It was the 4th of January—the New Year's Day of Russia.

All the morning, from the earliest peep of dawn, the bells had rung clamorously and joyfully; from every public building the blue, red, and white standard floated in the keen breeze; the streets were full of merry-makers, the Boulevard de Cavaliero and the Nevski, were thronged with sight-seers, the little shrine and chapel of St. Nicholas, on the Nicholas Bridge, were buried in lights, evergreen wreaths, and votive offerings; an air of festivity and joyousness pervaded the atmosphere, and even the grim Chancellerie, and Peter's Fortress, crept out of their habitual gloom, under the lavish caresses of the brilliant sunshine.

The old year was dead—dead and buried—with all its weight of sin and failure; of wrongs unrighted, of crimes unavenged, of evils unremedied. Let it go, let it go! "Ring out the false, ring in the true!" Welcome this jocund New Year, this youngster, with the rosy cheeks and sturdy limbs, this herald of a new rÉgime, this hopeful progeny of a decrepit past!

It wanted but half an hour to mid-day, and already the approaches to St. Isaac's Church were thronged by a numerous and ever increasing crowd. The eight grand entrances were all thrown open; down the wide central granite steps a rich carpet was spread, and up this crimson pathway passed a continuous stream of guests, the bright costumes of the ladies mingling with the uniforms, Court dress, and plainer citizen habiliments of the sterner sex, until one and all became submerged and impersonal in the greater glory of the grand cathedral's gorgeous interior.

A line of the Petersburg Grenadiers, in their sombre green uniform, were drawn up on either side of the central approach, while behind them were grouped a guard of honour of the Caucasus Cossacks, their long scarlet tunics adding picturesque vividness to the scene. All that was best and brightest, most distinguished and most renowned, of the great Tsar's Court was represented within St. Isaac's, on that winter morning, and nothing could exceed the brilliancy and vivacity of the scene.

For not only was it the festa of the gay New Year, but it was also the marriage day of Olga Naundorff, and the religious function was to be celebrated with Royal splendour and pomp, honoured by the presence of the Tsar and Tsarina, who took this occasion to testify their friendship for the beautiful orphan, whose father had laid down his life in the service of Russia.

And now excitement reached the highest pitch, for the Imperial cortÈge was in sight, each equipage drawn by four black horses, mounted by postillions, and accompanied by outriders. The Tsarina, looking fair and fresh and young, bowed her acknowledgments to right and left, smiling as she did so, while the Grand Duchess Xenia laughed girlishly at the sparkling pageant. And now Alexander himself appeared, the great Tsar of all the Russias, wearing his favourite crimson kaftan, and saluting courteously in response to the old patriotic cry, as it echoed again and again: "Health we wish your Imperial Majesty! Long live the Tsar!"

But the greatest and final burst of enthusiasm was reserved for Olga. When she appeared—stepping down from the royal equipage, her white draperies sweeping behind her, a cloak of regal ermine wrapped about her neck and shoulders, from which her proud, beautiful face arose as cold and white as the surrounding snow, crowned by the shining masses of her golden-tinted hair, in which the Imperial gift of diamonds shone resplendent—a hush of admiration held the onlookers for one brief second; then, as she passed up the crimson foot-path, a deep low murmur burst forth, growing in strength and enthusiasm, until, as the great portal received her, it broke all bounds and ended in a prolonged and hearty cheer.

Within St. Isaac's all was hushed and reverent, though gorgeous and magnificent in its adornments. The lights from the eight great candelabra threw their beams on the golds and purples, the reds and blues of the mosaic decorations, and flashed forth in myriad reflections from the jewels that gleamed and sparkled in the costumes of the Court ladies.

The ceremonial was of the grandest; the Metropolitan, vested in cloth of gold, entered by the central door and was met by a procession of priests, who walked before him to the great altar, where the eight massive malachite columns, and priceless lapis-lazuli shafts, separated "the holy of holies" from the body of the cathedral. The trained voices of the Imperial choir rose and fell in regular cadences, unsupported by instruments of any kind, but perfect in harmony and unison. The bells chimed at intervals, while the worshippers, as they fell upon their knees, repeated again and again the symbol of the cross on forehead and breast.

And so it was that Olga Naundorff became the wife of Ivor Tolskoi.

Sanctioned by the most solemn ritual of her faith, surrounded by the highest nobility of her land; loved, admired, feared, and envied, Olga, the beloved of Vladimir Mellikoff, pledged her vows to Ivor Tolskoi; and shuddered even as she did so, at the light of triumph that flashed in his bold blue eyes, when, as her husband, he bent his head, and for the first time pressed a kiss upon her proud lips.

