Pierre congratulated his wife on her happy delivery, told her to take every precaution, sent his fond love to her and the little stranger, and agreed to her proposal. He would not come to Paris, but would await her in Courland, where all would be ready for her return at the end of a month.
"Oh, at the end of a month, we shall see," she said to Paul, after reading the letter to him. "Tekla's health will hinder the journey and our return to Pampeln will be put off until summer. I say 'our' return, for you will come to me there very soon, will you not? If not, I will not go."
And winding her arms about her lover's neck the newly made mother drew him toward her almost fiercely, as if the passion, laid to rest for some months by her motherhood, had again suddenly possessed her.
Freed from all fear in regard to the prince, Paul returned the embrace warmly, and from this time forward he was so full of care for her, he seemed to love the child so much, that the princess had never been so thoroughly happy.
The Meyrins, of course, had been among the first to congratulate the young mother. The day when Lise Olsdorf gathered them all at her table to celebrate her churching, each member of the family found under his or her plate a princely present. After dinner the baby was brought in in a cradle trimmed with lace and roses. Before dessert was over Paul's paternity could no longer be a matter of doubt for any one present, the princess had been so demonstrative with the man she loved.
However, the Meyrin ladies kept their countenances. They would not see anything amiss; and Frantz's wife, by way of a sort of hypocritical protestation intended to safeguard her middle-class virtue, was very nearly proposing the health of Prince Olsdorf. Her husband, ashamed of this comedy, had only just time to stop her.
These merrymakers would not have been so joyous nor so much at their ease, if they could have foreseen what was to happen a few days later at the château of Pampeln.
Although he had reckoned on the return of his wife at the end of April, Prince Olsdorf was not very much surprised when she wrote to him that the baby's health forced her to put off the journey for at least a fortnight. He replied that she was right to be prudent and must think first of all of the infant, adding that he would await her in Courland, which would shorten the journey for her by almost one half. He asked her to warn him by telegraph of her departure from Paris, so that he could go to meet her with carriages at Mittau.
All these letters were in a tone so unusual with her husband, that is, so full of tenderness, that the princess was in a sense alarmed at it; and she was always careful not to show them to Paul Meyrin, whose jealousy would certainly have been roused. She wrote to the prince that she would be starting soon, at the same time promising herself that she would put off the journey to the very last moment under any pretense whatever.
Meanwhile Pierre Olsdorf had returned to Pampeln, and was overlooking the equipping of the house for the season, when he received from St. Petersburg, with other letters, a big envelope which had been addressed to him at his town house.
Having carelessly opened the envelope he was rather surprised to see its contents. They were a series of articles, for the most part reviews of theatrical performances, cut from newspapers and pasted on good sized sheets of paper, in which the names of Princess Lise and Paul Meyrin's appeared in each paragraph.
The prince was puzzled for a moment, then a flush overspread his face, and snatching up a note which accompanied the inclosures, he read these infamous words:
"The articles do not tell everything to the husband of the Princess Olsdorf. Otherwise they would inform him that his wife lives publicly with Paul Meyrin, as is known to all Paris, and that the baby she has just had is her lover's."
"Oh, the wretches!" exclaimed the unhappy man, "I will kill them."
And, wishing to know all, he ran his eye through each of the paragraphs that repeated his dishonor.
Then, his eyes filling with tears, he buried his face in big hands and reflected.
In a few minutes he grew calmer. Determined not to take counsel either of his anger or of his just indignation, he made for the shady woods of the park, where he paced up and down for a part of the night.
Next morning, when he tenderly kissed his son Alexander at his waking, nothing could have been read on his face. His resolution was irrevocably taken.
He ordered his horse to be saddled, and he rode over to Elva.
Soublaieff, who was in the farm-yard when his master rode into it, ran forward to hold his horse, and Pierre Olsdorf dismounted.
"I am glad to find you here," said he to the farmer, "I was afraid you might be away somewhere in the fields. I have something serious to say to you. How is your daughter?"
"Well, prince," replied Soublaieff. "She and I are at your orders. What is the matter? Forgive my presumption, but you seem troubled and preoccupied."
"I am. You shall know the cause afterward. Meanwhile I am come to ask a favor of you."
"A favor from me! A master so good as you are asks it of a servant who would give the last drop of his blood to him? Speak, prince, speak!"
"Will you trust Vera to me?"
"Trust Vera to you?"
"To take her to Paris."
The farmer grew pale. The tenderness of a father struggled within him against blind devotion for his master. In the past he had besought the prince not to take from him his daughter to place her at the château. And now it was a question not of a separation of a few leagues but of a journey to France. He hesitated.
"Come, make up your mind to it," Pierre Olsdorf went on. "I want Vera; she alone, with your good will, can do me a great service."
"A great service? Are you going to join the princess?"
"Yes, I am going to her in Paris, and I must come to her with a pure, intelligent, and beautiful young girl such as your daughter is. Ah! Soublaieff, I am very unhappy."
