“Nonsense, fiddlesticks! Nonsense, nonsense!” shouted the old prince, frowning. He took his daughter’s hand, drew her towards him and did not kiss her, but bending over, touched her forehead with his, and wrung the hand he held so violently that she winced and uttered a cry. Prince Vassily got up.

“My dear, let me tell you that this is a moment I shall never forget, never; but, dear, will you not give us a little hope of touching so kind and generous a heart. Say that perhaps.… The future is so wide.… Say: perhaps.”

“Prince, what I have said is all that is in my heart. I thank you for the honour you do me, but I shall never be your son’s wife.”

“Well, then it’s all over, my dear fellow. Very glad to have seen you, very glad to have seen you. Go to your room, princess; go along now,” said the old prince. “Very, very glad to have seen you,” he repeated, embracing Prince Vassily.

“My vocation is a different one,” Princess Marya was thinking to herself; “my vocation is to be happy in the happiness of others, in the happiness of love and self-sacrifice. And at any cost I will make poor Amélie happy. She loves him so passionately. She is so passionately penitent. I will do everything to bring about their marriage. If he is not rich I will give her means, I will beg my father, I will beg Andrey. I shall be so happy when she is his wife. She is so unhappy, a stranger, solitary and helpless! And, my God, how passionately she must love him to be able to forget herself so. Perhaps I might have done the same!…” thought Princess Marya.