All unconscious of Paul's presence only a few short steps away
Mademoiselle Natalie Vseslavitch, for so we will call her until she
herself chooses to reveal more, had rushed to her rooms, her heart
almost overwhelmed by a new and dreadful burden.
The tidings she had left Lucerne to know, whose bearer was the
black-bearded gentleman, which had so aroused Paul's curiosity, were
simply these. Her hand was sought in marriage.
Truly not such news as ought to make a maiden weep, you say, and yet
what base political ends have not been served through the holy offices
of the marriage service. And when a suit bears the approbation of
one's sovereign, is it not more nearly a command?
The cousin of our beautiful Natalie, one Prince Boris Ivanovitch, had
long been a persistent suitor. What booted it that she would have none
of his attentions? Was he not an heir apparent, and should a girl's
whim, her likes or dislikes, stand in the way of a powerful union? The
Tsar of all the Russias had given him official sanction; to Prince
Boris, and alas! to Natalie, the ceremony was as good as performed.
But what of the desires of her own tender girlish heart, her hopes,
her sacred mission? Were all to be sacrificed on the altar of a great
political alliance? Natalie cast herself on a divan in a paroxysm of
grief and rage, and the imperial note, heavy with a gold crest and
seals, fluttered in tiny pieces on the floor. In vain her maid
essayed to comfort her. This latest blow was too heavy. Why did Boris
not let her give him the vast estates, why must he insist upon
_her_?--her love he never had, never could have. Once more the couch
shook with her choking sobs.
After the first dreadful shock was over, Natalie calmed herself, and
the innate strength, the quiet determination which had carried her so
far on her mission asserted itself. She would obey--the thought of
disobedience cannot come to faithful subjects--but there was no haste.
Time can accomplish much.
Then, as the events of the past few days flitted before her mental
vision there crept into her cheeks a faint tinge of colour as she
thought of Paul. "Ah, my beloved--yes, beloved, though you know it
not. I must see you once more." And the sudden memory of the hour
when she last saw him so eager, so loving, all the fine lines of his
virile strength thrown on the black screen of darkness, by the light
of the burning summer house, mantled her cheek anew in crimson.
He of all the men she had ever seen was the one most worth loving. And
then in confusion again at this admission, deep though it was in her
thoughts, she dismissed her maid and curling up before the fire set
her woman's wit to match the machinations of her greedy relation.
And as she pondered, she smiled. If she _had_ acted on a sudden
impulse once, she felt that she could be deliberate now. Having been
somewhat indiscreet in the rustic tea-house, with a woman's
inconsistency she was determined to veer to a course of conduct
exactly opposite.
She felt too well her power to draw Paul to her--indeed, what woman
does not know her own capability to attract? And here was an
opportunity to gain a brief respite from the grim path on which her
destiny seemed to be leading her. She _would_ see him again.
Her bright eyes roved to the dainty table near at hand. She picked up
a perfumed note, and read it again, and as she read, a happier look
smoothed away the sharp lines of mental anguish which had marked the
beautiful face but a short time before. The crested sheet bore the
address of the Dalmatian Embassy in Paris, and was from the lovable
old Countess Oreshefski, whose husband was the honoured Ambassador.
"My dearest little Natalie," the cordial note of invitation began, and
concluded with a reassurance that the Countess expected her on the
ninth of May, without fail.
Yes--the ninth of May--that was to-morrow. The Comtesse was insistent,
and the Ambassador himself had charged his spouse to invite her. Very
well! She would be there.
And Mademoiselle Vseslavitch called her maid and gave her instructions
to be ready to leave for Paris by the morning train.
The next day the little _café_ across the street from the humble
_Hôtel de la République_ was the richer by a generous gold piece, and
the rubicund _propriétaire_ marvelled to his equally rubicund wife
over the peculiar habits of the Englishman, who preferred to drink
much black coffee and smoke many black cigars sitting at the little
table in the doorway, rather than see the beautiful cathedral, as did
all the other tourists.
Finally, Paul, impatient at his lengthy vigil, elicited the
information, so much desired and yet so disappointing, that a _grande
dame_, for surely she must be such to have so many servants, had
honoured the humble hotel across the way by her presence for a brief
twenty-four hours and only that morning had taken the train for Nice.
After this bit of information, mingled with much more voluble, mine
host had further occasion to remark on the strange actions of "these
English." For Paul's sudden departure cut short what the landlord
considered a really capable flight of oratory on his beloved
cathedral.