The sad smile with which the prince spoke the words troubled the old servitor still more, but at the sight of the pained look in the face of the generous master to whom he owed everything, his hesitation vanished, and he replied:
"Take Vera, prince; but suffer me to remind you that she is my idolized child, and that the former serf trusts his honor to the honor of the Olsdorfs."
"I will remember. Send for your daughter."
Vera came quickly at her father's first call, and as was her custom, bent to kiss the prince's hand, but he drew her toward him and pressed a chaste kiss on her forehead.
In a few words Soublaieff told his daughter of the agreement with the prince. Vera, blushing with pleasure, bowed low and said, in a subdued voice:
"I am ready to obey you, father."
Mingled with her surprise—perhaps without she herself knowing it—was the curiosity natural in a daughter of Eve. She was grieved to leave her father; but to travel, to see Paris! It had been one of her dreams.
"I thank you both," said Pierre Olsdorf after a moment of silence. "Soublaieff, you are no longer a devoted servant, but a friend to me. As for you, sweet Vera, I shall never forget the sacrifice she makes in leaving her family to go with me for awhile."
Then offering his hand to the farmer, who pressed it respectfully in his, he added:
"Bring Vera to-morrow morning to Pampeln; we will start at once for Mittau, and take the night train thence to Paris. Again I thank you. Adieu till to-morrow."
The prince, who had spoken the last words as he stood on the threshold of the door, sprung upon his horse and rode off in the direction of the château.
Next day, before ten o'clock, Soublaieff was at Pampeln with his daughter. At noon the young Russian girl and Pierre Olsdorf got into a post-chaise, on the box-seat being Yvan, his old and faithful body-servant; and Soublaieff, with tearful eyes, saw them drive off, as he murmured:
"Perhaps I was wrong to yield, but he seemed so unhappy. What is the mystery? God preserve my child."
CHAPTER VII.
AT THE OPERA COMIQUE.
Two days later Pierre Olsdorf arrived in Paris, at a quarter past seven in the evening, by the Cologne express. He had traveled without a break. By eight o'clock he was at the Grand Hotel, and in ten minutes' time, Yvan, his body-servant, was on his way to the Rue Lafitte with a letter which he was to deliver in person to the princess, if she were at home, or to leave with a servant to be taken at once to his mistress, if it were known where she was passing the evening. The prince did not wish his letter to be read by a lady's-maid before it reached its address.
At the Rue Lafitte, Yvan was told that the princess had just gone to the Opera Comique, and a promise was made that a footman should go to the theater immediately with the letter.
The man, indeed, started at once, and the prince's servant, on his way back to the boulevard, saw him turn down the Rue Marivaux.
A stock-piece was being played this evening. The princess was seated at the front of the box, while Paul Meyrin, who was her companion, sat behind her. As usual she was listening attentively to the music when the door of the box opened. Rather surprised, for she was expecting nobody, at least until between the acts, the young woman turned round and took from the hat, held salver-wise, of her footman the letter he offered to her.
"I beg pardon, madame, but a stranger who delivered this letter said that it must be given to Madame the Princess at once."
"Is there any answer?" asked Lise Olsdorf, visibly growing paler, for she had recognized her husband's writing on the envelope.
"The bearer went away without saying anything," the footman replied.
"Very well. You can go."
The door of the box was closed again. Frowning, the princess, who did not want to open the letter before the end of the act, seemed to guess what threatened her within the envelope.
"What is the matter?" asked Paul Meyrin, uneasy at her silence.
"The letter is from the prince," replied Lise Olsdorf.
"Well, is that very extraordinary?"
"It has not come by post. See, there is no stamp on it. A commissionaire must have brought it to the house, so that my husband is in Paris. He has left St. Petersburg without warning. I am lost!"
Paul Meyrin had grown very pale.
He had sometimes said to himself that the prince at last would be surprised at his wife's long stay in Paris, and that in casting about a bit he would easily find out that it was not merely care for her health which kept her away from Russia. But like an irresolute man who dares not look danger in the face, the artist would not dwell in fancy on the possible consequences of his amour with a married woman, and now that the upshot was near he trembled.
"Read it, any way," he said, in a changed voice.
The curtain had just fallen on the first act of the "Pré aux Clercs." The princess rose from her chair, and supposing that Paul's fear was for her alone, she pressed his hand; then, with quick fingers, she opened the letter. It contained only these few lines:
"Madame,—Made acquainted with the true reason for your long stay in Paris, I am come hither not to force you to return to your husband's roof, but to insist upon the only possible ending, according to my view, of the situation that you have made. Desiring, therefore, to see you as soon as possible, I will call upon you at eleven o'clock to-morrow morning.
"Do not fear either a scene or reproaches. You will not have to treat with the outraged husband, but merely with a father who would not that his son should have either a compromised mother, or a dishonored name.
"Prince Pierre Olsdorf."
After reading this letter several times, which was full of threats the more serious the less they were defined, the princess handed it to Paul Meyrin.
He ran through it rapidly, and, not less alarmed than his mistress, said:
"What will you do?"
"I don't know."
"Shall you see the prince?"
