  By Mrs. Craven, Author Of “A Sister's Story.” Translated From The French, With Permission. Part IV.—The Immolation.L.While our travellers are completing the last stage of their journey, we will precede them to St. Petersburg, and transport our readers for a short time among scenes very different from those in which the incidents of our story have hitherto occurred. The sentence of condemnation has been pronounced, and for some days the names of the five persons who were to suffer death have been known and privately circulated; privately, for the trials which excited universal interest were seldom discussed in society. At that epoch (different in this respect from a subsequent one, when liberty to say anything was allowed in Russia before anywhere else), whether through prudence, servility, or a fear resulting from the reign of the Emperor Paul, rather than the one just ended, every one refrained with common accord from any public expression of opinion whatever respecting the acts of the government. Flattery itself was cautious not to excite discussions that might give rise to criticism. The sovereign authority did not require approval, but only to be obeyed, not judged. This was generally understood, and the consequence was a general silence respecting forbidden topics; whereas, on every other subject, as if by way of indemnification, Russian wit was unrestrained, and so keen that the nation which prides itself on being the most spirituelle in the world found a rival, and only consoled itself by saying Russian wit was borrowed. It is incontestably certain that, though there were still some survivors of the time of Catherine's reign, the French language was now so universally used in society at St. Petersburg, that people of the highest rank, of both sexes, spoke it to the exclusion of their own tongue, and wrote it with such uncommon perfection as to enrich French literature; whereas they would have been [pg 460] There is no intention of discussing here the causes that led to this engrafting of foreign habits, or of examining whether the Russians at that period, in imitating the French, were always mindful that when others are copied it should be from their best side. Still less would it be suitable to consider whether the people who possess the faculty of assimilation to such a degree are the most noble, the most energetic, and the most sincere. This would lead us far beyond our modest limits, to which we return by observing that, in spite of a splendor and magnificence almost beyond conception, in spite of a tone of good taste and a courtesy now almost extinct in France, in spite of hospitality on a grand scale, characteristic of Slavonic countries, an indefinable restraint, felt by all, prevailed in this attractive and brilliant circle, insinuating itself everywhere like an invisible spectre, modifying and directing the current of conversation—even the most trifling—and affecting not only the intercourse of fashionable life, but the freedom of friendly converse and the very outpourings of affectionate confidence. The Marquis Adelardi had had several opportunities of mingling in this society, and found it congenial. It was a society in which he was specially adapted to shine, for he, too, as we are aware, had passed his life in a school of enforced silence; and, if he was formerly numbered among those who revolt under such restrictions, he had now renounced all efforts to break through them, and learned to turn his attention elsewhere. He understood, better than any other foreigner at St. Petersburg, how to navigate amid the shoals of conversation; to be entertaining, agreeable, interesting, and even apparently bold without ever causing embarrassment by an inadvertent remark; and if, in the ardor of discourse, he approached a dangerous limit, the promptness with which he read an unexpressed thought sufficed to make him change, with easy nonchalance, the direction of a conversation in which he seemed to be the most interested. He was not, however, disposed to talk with any one the day, or rather the evening, we meet him again—this time at the Countess de G——'s, a woman of superior intellect, already advanced in years, whose salon was one of the most brilliant and most justly popular in St. Petersburg. Everything, indeed, was calculated to facilitate social intercourse of every degree, and, if there was a place where the bounds we have just referred to were invisible, though never forgotten, it was here. What could not be said aloud here, more than elsewhere, had a thousand facilities for private utterance. On the other hand, for the benefit of prudent people who preferred to say nothing at all, there were tables where they could play whist or a game of chess. A piano at one end of the spacious salon was always open to attract amateur performers, then more numerous than now, when no one ventures, even in the family circle, to play without unusual ability. In this friendly atmosphere, our marquis, generally so social, was silent and preoccupied. Seated in a corner on a sofa where no one else was sitting, he took no part in the general conversation. And yet, as the room filled, and various groups were formed, here and there foreigners, and especially the members of the diplomatic corps who frequented the [pg 461] A young German attachÉ, perceiving Adelardi, approached, and took a seat beside him. “And Walden,” said he in a low voice, “have you not had permission to see him twice?” “Yes.” “Have you seen him since he was informed of his fate?” “No; but I have reason to hope I shall obtain that favor.” “He is not sorry, I imagine, to escape the gibbet.” “Not the gibbet; but as to death, I am sure he thinks it preferable to the fate that awaits him.” “Poor fellow! but then, qu'allait-il faire?”