When the widow hurries away to Pavlofsk, she throws Daria Alexeyevna into a state of great alarm. At eleven o'clock next morning Rogojin's flat is opened by the police, in the presence of Lebedeff, the two ladies, and Rogojin's own brother. The porter's evidence goes further than anything else. He had seen Rogojin return last night, accompanied by a friend, and both had gone upstairs very secretly and cautiously. Rogojin suffers from brain fever for two months. At the trial he gives full, satisfactory, and direct evidence on every point, and the prince's name is not brought into the proceedings. He adds no words of his own to the plea of inflammation of the brain. He is condemned to hard labour in Siberia for fifteen years. He hears his sentence grimly, silently, and thoughtfully. His fortune goes to his brother. The old lady, Rogojin's mother, is still alive, and remembers her favourite son Parfen sometimes, but not clearly. God spared her the knowledge of this dreadful calamity.
Hippolyte died in great agitation, rather sooner than he expected, about a fortnight after Nastasia Philipovna's death. Colia draws nearer to his mother, thoughtful beyond his years. He selects Evgenie Pavlovitch as friend and confidant. Thanks to Evgenie's influence, the prince finds himself once more with Dr. Schneider, in Switzerland. Evgenie visits every few months. Schneider frowns ever more and more, and shakes his head. After each visit Evgenie writes two letters: one to Colia, and one, with the most minute particulars, to Vera Lebedeff.
Then, from Paris, the other news. After a short and sudden attachment to a certain Polish count, an exile, Aglaya has married him, quite against the wishes of her parents. Within six months everything the family had dreaded has come to pass. He is neither count nor exile. She has visited the confessional of a celebrated Jesuit priest, who made an absolute fanatic of her. They have brought about a quarrel, so that it is now several months since her family have seen her. At Schneider's the Epanchins receive Evgenie with effusive delight. Apparently all is forgiven the prince. Lizabetha Prokofievna weeps bitterly. At all events, I've had a good Russian cry over this poor fellow, she adds, pointing to the prince, who has not recognised her in the slightest degree. So enough of this nonsense. It's time we faced the truth. All this continental life, all this Europe of yours, and all the trash about going abroad, is simply foolery.
