She was satisfied, the great, the sublime empress—satisfied with the work Alexis Orloff had accomplished, and with the manner in which it was done.

In the presence of her confidential friends she permitted Orloff’s messenger, Joseph Ribas, to relate to her all the particulars of the affair from the commencement to the end, and to the narrator she nodded her approval with a fell smile.

“Yes,” said she to Gregory Orloff, “we understand women’s hearts, and therefore sent Alexis to entrap her. A handsome man is the best jailer for a woman, from whom she never runs away.” And bending nearer to Gregory’s ear, she whispered: “I, myself, your empress, am almost your prisoner, you wicked, handsome man!”

And ravished by the beauty of Gregory Orloff, the third in the ranks of her recognized favorites, the empress leaned upon his arm, whispering words of tenderness in his ear.

“And what does your sublime majesty decide upon respecting the prisoner?” humbly asked Joseph Ribas.

“Oh, I had almost forgotten her,” said the empress, with indifference. “She is, then, yet living, this so-called daughter of Elizabeth?”

“She is yet alive.”

The empress for some time thoughtfully walked back and forth, occasionally turning her bold eagle eye upon her two favorite pictures, hanging upon the wall. They were battle-pieces full of terrible truth; they displayed the running blood, the trembling flesh, the rage of opponents, and the death-groans of the defeated. Such were the pictures loved by Catharine, and the sight of which always inspired her with bold thoughts.

As she now glanced at these sanguinary pictures, a pleasant smile drew over the face of this Northern Semiramis. She had just come to a decision, and, being content with it, expressed her satisfaction by a smile.

“That bleeding feminine torso,” said she, pointing to one of the pictures, “look at it, Gregory, that wonderful feminine back reminds me of the vengeance Elizabeth took for the beauty of Eleonore Lapuschkin. Well, Elizabeth’s pretended daughter shall find me teachable; I will learn from her mother how to punish. Let this criminal be conducted to the same place where the fair Lapuschkin suffered, and as she was served so serve Elizabeth’s daughter! We have no desire to tear out the tongue of this child. Whip her, that is all, but whip her well and effectually. You understand me?”

And while she said this, that animated smile deserted not Catharine’s lips for a moment, and her features constantly displayed the utmost cheerfulness.

“I think,” said she, turning to Gregory, “that is bringing an expiatory offering to the fair Eleonore Lapuschkin, and we here exercise justice in the name of God!—As to you,” she then said to Joseph Ribas, “we have reason to be satisfied with you, and you shall not go without your reward. Moreover, our beloved Alexis Orloff has especially recommended you to us, and spoken very highly of your information and talents. You shall be satisfied.” (*)

It was a dark and dreadfully cold night. St. Petersburg slept; the streets were deserted and silent. But there, upon the place where Elizabeth once caused the beautiful Lapuschkin to be tortured, there torches glanced, there dark forms were moving to and fro, there a mysterious life was stirring. What was being done there?

No spectators are to-night assembled around these barriers. Catharine had commanded all St. Petersburg to sleep at this hour, and accordingly it slept. Nobody is upon the place—nobody but the cold, unfeeling executioners and their assistants—nobody but that pale, feeble, and shrunken woman, who, in her slight white dress, kneels at the feet of her executioners. She yet lives, it is true, but her soul has long since fled, her heart has long been broken. The chains and tortures of her imprisonment have done that for her. It was Alexis Orloff who murdered Natalie’s heart and soul. For him had she wept until her tears had been exhausted—for him had she lamented until her voice had become extinct. She now no longer weeps, no longer complains; glancing at her executioners, she smiles, and, raising her hands to God, she thanks him that at last she is about to die.

She is yet praying when her executioners approach and roughly raise her up, when they tear off her light robe, and devour with their brutal eyes her noble naked form. Her soul is with God, to whom she yet prays. But when they would rend from her bosom the chain to which Paulo’s papers are attached, she shudders, her eyes flash, and she holds the papers in her convulsively clinched hands.

“I have sworn to defend them with my life!” she exclaims aloud. “Paulo, Paulo, I will keep my word!”

And with the boldness of a lioness she defends herself against her executioners.

“Leave her those papers!” commanded Joseph Ribas who was present by order of the empress. “She may keep them now—they will directly be ours!”

“Oh, Paulo, I have kept the promise I made thee!” murmured Natalie. She then implores to be allowed to read them, and Joseph Ribas grants her the desired permission.

With trembling hands she breaks the seal and reads by the light of a torch held up for her. A melancholy smile flits over her features, and her arms fall powerless.

“Ah, they are the proofs of my imperial descent, nothing further. How little is that, Paulo!”

And now lifting her up, they raise her high upon the backs of the executioners.

The knout whistles as it whirls through the air, the noble blood flows in streams. She makes no complaint, she prays. Only once, overcome by pain, only once she loudly screams: “Mercy, mercy for the daughter of an empress!”