— “Dans cette galÈre?” interrupted the marquis with displeasure. “The question is certainly apropos, and I would ask him if I could obtain a reply that would avail him anything.” “By the way,” said the other, “I suppose you know who has just arrived at St. Petersburg?” The marquis questioned him with a look of uncertainty, for he was expecting more than one arrival that day. “Why, the fair Vera, who has returned to her post.” “Really!” exclaimed Adelardi eagerly. “In that case perhaps we shall see her here, for I am told she comes every evening when in the city.” “Yes, but not till the empress dispenses with her services. It is nearly ten o'clock. She will probably be here soon. Our agreeable hostess is one of her relatives.” “I was not aware of it. I know the Countess Vera but little. She was not at court when I was here three years ago. I only saw her two or three times at the Princess Lamianoff's, who was then here, but was not presented to her.” “At the Princess Catherine's? I believe you. It is said she wished Vera to marry her son, who was indeed very assiduous in his attentions. The young countess did not appear wholly insensible to them at that time. Do you suppose she is still attached to him?” “I do not know.” “Poor girl! I pity her, in that case, but it is not very probable she will long be infatuated about a convict. Besides, she will find others to console her, if she makes the effort.” At that moment the piano was heard. The young diplomatist was requested to take a part in a trio, and the music put an end to the conversation that was becoming too ardent on every side, through the interest caused, not by the offence, but by the misfortunes of the criminals. Every one knew them, and several of them belonged to the same coterie which now scarcely dared utter their names aloud. Adelardi remained in the same place, his head resting on his hand, more absorbed than ever. He pretended to be listening to the music, and was mechanically beating time. But he was thinking of something very different, and only started from his reverie whenever the bell announced a new arrival. Then he eagerly raised his head and looked towards the door, but only to resume his former position at the entrance of each new visitor—as if not the one whom he desired to see. LI.At the beginning of the same evening a different scene was occurring, not far distant, in a salon still more elegant and magnificent than the one we have just visited. It was not, however, intended, like that, for the reception of visitors, but solely for the pleasure and comfort of her who occupied it—a lady, as was evident, though there was no profusion of useless trifles or superfluous ornaments. But it seemed as if her hands could only touch what was rare and costly. Gold, silver, and precious stones gleamed from every object destined to her constant use, from the open cassette that contained her work to the sumptuous bindings of the books scattered over the embroidered covering of the table, or lying on a small ÉtagÈre of malachite near a large arm-chair. This chair, intended for reading, was also adapted to repose by the soft cushion covered with the finest lace for the head of the reader to rest upon in an attitude at once convenient and graceful. On all sides were flowers of every season in as great abundance as if they grew in the open air at the usual time. They gave out an exquisite odor, which, with perfumes more artificial but not less sweet, embalmed the apartment. If, as some think, and we have already remarked, places resemble those who inhabit them, the reader may be eager to know the owner of this. We will endeavor to describe her as she appeared to those who knew her at the time of our story: a woman of that age when beauty is in all its freshness; who was truly said to have the dignity of a goddess and the form of a nymph; a face sweet and pale, but with noble, delicate features; a complexion of charming purity; a look and smile that were captivating; and the whole picture was framed by hair floating in long curls over graceful white shoulders. Such was the person who, at the sound of a manly and sonorous voice, entered the salon just described, and threw herself into the arms of him who had called her by name. Their first words were expressive of joy at seeing each other again after a long separation of some hours, and for a time they seemed only to think of each other. Their glances, their smiles met, and it might have been supposed they had nothing in the world to do but love each other and tell each other so. But the tone of conversation gradually changed. She grew earnest and he became uneasy. He made an effort to reply to the questions she addressed him and sometimes persistently repeated, but he appeared to do so unwillingly, as if he yielded out of condescension, and with difficulty resisted a desire of imposing silence on her. Once he rose and left her, but she