We prepared to leave. Naumoff's despair was puerile and clamorous. I entreated him to go back to Orel and wait for me there, and I promised him that I would soon return to Russia and see him again. As for Prilukoff, he awakened from his lethargy with the roar of a wounded wild beast. “To Venice! You are going to Venice with that man? Is that how you keep your vow?”

“I will keep it, I will keep it,” I cried. “But I said—it—it should be done within the year—this is only June—we can wait six months longer.”

“By that time you will be his wife,” snarled Prilukoff between clenched teeth. “Unless it is done within the next three months you know it will never be done at all. Go your way,” he jeered, “do as you like! Play fast and loose with fate as you have played fast and loose with me!” He turned and gripped my wrist. “But you will escape neither of us. Fate and I will overtake you, Marie Tarnowska, be it in Venice—or in hell!” We left for the Lido.

And while, on the arm of my bethrothed, I wandered by the dancing waters, and the golden hours showered their light upon us, in my dark heart I prayed:

“God, give me strength and ruthlessness! God, who didst guide the hand of Judith, fill my soul with violence and teach my hand to slay!”

········

Prilukoff followed us to Verona. Then he came after us to Venice, where he took rooms in the same hotel, lurking in the corridors, shadowing us in the streets, pursuing me day and night with his misery and jealousy. Occasionally I saw him for a few moments alone, and then we would whisper together about the deed that was to be done, speaking feverishly in low quick tones like demented creatures. If I wavered, it was he who reminded me ruthlessly of my child and of my vow; if he hesitated, it was I who with the insensate perversity of madness urged him on towards the crime.

One evening—ah, how well do I remember that radiant summer sunset beneath which the lagoon lay like a fluid sheet of copper!—he met me on the Lido. He was morose and gloomy. He took from his pocket a black crumpled package. It was Elise's old satchel—the “white elephant,” tattered, empty, dead.

With a vehement movement he flung it into the water. Where it fell the sheet of copper shivered into a thousand splinters of red gold.

“Empty?” I asked in a low tone.

“Empty,” he replied.

“And now, what will you do?”

He shrugged his shoulders. It was then that the idea came to him—the execrable, the nefarious idea.

“Listen. As he”—with a movement of his head he indicated the absent Kamarowsky—“is doomed—I suppose he is doomed, isn't he?” he interposed.

I assented in a barely audible whisper: “Yes.”

“Well, his—his disappearance may as well be of some use. Do you not think so?”

Seeing the look of horror which I turned upon him, he continued: “For goodness' sake don't let us behave like romantic fools. We are not a pair of poetic assassins in a play, are we?”

Gradually, by subtle pleading and plausible argument, he led my weak brain to view the idea with less horror. He assured me that we had not only the right but almost the duty to commit this enormity. According to him, it was not a shameful and disgraceful deed. No; it was a just, reasonable, logical thing to do.

“Of course, it is not as if we were getting rid of a man simply in order to plunder him of his money. No, indeed. That would be vile, that would be abominable. But, given the necessity—the irrevocableness—of his fate, why should we not see to it that his death may at least be of some use to some one? Not to ourselves, remember. The money you get from him shall be used to serve a just purpose—to redress a wrong. We shall make restitution to those I have despoiled. I will pay back what I took from my clients to the very last farthing. And anything that is left over shall be given in charity to the poor. What do you say to that? We shall keep nothing for ourselves—nothing. Do you agree?”

He went on to recall that among the clients he had defrauded was a widow with four little children; the thought of her, he said, had always worried him. It was good to think that she would recover every penny.

The advocate in him awoke, eloquent and convincing, until he ended by assuring me that we should be performing a meritorious deed.

Indignant at first, then uncertain, then reluctant, I was finally persuaded. Soon I heard myself repeating after him: “It will be a meritorious deed.”

Ah, if such beings as evil spirits exist, with what laughter must they have listened to our talk in that exquisite evening hour.

It was Prilukoff who thought out the details and settled the plan.

“You must get him to insure his life.”

“How can I?” I cried feebly and tearfully. “How can one possibly suggest such a thing?”

“Leave that to me,” said Prilukoff, reverting to his Moscow manner.

Next day he showed me a letter written by himself in a disguised hand.

“Open this letter when he is present, and when he insists on seeing it, show it to him ... reluctantly!”

“But what if he does not insist?”

“You must make him insist,” said Prilukoff.

The letter was brought to me in Kamarowsky's presence, and when he saw me turning scarlet and then pale as I opened it, he insisted on seeing what it contained.

I showed it to him ... reluctantly.

The letter was in Prilukoff's handwriting, but was signed “Ivan Troubetzkoi.” The prince (whom I scarcely remembered, and whom I had not seen for more than six years) begged me to marry him, and as proof of his devotion offered to make a will in my favor and, in addition, to insure his life for half a million francs.

Paul Kamarowsky was aghast.

“Is everybody trying to steal you away from me, Mura?” he exclaimed brokenly; then he sat down on the sofa with his head in his hands. I gazed at him, feeling as if I should die with sorrow and remorse.

For a long time he did not speak. Then he drew me to him.

“Dear one, do not heed the offers of other people. No one, whether he be prince or moujik, can love you more than I do. No one will do more for you than I am willing to do. I, also, am ready to make a will in your favor; I, also, will insure my life for half a million francs.”

“No, no,” I cried, crushed with misery and shame.

“Oh, yes, I will. It shall be done immediately. To-day.”

And it was done.

“You see?” cried Prilukoff triumphantly, “I am not quite a fool yet, am I? Hush now, don't cry. Remember that it is not for ourselves, but to make an honorable act of restitution.”

“But a hundred thousand francs would have been enough for that,” I sobbed.

“The other four hundred thousand we shall give to the poor,” said Prilukoff. “It will be a meritorious deed.”