"How can I do otherwise?"
"Shall we go back home?"
"No. People saw the letter handed to me. Our going would seem strange, and my return home would surprise my servants too much to not set them thinking. We will sit out the 'Pré aux Clercs.' When it is over we will decide what is best to be done."
Taking again the attentive attitude that she always assumed at the theater, the princess seated at the front of the box seemed to forget the terrible news she had just received.
At the thought of the struggle she was about to engage in, at the idea of the dangers that threatened her, on the eve of the conjugal drama of which she was the heroine, the actress's nature that she inherited from her mother and from her true father awoke in her, counseling revolt and strategy. She might have feared violence; but as the prince wrote that she had nothing of the sort to face, she cared little for the rest, provided always that she was not to be separated from her lover; as she was prepared for everything but this sacrifice, her calmness had suddenly returned.
Paul Meyrin was less at his ease. He thought more of the next day than his mistress seemed to do. Would the prince force his wife to retire to some convent far from Paris, not in France? From him, the lover, the husband would surely demand satisfaction for the stain upon his honor. The painter, without being a coward, was no duelist. He scarcely knew how to hold a sword, and with a pistol he could not hit the target more than once in ten shots. In a word, he loved Lise as much as his egotism suffered him to love. She was a mistress that flattered his pride and cost him nothing. We might even say that she was, on the contrary, profitable to him, since, as we have seen, she heaped presents on the whole Meyrin family and let slip no chance of offering Paul a trinket or some costly knickknack.
And this baby a few months old whom the prince would not shelter! Paul foresaw with alarm, for the paternal sentiment scarcely existed in him, that it would fall to his care, and he did not hide from himself that his mother, Mme. Meyrin, would refuse downright to take charge of it. Foreseeing disputes without end, a thousand domestic worries, he forgot completely in thinking only of himself what the princess might have to dread and suffer.
It was in this frame of mind that the painter sat out the last two acts of Hérold's masterpiece, and when, accompanying Lise home, he found himself again in the little room in the Rue Lafitte, where, in the course of the past few months, he had spent so many long and happy hours, he was seized by a deep sadness.
Lise Olsdorf, who had left him alone while her maid took off her things, soon returned, wearing a long dressing-gown of blue velvet, but even when she knelt before the artist, laying her head on his knees, Paul scarcely roused himself.
The princess was the first to break silence.
"Come," she said, "we must not let ourselves be beaten like this. There is one thing: whatever happens, nothing shall separate us. Anything may come but that."
"Is it so?" exclaimed Paul, tenderly.
"Yes, I swear it. The prince may threaten as he likes. He shall not part me from you."
Lise spoke the words with the savage passion that she felt for her lover. At the moment she was a living proof of the physiological phenomenon which too often makes of the most distinguished woman the servile courtesan of a man whose birth, education, and sentiments would seem to part him from her.
Reassured by this sensual fervor, and feeling that his mistress was still his body and soul, Paul took her on to his knees, and as he thanked her with a thousand caresses, she went on, thrilling in his arms:
"After all, what can the prince do? We are not in Russia; I am not the daughter of one of his serfs. I have my own fortune which he, a nobleman, dare not touch. And I love you—I love you. Is it my fault? Is not it rather his fault? Look! I would rather he should know everything. I am tired of mysteries and lying. What has now happened was fated. It is better so, for now I shall be yours only and always."
Lise Olsdorf was intoxicated by her own words. She was superb in her unsatiated passion. Winding her bare arms about her lover, she was Venus herself. Her long hair floated over her marble shoulders; she was Mary Magdalene before her repentance.
"But who has betrayed us?" asked Paul Meyrin, suddenly, drawing himself gently, after a long silence, from the ardent embrace of the young woman. "Who can have given the prince such exact particulars?"
"Why, everybody," replied the princess with a smile which seemed to mean that the fact could not have been otherwise; "first of all the newspapers. This long time they have coupled your name and mine in their notices of first nights. And then, no doubt, there are some dear friends jealous of our happiness. What does it matter who it was?"
"But our daughter; we are forgetting the dear little thing. What will become of her?"
"The prince will believe that Tekla is his daughter. There will be no question about her between him and me."
"If he should doubt it?"
"It is impossible he should. At any rate, we shall see. Meanwhile say nothing of what is happening to your mother, your sister, or anybody. It will be time enough to tell them when we know ourselves what the result is. As soon as the prince has left me, I will send for you. Come at once. And now, good-bye until to-morrow. It will be our last farewell, this; I hope it will be our last."
Then having sealed the amorous words with a last kiss, she left him at the door of her room.
Within it, she went to bed, far more to think of the man she loved than of the meeting with her husband with which she was threatened.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE REVENGE OF AN HONORABLE MAN.
Next morning at eleven o'clock, with military punctuality, Pierre Olsdorf was at his wife's home.
She awaited him in the little room where on the previous night she had tried to put some courage into Paul Meyrin.
