He had a feeling that this offer of Simonson’s destroyed the exceptional character of his sacrifice, and thereby lessened its value in his own and others’ eyes; if so good a man who was not bound to her by any kind of tie wanted to join his fate to hers, then this sacrifice was not so great.  There may have also been an admixture of ordinary jealousy.  He had got so used to her love that he did not like to admit that she loved another.

Then it also upset the plans he had formed of living near her while she was doing her term.  If she married Simonson his presence would be unnecessary, and he would have to form new plans.

Before he had time to analyse his feelings the loud din of the prisoners’ voices came in with a rush (something special was going on among them to-day) as the door opened to let Katusha in.

She stepped briskly close up to him and said, “Mary Pavlovna has sent me.”

“Yes, I must have a talk with you.  Sit down.  Valdemar Simonson has been speaking to me.”

She sat down and folded her hands in her lap and seemed quite calm, but hardly had Nekhludoff uttered Simonson’s name when she flushed crimson.

“What did he say?” she asked.

“He told me he wanted to marry you.”

Her face suddenly puckered up with pain, but she said nothing and only cast down her eyes.

“He is asking for my consent or my advice.  I told him that it all depends entirely on you—­that you must decide.”

“Ah, what does it all mean?  Why?” she muttered, and looked in his eyes with that peculiar squint that always strangely affected Nekhludoff.

They sat silent for a few minutes looking into each other’s eyes, and this look told much to both of them.

“You must decide,” Nekhludoff repeated.

“What am I to decide?  Everything has long been decided.”

“No; you must decide whether you will accept Mr. Simonson’s offer,” said Nekhludoff.

“What sort of a wife can I be—­I, a convict?  Why should I ruin Mr. Simonson, too?” she said, with a frown.

“Well, but if the sentence should be mitigated.”

“Oh, leave me alone.  I have nothing more to say,” she said, and rose to leave the room.

CHAPTER XVIII.

NEVEROFF’S FATE.

When, following Katusha, Nekhludoff returned to the men’s room, he found every one there in agitation.  Nabatoff, who went about all over the place, and who got to know everybody, and noticed everything, had just brought news which staggered them all.  The news was that he had discovered a note on a wall, written by the revolutionist Petlin, who had been sentenced to hard labour, and who, every one thought, had long since reached the Kara; and now it turned out that he had passed this way quite recently, the only political prisoner among criminal convicts.

“On the 17th of August,” so ran the note, “I was sent off alone with the criminals.  Neveroff was with me, but hanged himself in the lunatic asylum in Kasan.  I am well and in good spirits and hope for the best.”