed poor Natasha.
"Don't grieve, dear beauty," said the dwarf, kissing her feeble hand. "If you must marry the negro, at any rate you will be your own mistress. Now it is not as it was in olden times; husbands no longer imprison their wives; the negro is said to be rich, the house will be like a full cup—you'll live merrily."
"Poor Valerian," said Natasha, but so low, that the dwarf only guessed but did not hear the words.
"That is just it, miss," she said mysteriously, lowering her voice; "if you thought less of the sharpshooter's orphan you would not rave of him in your delirium, and your father would not be angry."
"What!" inquired Natasha, in alarm; "I raved about Valerian? My father heard? My father was angry?"
"That is the misfortune," replied the dwarf. "Now, if you ask him not to marry you to the negro, he will think Valerian is the cause. There is nothing to be done, you had better submit, and what is to be will be."