His kind doesn't turn coward, by God!" Keller thought to himself.
"Hm, champagne!
Interesting news, by the way.
Twelve bottles, sir, a tidy dozen; that's a decent stock.
I'll bet Lebedev took it in pledge from somebody.
Hm . . . he's a sweet enough fellow, though, this prince; I really like that sort; there's no time to waste, though, and ... if there's champagne, then this is the moment . . ."
That the prince was as if in a fever was certainly correct.
For a long time he wandered through the dark park and finally "found himself" pacing along a certain alley.
His consciousness retained the memory that he had already walked along that alley, from the bench to a certain old tree, tall and conspicuous, about a hundred steps, some thirty or forty times up and down.
He would have been quite unable to remember what he had thought about during that whole hour, at least, in the park, even if he had wanted to.
He caught himself, however, in a certain thought, which made him suddenly rock with laughter; though there was nothing to laugh at, he still wanted to laugh.
He imagined that the supposition of a duel might not have been born in Keller's head alone, and that, therefore, the story about loading a pistol might not have been accidental . . .
"Hah!" he stopped suddenly, as another idea dawned on him, "she came down to the terrace tonight when I was sitting in the corner, and was terribly surprised to find me there, and—laughed so . . . talked about tea; but at that time she already had this note in her hand, which means she must have known I was sitting on the terrace, so why was she surprised?
Ha, ha, ha!"
He snatched the note from his pocket and kissed it, but at once stopped and pondered.
"How strange!
How strange!" he said after a moment, even with a sort of sadness: he always felt sad at moments of great joy, he did not know why himself.
He looked around intently and was surprised that he had come there.
He was very tired, went over to the bench and sat down.
It was extremely quiet all around.
The music in the vauxhall was over.
There was probably no one in the park now; it was certainly at least half-past eleven.
The night was quiet, warm, bright—a Petersburg night at the beginning of the month of June—but in the thick, shady park, in the alley where he was, it was almost completely dark.
If anyone had told him at that moment that he had fallen in love, that he was passionately in love, he would have rejected the idea with astonishment and perhaps even with indignation.
And if anyone had added that Aglaya's note was a love letter, setting up a lovers' tryst, he would have burned with shame for that man and might have challenged him to a duel.
All this was perfectly sincere, and he never once doubted it or allowed for the slightest "second" thought about the possibility of this girl loving him or even the possibility of him loving this girl.
The possibility of loving him, "a man like him," he would have considered a monstrous thing.
He vaguely thought that it was simply a prank on her part, if there indeed was anything to it; but he was somehow all too indifferent to the prank itself and found it all too much in the order of things; he himself was concerned and preoccupied with something completely different.
He fully believed the words that had escaped the agitated general earlier, that she was laughing at everyone and especially at him, the prince.
He had not felt insulted by it in the least; in his opinion, it had to be so.
The main thing for him was that tomorrow he would see her again, early in the morning, would sit beside her on the green bench, listen to how a pistol is loaded, and look at her.
He needed nothing more.
The question of what it was that she intended to tell him, and what the important matter was that concerned him directly, also flashed once or twice in his head.
Besides, he had never doubted even for a minute the actual existence of this "important matter" for which he had been summoned, but he almost did not think of this important matter now, to the point that he even did not feel the slightest urge to think about it.
The crunch of quiet steps on the sand of the alley made him raise his head.
A man, whose face it was difficult to make out in the darkness, came up to the bench and sat down beside him.
The prince quickly moved close to him, almost touching him, and made out the pale face of Rogozhin.
"I just knew you'd be wandering about here somewhere, I didn't have to look long," Rogozhin muttered through his teeth.
It was the first time they had come together since their meeting in the corridor of the inn.
Struck by Rogozhin's sudden appearance, the prince was unable to collect his thoughts for some time, and a painful sensation rose again in his heart.
Rogozhin evidently understood the impression he had made; but though at first he kept getting confused, spoke as if with the air of a sort of studied casualness, it soon seemed to the prince that there was nothing studied in him and not even any particular embarrassment; if there was any awkwardness in his gestures and conversation, it was only on the outside; in his soul this man could not change.
"How . . . did you find me here?" asked the prince, in order to say something.
"I heard from Keller (I went by your place) that 'he went to the park.' Well, I thought, so there it is."
"There what is?" the prince anxiously picked up the escaped remark.
Rogozhin grinned, but gave no explanation.
"I got your letter, Lev Nikolaich; you don't need all that . . . what do you care! . . .
And now I'm coming to you from her: she told me to be sure and invite you; she needs very much to tell you something.
She asks you to come tonight."
"I'll come tomorrow.
Right now I'm going home; will you . . . come with me?"