“She knows nothing, she has forgotten, or mixed it all up,” said he to his father, with that strange sinister smile of his. “I was then sending to the Viceroy’s secretary the plan of the Belgorod attack, and not this letter.”
“This very same, Tsarevitch; you wrote and sealed it in my presence. Have you forgotten! I saw it,” she continued in the same calm tone. Then all at once she darted at him that very glance with which she had confronted him, when, three years ago, in Viasemski’s house with a knife in his hand and drunk, he had threatened her with violence.
This look told him that she had betrayed him.
“My son,” said Peter, “you yourself must see that this is a matter of grave importance. If these letters were written of your own free will, it is clear that your projects for revolutionary measures were not vague and undefined, but that you counted on being able to put them into execution. In the avowals which you have made you have passed over this fact not through forgetfulness, but of set purpose, in order that you might continue to work for the realization of your schemes. However, I do not wish to bear an uneasy conscience and to accept accusations without full enquiry. For the last time I ask you, Did you write it of your own free will?”
The Tsarevitch remained silent.
“I regret the necessity, Afrossinia,” said Peter, “I cannot help it, but you must be handed over to official interrogation.”
Alexis glanced at his father, and then at Afrossinia, and fully realized that if he persisted in maintaining silence she would be delivered up to torture.
“I confess it,” he said in a voice scarcely audible, but the next moment all his fear departed and he felt quite indifferent to all things. Peter’s eyes flashed with undisguised joy.
“For what purpose did you write the word ‘now?’”