“You may see her,” he said, “only please remember what I told you as to giving her money.  And as to her transfer to the hospital, about which His Excellency has written, there is no objection to it, and the physician also consented.  But she herself does not wish it.  ’I don’t care to be chambermaid to that scurvy lot,’ she said.  That is the kind of people they are, Prince,” he added.

Nekhludoff made no answer and asked to be admitted to her.  The inspector sent the warden, and Nekhludoff followed him into the empty visiting-room.

Maslova was already there, quietly and timidly emerging from behind the grating.  She approached close to Nekhludoff, and, looking past him, quietly said: 

“Forgive me, Dmitri Ivanovich; I have spoken improperly the other day.”

“It is not for me to forgive you——­” Nekhludoff began.

“But you must leave me,” she added, and in the fearfully squinting eyes with which she glanced at him Nekhludoff again saw a strained and spiteful expression.

[Illustration:  EASTER SERVICES.]

“But why should I leave you?”

“So.”

“Why so?”

She again looked at him with that spiteful glance, as it seemed to him.

“Well, then, I will tell you,” she said.  “You leave me—­I tell you that truly.  I cannot.  You must drop that entirely,” she said, with quivering lips, and became silent.  “That is true.  I would rather hang myself.”

Nekhludoff felt that in this answer lurked a hatred for him, an unforgiven wrong, but also something else—­something good and important.  This reiteration of her refusal in a perfectly calm state destroyed in Nekhludoff’s soul all his doubts, and brought him back to his former grave, solemn and benign state of mind.

“Katiousha, I repeat what I said,” he said, with particular gravity.  “I ask you to marry me.  If, however, you do not wish to, and so long as you do not wish to, I will be wherever you will be, and follow you wherever you may be sent.”

“That is your business.  I will speak no more,” she said, and again her lips quivered.

He was also silent, feeling that he had no strength to speak.

“I am now going to the country, and from there to St. Petersburg,” he said finally.  “I will press your—­our case, and with God’s help the sentence will be set aside.”

“I don’t care if they don’t.  I deserved it, if not for that, for something else,” she said, and he saw what great effort she had to make to repress her tears.

“Well, have you seen Menshova?” she asked suddenly, in order to hide her agitation.  “They are innocent, are they not?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Such a wonderful little woman!” she said.

He related everything he had learned from Menshova, and asked her if she needed anything.  She said she needed nothing.

They were silent again.

“Well, and as to the hospital,” she said suddenly, casting on him her squinting glance, “if you wish me to go, I will go; and I will stop wine drinking, too.”