followed him, softly placed her arm within his, and, drawing herself up to her utmost height (for, though she was quite tall, he was a whole head taller) whispered in his ear. He bent down to listen, but while she was talking a frightful change suddenly came over his face. She perceived it, and looked at him with surprise and an anxiety she had never felt before, as he leaned against the mantel-piece and remained there grave and silent with folded arms. He was then twenty-nine years old, and in the brilliancy of that manly beauty which suffering, care, the violent passions of a later age, and time itself, scarcely altered. Besides his lofty, noble stature, and features [pg 463] “We will not leave it,” replied she with a quickness that betrayed how unused she was to contradiction. “We will keep it as it is, and always come back to it. Our grand days shall be passed, if need be, in the gloomy Winter Palace, but our happiest days shall be spent here, and they shall be in the future what they have been in the past.” He shook his head: “The past was ours: the future does not belong to us. We must henceforth devote ourselves to our great country, and sacrifice all—all! God requires it of us.” “All!” repeated she with alarm. “What! even happiness and mutual confidence? Oh! no, that portion of the past nothing shall infringe upon! And there is still another right I shall never renounce—that of imploring favor and pardon for the guilty.” She hesitated, and then went on, clasping her hands and fixing her eyes on him with a supplicating expression: “Will you no longer listen to me?” “Always in favor of the unfortunate, but never for the ungrateful!” He frowned as he said these words, and turned towards the door, but she stopped him. She felt it would not do to persist, and with the adresse which is the lawful diplomacy of love, she at once changed the subject, and obliged him to listen while she discussed projects she knew he had at heart. She spoke of herself, of him, of the happy past, their brilliant future, of a thousand things, and indeed of everything except her whispered petition which she now wished him to forget. The reader has already discovered himself to be in the presence of the young emperor and empress, whose unexpected accession took place in the midst of a storm. They were in the habit of meeting thus in the palace where they lived during the happy days of their early married life, when no thought of the throne disturbed their youthful love!188 Both hesitated a long time about leaving this charming palace for the sovereign residence, and, when constrained to do so by the necessity of their position, they kept it as it was, without allowing anything to be changed, as a witness of the days that, in spite of the imperial purple, they continued to call the happiest of their life. After the empress was left alone, she remained thoughtful a moment, then, approaching the malachite ÉtagÈre, hastily rang a small gold bell. A door concealed beneath the hangings instantly opened, and a young girl appeared. She stopped without speaking, awaiting an order or some observation. But there was nothing in her attitude to indicate the timidity that might have been expected in a maid of honor answering the bell of her sovereign. On the contrary, [pg 464] The empress started from her reverie and sadly shook her head. “My poor Vera,” she replied, “you must renounce all hope.” The young girl turned pale. “Renounce all hope!” exclaimed she. “O madame! can that be your advice? Can it be there is no hope?” The empress, without replying, seated herself in her arm-chair, took a book from the ÉtagÈre, and began turning over the leaves as if she wished to put an end to the conversation. Vera's eyes flashed for an instant, and it was with difficulty she repressed an explosion of grief or irritation. She remained silent, however, and stood beside the table absently plucking the petals from the flowers in a crystal vase before her. The empress meanwhile kept her eyes fastened on her book, but presently she raised them and looked at the clock. “I do not need you any longer, Vera. It is ten o'clock. You are going to the Countess G——'s this evening, I think.” “Yes, madame, if your majesty has no further orders to give me.” “No, I have nothing more.—Ah! I forgot. Open that drawer,” pointing to the other end of the apartment. “You will find a letter there.” Vera obeyed, and brought the letter to her mistress. “Be sure to forward it to the address,” said the latter. “It is the permission for the Princess —— to accompany her husband to Siberia. I am happy to be able to render that heroic woman this sad service. But she is not the only one.” “What a fate those women are bringing on themselves!” said Vera, shuddering with horror. “Yes, it is indeed fearful,” said the empress; “but I admire them, and will serve them every way in my power.” Vera was silent, and after a moment, seeing the empress had nothing more to say, she gravely approached to take leave of her. As she bent down to kiss her hand, the empress pressed her lips to her forehead. “Come, Vera,” said she, “look a little more cheerful, I beg you. To satisfy you, I promise to make one more effort. But I think, my dear, you are very generous to express so much anxiety about him, for it is not the emperor alone who has reason to call him ungrateful!” At this, Vera's face crimsoned, and she drew herself up at once. “Your majesty has a right to say anything to me,” said she in a trembling voice, “but this right has generally been used with kindness.” “Whereas you now find me cruel. Well, be it so; we will let the subject drop. Good-night, and without any ill-feeling, my dear.” She dismissed her maid of honor with a motion of the head. Vera bowed, and without another word left the room. LII.