Bethsaba must now change the pink wedding-dress for a black one for the consecration of the dead. Zeneida helped her to dress; Pushkin waited without.
Bethsaba wept on and on, whether clad in pink or black.
Zeneida betrayed no tendency that day to sentimentality. Her utter callousness bordered on cynicism.
"But we shall see Sophie again in the next world, shall we not?" sobbed Bethsaba.
"Yes, yes," muttered Zeneida. "And to which of you will Pushkin belong then?"
That was the question.
Bethsaba was startled. Her large eyes remained fixed on Zeneida.
"And suppose he should belong to neither of you?" continued Zeneida, drawing her strongly marked eyebrows together. "Or do you imagine that in the hereafter there will still be a greater Russia crushing a lesser Finland beneath its heel, so that even then a fool will be found to open the gate of Paradise for some one else, while she herself goes into perdition!"
This outburst revealed Zeneida's secret to Bethsaba. Rigid with dismay, she stammered out:
"You, too, loved him?"