Suddenly my strength failed me. The room seemed to be paved with water; the floor yielded and undulated under my feet; the motor-cycle pulsing in my breast stopped dead. Then I felt Bozevsky's arm sustain me as I fell forward on his breast. Everything whirled, darkened—vanished.

When I opened my eyes I was seated near the window; the dancers crowded round me. Stahl was bending over me with a small shining instrument in his hand. It was a hypodermic syringe.

I shrank back in terror. “No, no!” I cried.

Seeing that I had recovered my senses Vassili, who stood behind me, laid an iron hand on my bare shoulder.

“Come,” he said in a hoarse and brutal voice. “Come at once.”

“Where to?” I rose trembling to my feet. I still felt dizzy and weak, and scarcely knew where I was.

“Home,” said Vassili, bending over me with a terrible look. His face was so close to mine that I could feel his breath upon me, hot and laden with that subtle sweetish exhalation of ether that vodka leaves behind it. “The dance is over,” he muttered. “It is over, it is over.” I noticed his clenched fists; and I was afraid. A deep silence had fallen on the entire room. “Come!” he repeated in a tone that made me quake.

I shrank back in terror. Then Vassili put out his hand and seized my pearl necklace; it broke in his grasp. The milky gems fell to the ground and rolled away in all directions; the guests, both men and women, stooped down to search for them and pick them up.

But now Bozevsky had taken a step forward, and stood, haughty and aggressive, in front of Vassili. He uttered a brief word in a low voice.

Vassili turned upon him with livid countenance. “Insolent scoundrel!” he cried, wildly searching his pockets for a weapon; then in a frenzy he turned on the awe-stricken assembly: “Go away, everybody!” he shouted. “Stahl, turn out the lights. We are going to have a game of blind man's buff, the Uhlan and I. A game of blind man's buff in the dark! Quick, Stahl, give us a couple of revolvers. Send all these people away and turn out the lights.” He was beside himself with vodka and with wrath.

Bozevsky still faced him, calm and unmoved. “Why should it be in the dark, Count Tarnowsky? Why not in the light of day—at ten paces?”

“No!” roared Vassili. “I'll kill you in the dark, evil beast that you are. I'll slaughter you like a wild beast in the dark!”

I never knew how we succeeded in getting him out into the troika, but at last the feat was accomplished, and he drove off with Madame Grigorievska and Semenzoff, the only two people who had any influence over him. I followed in another sleigh, alone with Dr. Stahl, who during the entire drive panted and shivered beside me, as if in the throes of some fierce physical agony.

Through the starry calm of the night, while the sleighs glided silently over the snow, we could hear Vassili's strident and drunken voice still roaring: “Blind man's buff with the officer! Ha, ha, ha! In the dark—bing bang. Blind man's buff!”

The scandal in Kieff was enormous. The whole town spoke of nothing else. All the women sided with Vassili, and all the men with me. As for Vassili, he cared nothing for the opinion of either. He came and went with lowering brows, never speaking either to me or to the children.

I was unspeakably frightened and unhappy. At last, one evening, unable to endure the strain of his silence any longer, and praying God to give me courage, I went tremblingly and knocked at his study door.

He said “Come in,” and I entered.

He was standing by the window, smoking, and he turned upon me a cold vindictive eye.

“Vassili”—my voice trembled—“Vassili, don't be angry with me any more. Forgive me. I did not mean to offend you. I did not mean—” I burst into tears.

He seemed somewhat moved and held out his hand to me without speaking.

I grasped it eagerly. He continued to smoke and look out of the window, while I stood awkwardly beside him, holding his hand and not knowing what to say.

Perhaps my silence pleased him, for soon I felt him press my trembling fingers more closely. Looking timidly up into his face I saw that his lips were quivering.

“Vassili,” I whispered. He turned to me abruptly. “Let us go away,” he said, “Mura, let us go away!”

“Where?” I asked, overcome with sudden fear.

“Far away from here, far away from Russia. I cannot live in this accursed country any longer.” And Vassili let go my hand in order to clench his fists.