Lise Olsdorf was calm in appearance, so that her husband could not read in her face the terror which the unlooked-for arrival of her legal judge had caused her. Her paleness could scarcely be seen under the rice powder; her large eyes were only faintly ringed with blue through sleeplessness.
At the entrance of the prince, Lise rose from the couch she was seated on, and bowed without speaking.
The nobleman whose name she had stained looked at her fixedly for some moments, then, signing to her to be seated again, he sunk into a chair opposite to her and said in firm, grave tones:
"Madame, although to do so does not seem quite indispensable, for I find you far calmer than you ought to be, I wish to confirm what I wrote to you last night. I do not come to reproach you, though you have spoiled my life; I do not come to make a scene, though the Russian law, like the French, gives me every right over you—even to kill you if I found you in the act of adultery—which it would not have been difficult for me to do, as you must know. That act of justice, according to the law, would be merely a pardonable crime. But have no fear. If for a moment, when the news of your misconduct came upon me yonder like a thunder-bolt, I thought of punishing you, it was because the memory of the past aroused my anger. Now, my heart and mind have grown calm again, I come to insist upon the only means of putting an end to the scandal of the life you are living."
At these words, and not before, the princess raised her eyes. Up to then she had hidden her face in her hands, so as not to show the humiliation that her husband's tone made her feel.
Pierre Olsdorf went on:
"I am so sure of your submission that I will not attempt to point out the dangers you would run if you opposed my will in the least degree. After having Monsieur Paul Meyrin for your lover in Russia, you came to him here in Paris because you were enceinte by him."
At these words, so plain and precise, Lise Olsdorf could not master a movement of real affright. She perhaps would have attempted a denial, but the prince stopped her with a severe look and said:
"Don't try to deceive me. It would be an infamy added to a fault already so great. I speak as I do because I have not the shadow of a doubt; if I had it would be a frightful torture. I have compared one thing with another, I have grouped together facts which at the time seemed to me to have no importance, last summer at Pampeln, in my château so hospitably open. Besides, the little esteem that I yet feel for you would not let me suppose for a moment that, while bearing in your womb a legitimate child, you would leave the father of this child, in a state when the vilest creature has some shame, to give yourself to a lover."
Deeply affected, the adulterous wife again lowered her head.
The prince continued:
"The daughter you were delivered of recently, and for whom you have claimed my legitimate son, Alexander, as a brother, bears my name legally. I can not deprive her of it except at the cost of a scandalous inquiry, the result of which, moreover, would be an obstacle to the end I have in view, as it would be a judicial confirmation of your adultery. I shall not set that inquiry on foot, and the child will keep the name it has unconsciously stolen. I make the sacrifice for the honor of my house. But you shall not continue to call yourself the Princess Olsdorf. You will petition the Holy Synod for a divorce from me."
The princess was so amazed that she could scarcely murmur:
"From you?"
"Yes, from me," repeated the Russian nobleman. "Ah, that surprises you; you don't understand me, because you are not sufficiently versed in our laws of divorce. If I petitioned for a divorce from you it would be granted at the first inquiry; but then you would be dishonored, and some of the shame would fall upon my son. When he is older he would blush for you. I would not have that. Besides, no doubt you are ignorant of the fact that the person against whom the decree of divorce is gained may not marry again. You would therefore be condemned to live as Monsieur Paul Meyrin's concubine, should this man remain faithful to you, and your last born child would have no name, as one of the consequences of the decree against you would be a disavowal of my paternity. If I am the accused before the Holy Synod, however, I shall be condemned to celibacy, while you will continue in the eyes of the world as an honest woman under the name of Madame Meyrin."
At these two words "Madame Meyrin," the daughter of the Countess Barineff was seized with a vague fear. Amid her astonishment she made a rapid comparison of her past and the future that her husband forced upon her. Paul Meyrin was no longer the lover whose mastery over her was sensual, the man whom she as a woman loved carnally; he was already the husband and lord, such as one sees always, save at the hour when passion makes one blind.
Without analyzing the feeling which had awakened in her so suddenly, Lise was afraid. Not to betray herself she had need of all her pride and strength of will; but the prince had no doubt guessed what was passing in her mind, for he continued, in a cutting and ironical voice:
"There is nothing to hinder your marriage with Monsieur Paul Meyrin, as he belongs to a country whose laws authorize divorce. You will be good enough, then, to inform him of my will, and when the principal point is agreed on, I will point out the course you are to follow to put me in the wrong and introduce your petition to the Holy Synod. As for your personal fortune, the day after the decree of divorce is pronounced my lawyer will send you all the title-deeds; you will become absolute mistress of it. I will abstain from giving you any advice with regard to the steps you should take to secure your future. When I married you I gave you my town house in St. Petersburg. It will remain your property, but as I forbid you to ever set foot in Russia you will do well to sell it. I believe I have said all that is needful at present. I only have to await your answer to my ultimatum. But remember this oath that I make before leaving you: if for any reason whatever Monsieur Paul Meyrin does not marry you, I will kill him. Adieu, madame. May God pardon you."
Speaking these words, the prince rose, bowed to his wife, and went out without looking at her again.