She had made her choice. But, after all, was it a wise one? Could she be sure of ruling this lover, who had now become her husband? Despite the insouciance of his boyish face, despite the frank boldness of his blue eyes and innocent smile, was he not destined to be the master, she the slave? Already she could feel the iron hand beneath the velvet glove, already she descried the touch of cruelty beneath his gayest smile, the echo of tyranny beneath his fondest caress.

Alas, poor Olga! If the dawn of her marriage morning was marred by such fore-bodings, what were its noontide and evening likely to prove?

We may not follow her so far into the future; and even if we dared, it were wisest to draw the curtain close about that ruined life, and not seek to pry into its wretchedness. A woman scorned is of all beings the most desolate, so Vladimir Mellikoff had said, little thinking that his prophecy was one day to come true of his passionately-loved Olga. Let us refrain from gazing on her in her hour of despair.

There is no fairer woman to-day, in all Russia, than Olga Tolskoi; one more envied and feared, nor one more hopeless and beyond hope. Like her Imperial ancestress, she has forsaken the good for the evil; and, in giving rein to the lower passions of her nature, has lost for ever the power of repentance and contrition. She who once ruled supreme, is now the neglected wife of a husband who is one in name only, and whose indignities have long since reached the climax of insult.

Ivor has risen higher and higher on the wave of success. He holds a foremost place in the Imperial Councils, he is esteemed and feared in the Chancellerie, bowed down to and fawned upon at Court. Only within the privacy of his own household is his true character known; only there does he lay aside the mask of hypocrisy, and let loose the passions of cruelty and oppression; only there does he give rein to the bitter joke and cutting mockery, which are all that remain of the once humble wooing and suppliant entreaty.

And Olga, knowing how he has deceived her, finding out too late by what cunning subterfuge he turned suspicion upon Vladimir Mellikoff, and thus won from her the only free gift a woman has to bestow—herself—hates him, with an ever increasing hatred and loathing, that drives her to the wildest deeds of imprudent folly.

And so the baser nature within her triumphs, and the better nature dies; crushed out by passions too consuming to bear contradiction. Alas, poor Olga! So to her has come the lesson, that not even the fairest charms of woman's beauty and purity can bind the constancy of one, who, knowing his legal rights secure, scorns to keep them intact, and throws fidelity to the winds in the indulgence of the moment.

Well may the old despairing cry break from her in her splendour and loneliness, as she thinks of the time when Vladimir loved her, and her faith and trust in him were still unbroken:

"Eheu fugaces! Postume, Postume! Oh, for the days that are lost to me, lost to me!"

Brilliant indeed was the scene within the Onyx Hall, of the Winter Palace, on that New Year's night, the morning of which had seen the completion of Ivor Tolskoi's highest hopes. The bride and her husband were already far on their way towards those vast possessions on the Ural frontier, of which Ivor was so justly proud; but the time-honoured ceremonies of the festa were no less gay and joyous because shorn of Olga's fair presence.

The great Onyx Hall was filled with guests, awaiting the magic signal, gathered together in groups, chatting, laughing, intriguing, while ever nearer and nearer the hands on the dial of the large gold incrusted clock, standing at one end of the apartment, crept on to the hour of midnight. Suddenly a single stroke from the great bells of Isaac's Church, rang out, and a hush fell upon the waiting assembly; the clock chimed deep and full—twelve slow notes, whose dying echoes were caught up and thundered back by twelve salutes from the guns of Petropavlovsk, broken here and there by the triumphant strains, "How glorious is our Lord in Zion!" And as these died away the cathedral chimes broke forth in resonant glad music.

Simultaneously the folding doors at the top of the great hall were thrown open, and the Tsar entered, with the Empress leaning on his arm, and followed by the Imperial family. Passing down between the double lines of the Preobrashensky Grenadiers, and the Semenoffskoie Guards, drawn up on either side, his Majesty walked up to the chief actor in this brilliant pageant, and, halting before the tiny figure of the smallest cadet in the Russian army, dressed in the historical uniform of the Emperor Paul's Grenadiers, bent down over the mimic warrior and bestowed upon him the kiss of peace.

At this mark of kindly condescension the trumpets burst forth in a grand flourish, the bands struck up the spirited national air, and all the guests cried out with one accord:

"Many years to the Tsar! Health we wish your Imperial Majesty!"

And thus the first day of the New Year sinks to rest, crowned by the old but ever fresh benison, "Peace on earth, to men of good will."