“The Countess Vera de Liningen!” At this name the Marquis Adelardi looked up, but this time he did not resume his former attitude, for the person he had so impatiently awaited at last appeared. It was she! The cause of this impatience, if we would know it, was a resolution to make an effort that evening in behalf of his friend through the Countess Vera, but it was first indispensable to be sure of her feelings towards him. He wondered if he should discover any traces of the ill-concealed passion she once manifested for George, or if time and indignation, aided by the influence of the court, had done their work? Or had his inconstancy inspired an indifference which had not been disarmed by his misfortunes? All this Adelardi flattered himself he should discover in a single conversation, provided she consented to an interview. As to any fear of her eluding his penetration, he had too good an opinion of himself in that respect. As soon as she appeared, he looked at her with lively interest, and an attention which he indulged in without scruple. Having seen her only twice some years before, without speaking to her, he thought she would not recognize him till he was formally presented. Vera crossed the salon without embarrassment, and with the ease and grace of a person accustomed to high life and the sensation she produced. She was dressed in black, the court, and even the citizens, still wearing mourning for the Emperor Alexander. This made the dazzling whiteness of her complexion and her golden hair the more striking, and suited her form of perfect symmetry, though noble rather than slender. The only ornament she wore was a knot of blue ribbon on her left shoulder, to which was attached the chiffre of diamonds (her badge as maid of honor), in which were woven together the initials of the three empresses: Alexandrine, then reigning; Mary, the empress-mother; and Elizabeth, Alexander's inconsolable widow, who was so soon to follow him to the tomb. Recent emotion still flushed the young girl's cheeks, and the tears of wounded pride, hastily wiped away, gave her a mingled expression of melancholy and haughtiness which at once inspired a desire to pity and a fear of offending her. She first approached the table where the lady of the house was playing whist. The latter raised her eyes, and merely smiled as she gave her a friendly nod of the head. Vera, without offering her hand, bowed, and made a salutation at once graceful and respectful, which was customary in that country when one lady is much younger than the other; she pressed her lips to the edge of the black lace shawl which the elderly lady wore; then she remained standing a moment near the card-table, looking around the room. There was in this look neither eagerness, nor curiosity, nor coquetry: it was a mere survey of the room and its occupants, and it was easy to see she was seeking no one and expecting no one. She only replied to the salutations addressed her by a slight inclination of the head, sometimes by a smile. Presently, seeing a vacant seat, she went to take possession of it, and thus found herself near the canapÉ occupied by the Marquis Adelardi. She was scarcely seated when the [pg 466] The Marquis Adelardi took advantage of this favorable opportunity to approach the young German and beg to be presented to the Countess Vera. Adelardi's name was no sooner pronounced than it awoke a remembrance, at first vague, then distinct enough to make her blush. This lively embarrassment was quite evident for a moment. She bowed without speaking as he was presented, and, turning her face immediately away, continued for some moments to converse with the other, but only long enough to recover from her confusion. She speedily put an end to this trifling conversation, and, suddenly turning towards Adelardi, she said, without any trace of her recent embarrassment: “I remember very well, Monsieur le Marquis, your visit at St. Petersburg three years ago, but I was so young then you had probably forgotten me.” Adelardi replied, as he would have done in any case, but in this instance with truth, that such a supposition was inadmissible. “And as for me,” he continued, “never having had the honor of a personal acquaintance, I necessarily thought myself wholly unknown to you.” “Your friends have so often spoken of you that your name was familiar, but your features, I acknowledge, were somewhat effaced from my memory.” “Yours naturally clung to mine. Besides, I also heard you constantly spoken of.” There was a moment's silence. “Have you seen the Princess Catherine lately?” said she. “No, I left Florence at the beginning of December.” “For St. Petersburg?” “Yes.” “And have you been here ever since?” “Yes. You were absent at my arrival, otherwise I should not have waited till the present time to solicit the favor I have just obtained.” There was another momentary pause. The young girl looked