“Promised and betrothed,” Mavriky Nikolaevitch assented firmly and clearly.
“You have … quarrelled? Excuse me, Mavriky Nikolaevitch.”
“No, she ‘loves and respects me’; those are her words. Her words are more precious than anything.”
“Of that there can be no doubt.”
“But let me tell you, if she were standing in the church at her wedding and you were to call her, she’d give up me and every one and go to you.”
“From the wedding?”
“Yes, and after the wedding.”
“Aren’t you making a mistake?”
“No. Under her persistent, sincere, and intense hatred for you love is flashing out at every moment … and madness … the sincerest infinite love and … madness! On the contrary, behind the love she feels for me, which is sincere too, every moment there are flashes of hatred … the most intense hatred! I could never have fancied all these transitions … before.”
“But I wonder, though, how could you come here and dispose of the hand of Lizaveta Nikolaevna? Have you the right to do so? Has she authorised you?”