"It is Bethsaba's handwriting!"
"You know her handwriting? I have never seen it."
Korynthia tore open the letter, and as she read her cheeks flamed. Then, crushing it in her hand, she cried, with hysterical laughter:
"Ha, ha, ha! He has run off with Bethsaba and married her!"
Ivan Maximovitch took the matter as a joke. He had expected worse. Indeed, he could rejoice in that Bethsaba had been carried off, destined as she had been to St. Katherine's Convent. His wife's laughter still further misled him, and he thought well to join in it. Now, if his tears had met with but mediocre success, his laughter obtained him an open attack. The Princess first flung the crushed-up letter at his head, then, rushing at him like a fury, hissed out through her clinched teeth:
"This was your work, wretch! This was connived between you!"
"Who?" asked the Prince, in amazement.
"You—and your sweetheart—that Witch of Endor! You spun the web in which that girl was caught for Pushkin. You prepared the poison in which this dagger is steeped."
"Madame, I am at a loss to understand why the fact of Pushkin's marrying Bethsaba Dilarianoff should excite you to such fury!"
Korynthia saw that by her vehemence she had almost been led into self-betrayal; so said, calmly: