True, it might be that she precisely did not want him to end up there, and that was why she told him to stay home . . . That, too, could be.
His head was spinning; the whole room whirled around.
He lay down on the sofa and closed his eyes.
One way or the other, the matter was decisive, definitive.
No, the prince did not consider Aglaya a young lady or a boarding-school girl; he felt now that he had long been afraid, and precisely of something like this; but why did she need to see her?
A chill ran through his whole body; again he was in a fever.
No, he did not consider her a child!
Lately, certain of her looks, certain of her words had horrified him.
Sometimes it had seemed to him as if she was restraining herself, holding herself back too much, and he remembered that this had frightened him.
True, for all those days he had tried not to think of it, had driven the painful thoughts away, but what was hidden in that soul?
This question had long tormented him, though he trusted in that soul.
And here it all had to be resolved and revealed today.
A terrible thought!
And again—"that woman!"
Why had it always seemed to him that that woman would appear precisely at the very last minute and snap his whole destiny like a rotten thread?
He was ready to swear now that it had always seemed so to him, though he was almost semidelirious.
If he had tried to forget about her lately, it was solely because he was afraid of her.
What then: did he love that woman or hate her?
That question he had never once asked himself today; here his heart was pure: he knew whom he loved . . . He was afraid, not so much of the meeting of the two women, not of the strangeness, not of the reason for the meeting, which he did not know, not of its outcome, whatever it might be—he was afraid of Nastasya Filippovna herself.
He remembered afterwards, a few days later, that almost all the time during those feverish hours he pictured to himself her eyes, her gaze, heard her words—some sort of strange words, though little stayed in his memory after those feverish and anguished hours.
He barely remembered, for instance, how Vera brought him dinner and he ate it; he did not remember whether he slept after dinner or not.
He knew only that he began to make everything out clearly that evening only from the moment when Aglaya suddenly came to his terrace and he jumped up from the sofa and went to meet her in the middle of the room: it was a quarter past seven.
Aglaya was quite alone, dressed simply and as if in haste in a light cloak.
Her face was as pale as in the morning, and her eyes flashed with a bright, dry glint; he had never known her to have such an expression of the eyes.
She looked him over attentively.
"You're all ready," she observed softly and as if calmly, "you're dressed and have your hat in your hand; that means someone warned you, and I know who: Ippolit?"
"Yes, he told me . . ." the prince murmured, nearly half dead.
"Let's go, then: you know that you absolutely must accompany me.
I suppose you're strong enough to go out?"
"Yes, I am, but . . . can this be possible?"
He broke off after a moment and could not utter anything more.
This was his only attempt to stop the crazy girl, and after that he followed her like a slave.
However clouded his thoughts were, he still understood that she would go there even without him, and therefore he had to follow her in any case.
He guessed the strength of her resolve; it was not for him to stop this wild impulse.
They walked in silence, hardly saying a single word all the way.
He only noticed that she knew the way well, and when he wanted to make a detour through a further lane, because the way was more deserted there, and he suggested it to her, she listened as if straining her attention, and answered curtly: "It makes no difference!"
When they had almost come right up to Darya Alexeevna's house (a large and old wooden house), a magnificent lady and a young girl were stepping off the porch; laughing and talking loudly, the two got into a splendid carriage that was waiting at the porch and did not glance even once at the approaching people, as if they did not notice them.
As soon as the carriage drove off, the door immediately opened again, and the waiting Rogozhin let the prince and Aglaya in and locked the door behind them.
"There's nobody in the whole house now except the four of us," he observed aloud and gave the prince a strange look.
In the very first room, Nastasya Filippovna, too, was waiting for them, also dressed very simply and all in black; she rose to meet them, but did not smile and did not even offer the prince her hand.
Her intent and anxious gaze impatiently turned to Aglaya.
The two women sat down at some distance from each other, Aglaya on the sofa in the corner of the room, Nastasya Filippovna by the window.
The prince and Rogozhin did not sit down, and were not invited to sit down.
With perplexity and as if with pain, the prince again looked at Rogozhin, but the man went on smiling his former smile.
The silence continued for another few moments.
A sort of sinister feeling finally passed over Nastasya Filippovna's face; her gaze was becoming stubborn, firm, and almost hateful, not tearing itself from her guest for a single moment.
Aglaya was obviously abashed, but not intimidated.
Coming in, she had barely glanced at her rival and so far had been sitting all the time with downcast eyes, as if lost in thought.
Once or twice, as if by chance, she looked around the room; an obvious repugnance showed itself in her face, as if she feared soiling herself there.
She mechanically straightened her clothes and once even changed her place anxiously, moving towards the corner of the sofa.