around, and continued, in a lower tone: “You were here, then, the twenty-fourth of December?” “I was.” She hesitated an instant, then, lowering her voice still more, said: “And have you seen your friend since that fatal day?” “Yes, and I hope to see him once more—alas! for the last time.” Vera bit her lips, quivering with agitation, but soon resumed, with a coolness that surprised and, for a moment, disconcerted the marquis: “I formerly knew Count George de Walden, but for some time had lost sight of him. Nevertheless, his sentence fills me with horror, and I would do anything in the world to deliver him from it—him and the rest.” “Him and the rest? One as soon as the other?” “One as soon as the other; they all excite my pity. I wish the emperor would pardon them all.” Her voice by no means accorded with her words; but Adelardi continued as if he did not perceive it: “Pardon them all! That would be chimerical. But there are some who are deserving of clemency.” “The emperor is more lenient towards inferior criminals than to those who, after being loaded with favors, forget his kindness.” “And yet there may be extenuating circumstances even in some cases of that number.” [pg 467]“Do you know of any that would be of any avail to Count George?” said she eagerly. “Not quite so loud; we may be overheard.” “Yes; you are right,” she said, resuming her former tone. “Let us change our seats; we look as if we were plotting something here, and should avoid attracting attention. Let us examine the albums on yonder table. There we can continue our conversation with less restraint.” “Well,” continued she, as soon as they had effected the change proposed, and were seated before the albums, which they pretended to be examining carefully. “Well,” replied Adelardi, “what I mean is that many things of no avail in the eye of the law might not be without influence over him who is head of the law.” And while she was listening with interest, unintentionally betrayed by her eager, agitated expression, her glowing cheeks, and parted lips, Adelardi pleaded his friend's cause, relating what we have already learned respecting his apparent, rather than real, complicity, his ignorance of the actual designs of the conspirators, and the circumstances that led to his presence among the insurgents on the twenty-fourth of December. In short, he gave her all the details of which she had been totally ignorant, having only heard, during her absence, of George's offence and the sentence he had incurred. “And the emperor,” said she eagerly, “does he know it was he who saved his brother's life that dreadful day?” “I doubt it; there were only two witnesses who could attest it. One of these did not come forward, for fear of compromising himself; the other was exceptionable.” “Who was the other?” “A man named Fabiano Dini, George's secretary; but a great culprit, not considered worthy of credit. He told the truth, however, ardently hoping his testimony might save his master.” “He is doubtless condemned to the same fate?” “Yes, but to a more severe one; his sentence is for life, whereas George's is only for twenty-five years.” “Only twenty-five years!” repeated she, with a shudder. “Yes, it is horrible; it is worse than death! And George will envy the wretch who was the prime cause of his misfortune, for Dini, seriously wounded on the twenty-fourth of December, will probably die before the sad day fixed for their departure.” They were now interrupted by something not foreign to the subject of their discourse. A lady, unpretendingly clad, who till now had remained aloof, approached the young maid of honor, and, with a faltering, respectful tone, asked if the petition addressed his imperial majesty had been granted. “Yes,” said Vera eagerly. “Permission has been accorded. The Princess —— received it this very hour. I left it myself at her door, on my way here.” She kindly extended her hand to the person who addressed her. The latter bent down as if to kiss it, but Vera prevented it by cordially embracing her. “Behold a true, faithful friend in misfortune,” said she, as the other left them. “She herself is capable of going to Siberia with her whose dame de compagnie she was in happier days. But then, the Princess —— has in her misfortunes the happiness of feeling herself beloved and respected by all.” “Assuredly,” said Adelardi. “She is really an admirable woman.” [pg 468]“So admirable that she is beyond my comprehension.” “How so?” “I do not understand how a person can resolve on the course she wishes to pursue—she and the others.” “What!” said Adelardi, looking at her with surprise. “You do not understand how a woman can thus wholly devote herself to the man—the husband whom she loves.” Vera shook her head. “No,” said she. “I do not wish to appear better than I am. If I were in such a position, if I had the misfortune of loving one of those convicts, he might rely on my exertions to obtain his pardon, and to use every means in my power to that end. But, as to sharing his lot and following him to Siberia, no, my dear marquis, I frankly acknowledge that is a proof of devoted affection I feel wholly incapable of.” Another form at this moment passed before the marquis' mental vision, beside which the beauty actually before him paled, and slightly modified the lively admiration with which he regarded her. “Well,” said