The princess rose mechanically, and then fell back into her seat.
She had expected anything on the part of the outraged husband, but not this strange solution that he had insisted on with the calmness of an operator searching a wound with his scalpel.
Nearly out of her mind, she rang and ordered her footman to go and ask M. Paul Meyrin to come to her at once.
Awaiting her lover, Lise Olsdorf took a rapid glance at the past, recalling with terror the road she had covered so rapidly within the last year. She saw again her youth, her court of adorers at St. Petersburg, her princely marriage, and the entertainments of which she had been the queen at Pampeln. She thought of her mother, whose ambitious edifices were going to come down crashing about her, and who would not be sparing of reproaches; and suddenly, too, thinking of her son whom she would never see again, she was about, perhaps, to exclaim, "No, never!" when Paul Meyrin came into the room hurriedly, without being announced.
The painter was pale, uneasy, and much agitated. His manly beauty only showed the more brilliantly. The princess was struck by it, and, suddenly reconquered by the sensual charm which mastered her, she sprung toward him.
Paul received her in his arms, bore her in them as if she had been a child, laid her on the couch, and, kneeling beside her, questioned her with his eyes.
"It is over," she said, after enjoying for a moment the intoxication of the contact with him, which took from her all energy. "Everything is over between the prince and me. He himself wishes it. I shall be your wife."
"My wife!" exclaimed Paul, with a movement of surprise.
"Yes, your wife. The prince and I are to be divorced, and I shall marry you. On this condition alone we shall not be separated. My husband has acted, too, like an honorable man. He gives me back my fortune, and leaves me the house at St. Petersburg, his wedding present. How happy we shall be! To live with you, never to leave you again! To love you freely, openly, in the face of the whole world—and always, always!"
The unhappy and bewitched woman would not look back on the past. In the artist's arms she forgot all—the memories that she had summoned a few minutes earlier, the high social rank she was about to quit, her mother, even her son.
Paul was calmer. This future, which he had by no means foreseen, the responsibility he was about to take upon himself, the new part he was called upon to play, all frightened him a little. Not that he did not love the woman who had given herself to him; but to marry, to become the head of a household, from a lover to change to a husband, the father of a family, it was a serious matter, deserving to be reflected on.
"Why don't you speak to me?" said the princess, vaguely uneasy and looking into the painter's eyes. "Are not you happy?"
"Can you think otherwise?" said Paul; "but you must understand my surprise. You will confess I had little reason to expect what has happened. I feared your husband might use violence to you, and I was so sure of a challenge from him that I have spoken to a couple of friends."
"As your seconds! In a duel!" cried Lise Olsdorf, throwing her arms around the young man's neck. "Oh, if I had dreamed the prince had such an idea he should not have left this room alive."
"Dear, foolish child!" said Paul Meyrin, returning the passionate embrace. "But, while awaiting the divorce, what will you do? How shall we live? Will not the prince make you leave Paris?"
"No, I believe not."
"Did he speak to you of Tekla?"
"He knows the child is not his, and I did not try to deceive him."
"Perhaps he will want to take it from us."
The Princess Olsdorf sat up suddenly. She grew very pale.
The fact is the adulterous wife was an excellent mother. Two years before, when her son was attacked by a contagious sickness, she had nursed him with a devotion which had been the admiration of everybody, and she adored doubly Paul Meyrin's child.
"Take away my daughter—separate me from her!" she cried. "Oh, no, it is impossible; the prince has not the thought. He can not disown her, for the consequence of a disavowal would be a petition for divorce from me. He will leave me Tekla. What could he do with her? He can not love her. We are both mad to think of it."
The painter tried his best to calm Lise. They agreed to await the course of events and act accordingly, keeping secret from everybody what was going on.
Paul Meyrin, indeed, was not at all anxious to acquaint his relatives with the new turn that his amour with the princess had taken, for he foresaw the opposition that his mother and sister, and especially his sister, would offer to the marriage. Although he had never said anything outright to the two women upon the subject, he had every reason to believe that they knew the true state of his relations with Lise Olsdorf, and that they were well aware of his being the father of little Tekla. If the Meyrins received at their house Paul's acknowledged mistress, it was because their vanity was flattered and their interest lay in making her welcome. Under the pretense that she adored artists, and had the right to act in Paris as she would have done in Russia, she heaped presents on all the Meyrins, big and little. Her love, then, cost them nothing; on the contrary. As formerly, the painter lived with the family and shared its expenses, giving, too, himself generously, for he reflected that he had no calls upon him and was making plenty of money.
With the Meyrins, and certainly as regarded Frantz, there was indeed no cynical and shameless speculation; but the feeling was there, though they were unconscious of it. The marriage of the artist to anybody would necessarily occasion so radical a change in their style of living that the idea of it had always been thrust into the background by those whose thorough interest it was to have him under their guidance.
Paul, without saying all these things to himself, was conscious of them. He was much concerned about what was to happen in the near future as he made his way back to the Rue de Douai.
After the painter had left her the princess wrote to her husband to say she was ready to obey him in all particulars.