“I had thought of it, too,” I said unsteadily. And in a low voice I told him my thoughts of the rose-clad house in Italy, my dreams of an azure exile in that beauteous land, alone with him and the children.

“Mura! Mura!” he said, taking my face between his hands and gazing deeply into my eyes. “Tell me—is it not too late?”

Was it too late?

In my soul my unlawful passion for Bozevsky rose like a giant wave, towered over me, enveloped and submerged me. Then—then to the eyes of my spirit there came the vision of my children, of a flower-filled Italian garden, of peace reconquered and deliverance from evil. “No, Vassili, no. It is not too late!”

With a sigh I lay my cheek against his shoulder and bowed my face upon his breast.

Before our departure from Russia, in order not to leave ill-feeling or evil talk behind us, it was decided that Vassili and Bozevsky should meet and be reconciled.

The Stahls and Grigorievskys gladly undertook to organize an afternoon reception at which we were to take leave of all our friends and acquaintances. After that there would be a theater party at the opera, and, finally, the more intimate of our friends were to be the guests of Bozevsky himself at a supper at the Grand Hotel. There we were to say farewell to one another for many years, perhaps forever.

In spite of the burning desire which drew me towards Bozevsky, I had honorably kept my part of the agreement and had refused to see him for even an instant before the appointed day.

Vassili took the necessary steps to get our passports and every preparation was made for our final departure from Russia.

And now the eve of our journey had come—the afternoon reception was over; and this was the fatal evening which was to mark the supreme and ultimate hour of my happiness.

Satins and jewels decked my aching heart; flowers garlanded my ringleted hair; I wanted Alexis to see me for the last time looking my fairest. I longed to remain forever in his memory a loved and radiant vision. “You are dazzlingly beautiful,” said my cousin Vera to me, as soon as I entered the room, surveying me from top to toe. “I can quite understand why every one is crazy about you.”

I was immediately surrounded by all our most intimate friends, who lamented in every key our resolve to leave Russia.

“Without you, Kieff will be empty. It will be like a ring which has lost its brightest gem.”

I smiled and sighed, feeling both gratified and mournful.

Who would have thought that after this evening all those who now surrounded me with flattering words would pass me by without a greeting, would turn from me as from some vile and tainted creature?

Bozevsky, pallid and stern, came to me, and bowed low as he kissed my hand.

“Ave! Ave ... Maria!” he said. Then he raised his eyes and looked at me long and fixedly. Despair was so clearly written on his countenance, that I felt afraid lest Vassili should notice it; Alexis read the fear in my eyes, and laughed. “Do you know what I believe?” he said.

I looked at him without understanding.

“I believe,” he continued in scornful tones, “that I am in a trap.” “A trap? What do you mean?” I gazed questioningly into his face.

“Yes, yes, a trap,” said he with a cynical laugh. Then in a tone that seemed in keeping with the frivolous atmosphere that surrounded us:

“Countess,” he continued, “has it ever happened to you to go wrong in some well-known quotation? To begin, for instance, with one author, and to end with another?”

“I do not understand,” I stammered, perplexed by the strangeness of his manner. “What—what do you mean?”

Vassili was approaching, and Alexis with a scornful laugh raised his voice slightly as he spoke. “Because to-night,” he said, “a misquotation of that kind keeps ringing through my brain. “Ave, Maria!... Morituri te salutant!”

Vassili stood beside us and heard the words with a puzzled smile.

“Morituri?” he said, holding out his hand to Bozevsky with a frank and friendly gesture. “Morituri? Indeed I hope not.”

Bozevsky took his hand and looked him in the face. Vassili returned his gaze; then, with an impulsive gesture, in true Russian fashion, my husband bent forward and kissed him on both cheeks. No! no, it was not a trap! From the depths of my broken heart, from my inmost consciousness, there springs up this protest on behalf of him who on that fatal evening wrecked my life. I know that it was an impulse of his fervent heart that impelled Vassili to open his arms to the man whom an hour before he had hated—and whom an hour later he slew.

No; it was not a trap.