he, after a moment's reflection, “I know one of these convicts for whom a woman—a young lady of about your age—is ready to give a still greater proof of devotion than the Princess ——, for she is not his wife. She is only—his betrothed, and wishes to marry him on purpose to share his fate.” “That is something entirely original,” said Vera. “To do that,” pursued Adelardi, “she has a double favor to obtain, and is coming to St. Petersburg for that purpose. She will be here to-morrow, or, at the latest, in a few days. I have been commissioned to solicit for her an audience of the empress. Can I do so through your instrumentality?” “Certainly. All these requests pass through my hands, and none have been rejected. But this is really the most singular case that has occurred.” She drew her tablets and a pencil from her pocket. “The name of your protÉgÉe?” said she. Adelardi hesitated an instant, then, noting a little anxiously the effect produced, said: “Her name is—Fleurange d'Yves.” He was relieved to hear the maid of honor say, after carefully writing down the name: “Fleurange! that is a very singular name, and one I never heard before. To-morrow,” continued she, rising, and returning the tablets to her pocket, “before noon you shall have a reply. Au revoir, Monsieur le Marquis.” As she gave him her hand, she added in a low tone: “I thank you for all your information, and will endeavor to avail myself of it. If you see Count George, tell him—but no, tell him nothing. If by the merest chance I succeed, it will be time enough then to tell him what he owes to my efforts. If I do not—it will be better for him to remain ignorant of my failure.” The Marquis Adelardi returned home greatly preoccupied, and absently took up two letters lying on the table. But after opening them, he successively read them with equal interest. First, he looked at one of the signatures: “Clement Dornthal? He is the cousin who accompanies the fair traveller. They have arrived, then.—Well, the end of the drama is approaching: we must all endeavor to play our parts with prudence. Mine is not the easiest!” He opened the other note, and hastily ran over it. “Thursday! I shall see him on Thursday at two o'clock. Poor George! it will be a sad meeting, in spite of the news [pg 469] He had the satisfaction of learning by this note that, thanks to the powerful influence brought to bear on the occasion, he would be permitted to pass an hour with the prisoner every day during the week that yet remained before the sad train of exiles would set forth. “Poor George!” he again repeated. “Can it be he has really come to this?—But who knows what may yet take place? If the proverb, ‘What woman wills, God wills,’ is true, all hope is not lost, for here are two women evidently with the will to aid him, and energetic enough to overrule the most adverse destiny. Two—doubtless one too many, and I have been rather bold to risk a fearful collision. But things have come to such a point that they can hardly be worse. If the fair Vera succeeds, it is George's affair to get out of the complication of gratitude to her who has saved him, and the one ready to follow him. But if she fails, as seems only too probable, then the case will be very simple: our charming heroine will have no rival to fear.” LIV.After the succession of disagreeable surprises Mademoiselle Josephine had experienced during her painful journey, another of a different nature, but the greatest of all, awaited her at the end. Her imagination, we are aware, never furnished her with anything beyond the strictest necessity. It was only with difficulty she succeeded in comprehending that her dear Gabrielle had decided to marry a stranger condemned to the galleys, and this inconceivable idea seemed to have penetrated her mind to the exclusion of all others. She was going to join a prisoner, and from the day of her departure from Heidelberg she looked upon herself as on the way to a dungeon. When therefore she heard the words, “We have arrived!” and their sledge passed under the arch of an immense porte cochÊre, she shivered with fear. It was, consequently, with a sort of stupefaction she found herself in a brilliantly lighted vestibule, whence a broad staircase led to a fine long gallery opening into one salon after another, at the end of which our travellers were ushered into a dining-room, where supper was awaiting them of a quality to which mademoiselle was quite as unaccustomed as to the splendor with which it was served. She looked around with mute surprise, hardly daring touch the dishes before her, and looking at her two companions with an interrogative expression of the greatest perplexity. But they both seemed affected and preoccupied to such a degree as not to notice what was passing around them, and mademoiselle, faithful to her habits, forbore questioning them for the moment. The repast was made in silence; after which Clement wrote a note which she heard him ask a valet to send to M. le Marquis. Then the two ladies were conducted to the apartments prepared for them. Fleurange embraced her companion and wished her good-night, and Mademoiselle Josephine was left alone in a chamber surpassing any she had ever seen, with large mirrors around her, in which for the first time in her life she saw herself from head to foot. There was also a bed À baldaquin, which