CHAPTER IX.
IN FLAGRANTE DELICTO.
During the three days that she was traveling on the railway in a compartment near that of Prince Olsdorf, the pretty Vera Soublaieff had been in one long dream. She was going to Paris, which she had so often heard spoken of and so enthusiastically by her countrymen, to meet again the Princess Lise, who had always been so kind to her, and to live a less monotonous life than at Alba. The day after her arrival, already recovered from the fatigue of traveling, she awoke joyously, and, like a bird that the sun attracts, ran to the window of her room.
The apartments the Russian nobleman occupied at the Grand Hotel looked on to the boulevard. Although it was barely ten o'clock the sight it offered to Vera almost dazzled her. She had been for a long time under the charm when the body-servant of her master came to announce, in almost a ceremonious tone, that the prince was waiting luncheon for her.
"Waiting for me?" said the young girl. "I don't understand you, my good Yvan."
"I am only bringing the prince's message. The table is laid for two, and no visitor is expected."
After standing in astonishment for a moment, Vera dressed quickly and went to the husband of Lise Barineff.
He was looking through the newspapers, perhaps to distract his thoughts from the interview he had just had with his wife, perhaps, too, to hide his face. One of the sub-managers was standing at the door of the room, waiting for the order to serve the meal.
At the entrance of his traveling companion, Pierre Olsdorf rose, went forward to meet her, and said gallantly, offering his hand:
"Good-morning, dear child. How have you slept?"
Thinking she must have misunderstood what she had heard, the farmer's daughter looked round the room in surprise. There was nobody there but herself and the manager, who still stood motionless. It was she, after all, that the prince was speaking to.
Bending forward over the hand that was offered to her, Vera wished to press her lips to it, but Pierre Olsdorf, drawing her gently toward him, kissed her forehead, and said, pointing to the table laid for two:
"Has the journey made you lose your appetite?"
He drew her arm affectionately under his to lead her to the table, where she fell into, rather than seated herself on, the chair Yvan offered her.
Vera Soublaieff had never been more beautiful in her national costume. Emotion had given a more brilliant color to her face; her scarlet lips wore a childish smile full of charm, and her big eyes, with their long black lashes, seemed to question with simple trouble all that surrounded her.
She well remembered that the prince had always been gentle and kind to her, as he was to all his servants, but she had never sat at his table, and he had never paid her such attentions as these.
Was not all this a continuance of her dream? Was she really awake yet?
The nobleman recalled his beautiful guest to the reality by begging her to partake of each of the dishes that the manager offered her; but Vera, who blushed at being waited on, scarcely eat anything at all. She was forced to admit the evidence of her senses; it was really she, the daughter of Soublaieff, who was there, opposite her lord and master.
The thought of the princess then came suddenly to her mind. She wondered why she had not yet seen her, why the prince had not taken her to his wife, and why she was not with her husband.
An instinctive fear seized upon her. She rose suddenly, and clasping her hands, her eyes filling with tears, said, in a supplicating voice:
"Pierre Alexandrowich, what have I done that you should ridicule me so? What is your will with me, your servant?"
The young girl had spoken in Russian, adding, as is the custom, to the first name of the prince the first name of his father. Pierre Olsdorf, in his turn, was for the moment taken by surprise.
He told the manager to leave the room, sent away Yvan with a gesture, and going to Vera, said in a tender voice:
"What is the matter, child? Why are you so agitated? How could you think that I wished to ridicule you?"
He had led her to a sofa, on which she sunk, trembling.
The prince went on, seating himself beside her:
"You are the daughter of an old retainer, for whom I have a great esteem and affection. That in itself should reassure you. When I told your father I wished to bring you to Paris, he did not ask me for what object. He knew, and he knows, that you have nothing to fear while you are with me; that your honor is guarded by mine. I need your devoted, complete, and blind aid. I must not tell you why; young as you are, you will understand these things only too soon. It will be for me then to thank you and prove my gratitude. Until then do not question me; be surprised at nothing, no matter what I may require of you, or how strange and inexplicable the scenes may seem to be in which you will take part. I have chosen you to help me in accomplishing the end I aim at because you are young, beautiful, intelligent, and worthy of respect."
Her fine eyes, still tearful, fixed on her master's, Vera listened and scarcely understood the meaning of his words; but her calmness had returned. She was no longer frightened, and when the prince asked if he could count upon her obedience she took his hand and kissed it, replying:
"Your servant is your property. Do with her as you please."
At this moment there was a tap at the door, and Yvan entered with a letter for his master which a commissionaire had brought.
In it the princess told her husband that she was awaiting his instructions and was ready to follow them.
"Dear child," said Pierre Olsdorf to Vera as soon as they were again alone together, "the moment for action has come sooner than I looked for it. To-morrow we shall leave this hotel. Meanwhile dry your eyes and go for a drive with Yvan to see Paris, that you were so happy in the thought of visiting."
The prince pressed the young girl's hands gently, and left her still somewhat moved, but no longer alarmed. Fear had yielded to curiosity.
