"What is Sophie Narishkin to me?"
Prince Ghedimin shrugged his shoulders, and, taking out his handkerchief, carefully brushed away traces of tears. It is certainly not worth while to run the risk of making one's own nose red for the troubles of other people.
"All right. As it does not affect you, let us turn to something else. One other reason brought me here, which may perhaps interest you more. As I got into my gondola my steersman handed me a letter bearing on it 'Pressing.' The letter was from Alexander Sergievitch Pushkin."
"Pushkin?" repeated Korynthia, in great agitation.
"Yes; from Pushkin. And the purport of the letter being so extraordinary that my understanding could not grasp it at all, I hastened to you to beg you to solve the riddle."
Korynthia felt the ground give way beneath her feet.
"Pushkin!" she stammered. "What should I know of Pushkin's riddles?"
"Listen. I will read the letter to you."
And, in order to see better, the Prince now approached the open window, while Korynthia, retreating to the farther side of the room, sought to conceal her agitation. The Prince read:
"'Dear Ivan Maximovitch,—I find myself compelled with penitent heart to make you a confession. I have misused the high-minded confidence with which you laid open to me the sacred privacy of your home. Not as my excuse, but as a reason, I refer to my passion, which was stronger than the respect I owed to you. I have stolen the dearest, most carefully guarded treasure of your house!'"