she scarcely dared think destined for her modest person, but in which at length she extended [pg 470] This impression was not lessened by the light of day. The rooms were really splendid, and furnished with the taste the Princess Catherine everywhere displayed, and which was as carefully consulted in the house where she only spent three months of the year, as in her palace at Florence, which she made her home. Mademoiselle went from one room to another in a state of continually increasing admiration, and, while thus walking about, she found everywhere the same mild temperature, which seemed something marvellous, for all the doors were open, and not only were there no fires to be seen, but no glass or even sashes in the windows. Apparently there was nothing to screen her from the frosty air without—freezing indeed, for on their arrival at St. Petersburg the thermometer was down to fifteen or sixteen degrees, and yet—what was the secret of this wonderful fact? She was not cold in the least, though the sight of the large windows made her shiver, and she only ventured to stand at a distance and look at the view without. She beheld a vast plain covered with snow, with carriage-ways in every direction, bordered with branches of fir. Vehicles of all kinds were crossing to and fro. Yonder was a succession of vast buildings, and farther off were the gloomy walls of a fortress flanked by a church whose gilded spire glittered in the winter sun—a sun radiant, but without warmth; which imparted a dazzling brilliancy to the snow, but whose deceptive light, far from alleviating the severity of the season, was, on the contrary, the surest sign of its merciless rigor. While thus admiring and wondering at everything, Mademoiselle came to the last salon of the enfilade, where, before one of the large windows, she perceived Fleurange motionless and absorbed in such profound reverie that she did not notice her approach. “Ah! Gabrielle, here you are! God be praised! I was lost, but no longer feel so, now I have found you. But, for pity's sake! what are you doing at that open window?” At this, Fleurange turned around with a smile. “Open! my dear mademoiselle? We should not be alive long, clad as we are.” “I really do not understand why I do not feel the cold, and yet—” Fleurange motioned for her to approach (for the old lady still kept at a respectful distance from the dangerous openings), and made her touch the thick glass, one pane of which composed the window—a luxury at that time peculiar to St. Petersburg, and which often deceived eyes more experienced than those of the simple Josephine. Reassured, but more and more amazed, she remained beside Fleurange at the window, profiting by the occasion to ask all the questions hitherto repressed. Everything was gradually explained to her, and she comprehended that [pg 471] “And he?” she ventured to say when Fleurange had answered all the questions,—“he, Gabrielle, where is he?” “He!” repeated Fleurange, as a flush rose to her cheeks and her eyes filled with tears—“he is there: there, mademoiselle, within the walls of the fortress before us!” Poor Josephine started with surprise. “Pardon me!” said she. “If I had known that, I should not have mentioned him.” “Why, mademoiselle?—The sight of those walls does not make me afraid! On the contrary, I long to enter them. I long to leave all this splendor which separates me from him as it did before! O my dear friend! you must not pity me the day I am united to him!” The language of passion always had a strange effect on this elderly maiden, but she only allowed herself to reply meekly: “Well, my dear child, we will not pity you! It is Clement and I who will need pity when that day comes, and you must not be vexed if—” And in spite of herself, great tears filled her eyes, which she promptly wiped away. She remained silent for some moments, then spoke of something else, feeling if she resumed the subject it would speedily lead to an explosion of grief which she resolved to restrain that she might not afflict her young friend. “What wide plain is that between the quay and the fortress?” she soon continued. “That is the Neva,” replied Fleurange, smiling. “The Neva?” “Yes, the river that runs through the city.” “The river?” repeated Mademoiselle Josephine. “Come, Gabrielle, I know I am very ignorant of everything relating to foreign countries, but still, not to such a degree as to believe that. A river!—when I see with my own eyes hundreds of carriages on it, sledges and chariots of all kinds, going in every direction, and houses and sheds!