With the departure of their Majesties the tongues of the guests were once more let loose, and the little Countess Vera, flitting across the wide hall, stops long enough beside the grave keen-eyed State minister, who in the guise of an elephant had graced her costume ball, to say, in a half whisper, and with a mocking smile:

"Well, monsieur, and were you present at the famous marriage function this morning? Was ever man so lucky as ce cher Ivor?—if it be luck to win so cold and cheerless a bride as Olga Naundorff. For my part, I could think of no one save that unfortunate Vladimir, whose shrift I hear is to be short enough. No trial for him, poor soul! He has played his game but ill, and we know, monsieur, you and I, what fate awaits one who has played to win for the Chancellerie and—lost. It's a dreary march to Siberia, even in the best of company; what must it be then when one's companion is a murderer by confession? HÉlas, poor Vladimir, you should not have failed; for to failure Patouchki is implacable, and for failure Russia can punish silently and surely. And so ends the farce, monsieur, or was it tragedy? But let me whisper one word—let him laugh loudest who wins last. There are evil days in store for Ivor, or I am no true prophet; and for his bride? Bah! she will get but what she deserves; I will leave her fate in the hands of the gods, whose mills, we are told, 'grind slowly, but with justice grind they all.' And, after all, her beauty will not last. Sans adieu, monsieur, À tantÔt."

Then with another laugh the little Countess flew away, and was lost in the undulations of the crowd.

A second day's journey had begun for Ivor and his bride; the afternoon was already closing down upon them, as they halted at a small post-house where a relay of fresh horses awaited them. Ivor sprang out, glad to exercise his cramped limbs and light a cigarette; but Olga remained within the sleigh, buried in her costly wraps of fur.

There was some little delay, and as she sat alone, half lost in a retrospective dream, she was suddenly aroused by the dull clank of arms and the regular tread of marching feet. Leaning forward she looked out, and saw coming towards her a party of men and women, who trod wearily, with downcast heads, and hopeless hanging hands, and whose every step was accompanied by the monotonous clank of steel chains. As she gazed upon them she realised their situation and their destiny. They were Russian criminals, arrested by Russian law, on their way to Siberia and the mines.

Instinctively she drew back, shivering; as she did so the foremost detachment of prisoners came into line with her sleigh. At that moment a halt was called, to enable the officers in charge to refresh themselves at the bar of the post-house.

Once more Olga leant forward; her heart beat rapidly, her breath came quick and short, she clasped her hands together passionately, and as her white face gleamed out from the heavy sables surrounding it, one of the prisoners, he who was nearest to her, lifted his head, and thrust back as well as he could with his manacled hand, the peaked hat that shaded his forehead.

As he did so he turned his head slowly towards her, and in the dark haggard face, the burning feverish eyes, Olga beheld the countenance of Vladimir Mellikoff!

Fascinated, she gazed upon it, her own face blanched, her eyes wild with horror. She tried to speak, to call out, to break the cruel band of silence that held her as in a vice. It was useless. No words would come, no sound, no cry.

And as she thus looked upon him, a sudden light of recognition sprang to life within his eyes. He bent forward, holding her gaze with his; studying each curve and line of that fair, beautiful countenance, noting each golden curl where the hair lay about her neck and upon her brow, reading each fleeting expression of the proud lips, and deep blue eyes. And as he thus held her spell-bound, a smile passed over his worn face, a smile so pitying and accusing that Olga shuddered and drew closer her rich wraps, as if to ward off the cruelty of its tenderness.

For full a moment they looked thus upon one another, without word or gesture of recognition. Then the order came for the march to recommence, and Vladimir, with a single upward movement of his manacled hand, bade her an immutable farewell.

As he did so the figure next to him was drawn forward by the heavy chain that linked them together, and thus turned upon her companion in exile a face so beautiful, despite the marks passion and suffering had stamped upon it, that again Olga started, and drew back instinctively.

It was the face of AdÈle Lamien, the murderer of Count Stevan Lallovich.

In another moment the exiles were in full march, and Olga, straining her eyes to the utmost, could see nothing save an indistinct moving mass against the miles of far-stretching snow; which even as she watched was lost in the evening shadows that crept up with silent but resistless steps.

It was a farewell from out eternity.

Truly Ivor Tolskoi's vengeance was complete, when Patouchki's cruel sentence was carried out to the letter, and Vladimir Mellikoff, linked to AdÈle Lallovich, passed onward to that desolate Gehenna—Siberian exile.

For Russia never forgets, and Russia never forgives.