Pierre Olsdorf and Vera met again in the evening at dinner, and the meal was almost a merry one. Yvan had driven his countrywoman to the Champs Elysées, the Bois de Boulogne, and the Jardin d'Acclimation; and the daughter of Soublaieff, who had only seen St. Petersburg and the great park at Pampeln, was so astonished at what she beheld that, encouraged by the approving smile of her master, she told him with enthusiasm about all she had seen. At the end of the evening when she had retired to rest, she slipped into the large bed with a sort of indefinable pleasure after linking the name of the prince with that of God in her prayers.
Next day Pierre and Soublaieff's daughter were able to move into some charming rooms in the Rue Auber, in consequence of the sudden departure for St. Petersburg of the Countess Panine. She was charmed to be able to let Prince Olsdorf have her furnished rooms, leaving him, too, her cook and her maid, who, on account of her health, could not go with her mistress to Russia. In this way, within twenty-four hours, the prince had his house on a comfortable footing.
Thenceforward began for Vera a life she had never dreamed of, surprise following surprise. Every morning in waking her, Julie, the lady's maid, brought her flowers from the prince, and almost every day there was some present or other offered by himself—a jewel, or fan, or one of those costly gewgaws, which are so thoroughly identified with Parisian luxury.
Moreover, Soublaieff's daughter must abandon herself to the dress-makers, who took possession of her, acting under orders; and the surprises for her grew more frequent and complete as she saw herself, a child of the people, clothed ordinarily, in holland or wool, a fine lady robed in silk and velvet. Obedient, as she had promised to be, she made no difficulties; she murmured her thanks and was passive. But one evening, when, being dressed—the prince had told her they were going out together—she saw herself covered with diamonds, in a long gown of white satin terminating in a train, her luxuriant dark hair twisted up above the neck instead of hanging in thick plaits, she scarcely knew herself.
However, with the singular faculty of adaptation that all women have, Vera was neither awkward nor strange in a part so new for her; she played it with simplicity and admirably. Up to now she had been adorably pretty; the transformation made her strikingly beautiful.
When she was seen at the opera this evening a murmur of admiration ran through the house. Everybody's eyes turned to her, but she was almost unconscious of them, being wholly given up to the brilliant scene on the stage, which was the first thing of the kind she had seen. Seated behind her, Pierre seemed to delight in her triumph, and on his arm the young girl descended the grand staircase, passing through the crowd amid a flattering murmur.
Next morning all the papers spoke of the new and resplendent star that had shone out in the Parisian sky. They did not know her name, but they gave the prince's, adding significantly that the princess was not with her husband.
Pierre Olsdorf had gained the end he had in view in showing himself at the theater with Soublaieff's daughter. In the eyes of the scandal-mongers the prince was simply taking his revenge. He retorted upon his wife and Paul Meyrin by parading one of the most ravishing mistresses imaginable.
However, amid the luxury that surrounded her, in the whirl of this new life which still occasioned her some little fear, there was one thing that Vera could not understand, and that was the strange bearing of the prince toward her. Complete as her ignorance was of life and its passions, his conduct struck her more and more, putting into her mind thoughts which troubled her and her virginity of soul.
Before the servants, or when they were together in public exposed to the curious looks of everybody, Pierre Olsdorf was eager in attentions, tender, and happy; while as soon as he was alone with her, though still affectionate and kind, he grew serious and almost cold.
Vera could not understand these sudden changes. She had never said to herself that her master might love her, and indeed his love would have frightened her, although she was full of affection for him and ready for any sacrifice. The conduct of the prince was most strange of an evening when they came in from a stroll on the boulevards.
Her chamber was separated from his by a bath-room alone. From the one chamber access could be had to the other. When the time came, Julie undressed her young mistress, put her to bed, and then went to tell the prince, waiting in a sitting-room hard by, that madame had retired.
Prince Olsdorf appeared almost immediately, closed the door softly behind him, walked gently through the room as if afraid of disturbing the young girl, wished good-night to Vera by a friendly gesture, not going near her ever, and so went into his own room.
Vera whose heart beat more quickly as the prince passed through her room, would soon fall asleep, but her slumber was sometimes troubled by strange thrills, indefinite thoughts, and modest fears.
For nearly a month this had gone on. The prince had had a final interview with his wife to arrange everything in conformity with his design, when one evening, he having taken the farmer's beautiful daughter to the Vaudeville Theatre, it was past midnight when they got back home.
Pierre Olsdorf had never been more affectionate and attentive. They walked back from the theater. When he offered his arm to the young girl as they started for the Rue Auber, going by the boulevard and the Place de l'Opera, she had to summon all her strength to master the beating of her heart, which threatened to betray her by its violent throbs.
Vera could no longer hide the truth from herself. She loved, with a timid and chaste but deep love, the man who for some weeks had shared her life. She did not ask of herself now what he wished to do with her. She cared little. She saw him every day, almost every hour, and she had but one fear—that she might awaken from this delicious dream.
As for the prince, he seemed uneasy, preoccupied, and impatient.