—And what are those two great mountains I see yonder?” “They are ice-hills, such as they have in Russia, mademoiselle, and which were imitated in wood three years ago at Paris. Do you remember? I am told these are only erected temporarily during the carnival.” “Very well; but what you have said does not prove that to be the river, and that you are right.” “It seems incredible, I know, but everything we see there now will disappear in the spring, leaving only a broad stream between that fine granite quay and the fortress. But I confess I can scarcely realize it myself, never having seen it.” Clement now appeared. He looked pale and disposed to be silent, and gave every indication of having passed a no less restless night than Mademoiselle Josephine, though for a different reason. After exchanging some words with his companions, his eyes glanced over the broad river, and, like those of Fleurange, fastened on the gloomy walls of the fortress. It was a strange chance that led them all there precisely opposite. Clement gazed at the place with despair, jealousy, and horror, but still was unable to turn his eyes away. “There, then, is the end,” thought he; “for her, the end desired: for me, the grave of my youth! Yes, when she once enters those walls, all will be at an end for me, were I to live beyond the usual period. My [pg 472] These reflections and others of the same nature were not calculated to make Clement very agreeable that morning. He was not only serious, which often happened, but, contrary to his habit, he was gloomy and taciturn. Their breakfast was despatched in silence, after which it was only by a great effort he gradually succeeded in regaining his usual manner. “Cousin Gabrielle,” said he then, “I appear morose this morning, I am aware, and I beg your pardon. But I am only sad, I assure you—sad in view of what is approaching. This is pardonable, I hope,” continued he, taking Mademoiselle Josephine's hand; “you will not require us, will you, to leave you without regret?” “That is what I said to her a moment ago,” said poor Josephine, wiping away her tears. “She says she is happy; that she longs to be there,” casting a glance across the river. “We only desire her happiness, I am sure; but then for us—” “Yes,” said Clement, with a sad smile of bitterness, “for us the few days to come will not be very happy, and we really have reason to be sad. As for me, Gabrielle, I also regret those just ended; for in this new sphere my rÔle is at an end. I am now to be for ever deprived of the pleasure of being useful to you in any way.” He was still speaking when the Marquis Adelardi was announced; and he hastily rose. “Stay, Clement,” said Fleurange eagerly—“stay. I wish this excellent friend to become acquainted with you.” “I also wish to make his acquaintance, but not now. Tell him that to-morrow, yes, to-morrow morning—or even this evening, if he will receive me, I will call at his residence. Do not detain me now.” And before the marquis appeared he was gone. He felt he should be de trop at this interview of such deep import to Fleurange, for such it was. To see George's friend once more, his confidential friend—him who at this solemn period had become the intermediary authorized by his mother!—There was great reason to be agitated at such a thought. Besides, Adelardi had always inspired her with sympathy and confidence, and in this new sphere she realized how beneficial his experience would be, for Clement was right in saying he could no longer be of any use. He was as ignorant as she of the habits and usages of the court. And yet, to obey the Princess Catherine's instructions, her first object must be to obtain an audience of the empress—a formidable prospect, which frightened her a thousand times more than all that afterwards awaited her. She therefore received the marquis with such childlike confidence as to redouble the regard he had always felt for her. There was the same beauty, the same simplicity about her, and, above all, the charm most attractive to eyes as blasÉs as his—of resembling no one else in the world! The extraordinary courage she showed herself capable of made him appreciate the more that which she manifested in separating from George, and revealed to him the whole extent of the sacrifice then made with so much firmness. The mission confided to Adelardi assumed, therefore, a graver aspect in his eyes than before, and he was for an instant tempted to reproach himself for having, the night previous, invoked the aid of a rival in George's behalf, who might prove an enemy to the charming girl before him. On [pg 473] Meanwhile, the maid of honor was punctual. The marquis had already received her reply, and now placed it in his young friend's hands. “Your request is granted: Mademoiselle Fleurange d'Yves will be received by her majesty on Thursday, at two o'clock. V. L.” “The day after to-morrow!” said Fleurange with emotion. Then, blushing as she continued: “But how happens it that the name which I have not borne for so long occurs in this note?” “It is yours, is it not?” replied the marquis evasively. “Yes, it is mine, but—” she stopped. A particular remembrance was now associated with the name of Fleurange. No one had called her so but George for more than three years. And the day for ever graven on her memory, he told her he should keep that name for himself—himself alone. She regretted to find it here written by a strange hand, and felt an involuntary contraction of the heart. “I should have preferred the request made in the name I generally bear.” “Pardon me. I am to blame in this,” said Adelardi. “I supposed it a matter of indifference. I thought the name of Fleurange would particularly attract the attention of her whose favor you seek, and remain more surely in her memory.” This was merely an excuse which occurred to him in reply to a question he had not anticipated. His real motive was to conceal from the maid of honor another name perhaps more familiar, and which might be connected in her mind with some prejudice injurious to the success of the petition of which she was the intermediary. To Be Continued. |
|