When they had got back to the house, Vera, as usual, went to her room, whither Julie followed her. In a few minutes she was in bed, feverish and thrilling, for Pierre, before she left him, had kissed her with a sort of passionate tenderness which had troubled her deeply. At the long, close touch of his lips on her forehead the sweet virginal eyes had closed, and she had nearly fainted.
Scarcely a quarter of an hour had passed, when the door of her room opened.
It was the prince. As usual, no doubt, he would walk through the room to his own, and Vera was smiling already in reply to the "good-night" that he always waved to her as he walked by, when the husband of Lise Barineff, instead of going on his way, approached the bed and seated himself on the chair near it, on which, in womanly disorder, warm and fragrant, was heaped the silken dressing-gown which the young girl had just thrown off.
Vera, greatly surprised, half raised herself, adorably beautiful in this movement of chaste trust; and, in reply to the questioning look in her large eyes, Pierre Olsdorf said, taking her hand:
"Do not fear, dear child; listen to me."
"Oh, I am not afraid," she said, with innocent trust, leaving her little trembling hand in the prince's.
Pierre, more moved than he was willing to seem, went on:
"The moment has come for you to give me a great proof of your devotion. In a few moments something will happen here which will seem inexplicable to you—an event in which you will play the chief part. What I desire of you is that you will be surprised at nothing, that you will obey me blindly, and not be afraid whatever may happen."
"I don't understand you," murmured the young girl, "but I promise to do all you wish me to do."
Vera's hand was as cold as ice; all the blood had rushed to her heart.
A bell ringing violently and suddenly made her tremble.
The prince had risen from his seat and was listening, but he did not move away.
Yvan, who had not gone to bed, had answered the bell, for the footsteps of several people were heard in the antechamber, where the unexpected visitors were parleying with the servant.
"Remember what I have just told you," Pierre said, rapidly, to Soublaieff's daughter.
And, quickly taking off his coat, he sat on the side of the bed, and leaned toward Vera as if to kiss her.
At that moment the door of the bed-chamber was opened abruptly, and the poor child, who had stifled a cry of surprise at the prince's action, instinctively threw her bare arms about his neck, as if to protect him or to beg for his help and protection.
Pierre Olsdorf drew himself gently from the embrace and turned round.
He was before three strangers, one of whom, plainly the chief actor in this singular scene, said to him, politely uncovering:
"Monsieur, you are Prince Pierre Olsdorf?"
"That is my name," the Russian nobleman replied at once, with the greatest calmness.
"I am the commissary of police of this district, delegated by the Juge d'Instruction Leroy to prove against you an act of adultery, by virtue of Article 1307 of the Code Civile. The law directs me to summon hither Madame la Princess, at whose petition process has been issued."
Lise Barineff, who was waiting in the next room, came forward, accompanied by the commissary of police's secretary.
The princess was pale and trembling. She looked as if she would faint.
"Madame," said the police agent, "is this gentleman your husband?"
"Yes," stammered the guilty wife, raising her eyes.
"Very good, madame; you may retire."
It was none too soon. Lise Olsdorf could hardly stand, though she was leaning against the side of the door-way. She had stifled a cry of surprise.
She had recognized Vera Soublaieff in the young girl lying in the bed of this room, and she felt a jealous pang at her heart, while her pride was cruelly humiliated at the same time.
So it was the daughter of one of his farmers whom Pierre Olsdorf had chosen to play the part of his mistress in this domestic drama. Before Vera, who knew her, and whose humble homage she had so often received, she must bow the head! Ah, it was too much; and she had been a stupid simpleton up to now in regarding her husband's conduct as chivalrous. He was but a man like other men; he had eagerly snatched at the chance to gratify a caprice no doubt of long standing. Who could say? Perhaps she had been first deceived.
She had, of course, heard and read in the newspapers that Prince Olsdorf was openly to be seen in Paris with an adorable young girl; but, forced to go out very rarely by reason of the stir that her divorce made and the victim's part that she had to play, she had never met the two lovers. As for Paul Meyrin, it can easily be surmised that he was careful not to show himself where he might be face to face with the man whose wife, by his order, he was to marry.
Lise Barineff, therefore, had no reason to expect to surprise Vera Soublaieff in her husband's arms; and the sight of this young girl, who had so often stooped to kiss her hand, was well fitted, in the actual circumstances of the scene, to make her forget her own fault and to rouse all her pride.
These thoughts made her raise her head, and very likely she would have smiled scornfully upon Vera, but that a look from Pierre Olsdorf reminded her of the shame of her situation and commanded her retreat.
She obeyed.
"My only further duty, prince," the commissary of police then continued, "is to draw up my report witnessing as against you the presence of a concubine in the conjugal dwelling, to make the search prescribed by the law, and to expel your accomplice from this room."
Vera, whom astonishment and fear had up to now made silent, could not keep back a cry of indignation at this threat. Her innocence could not now hinder her from understanding the truth. She the mistress of Prince Olsdorf!
With an affectionate gesture he reassured her and enjoined silence, and the unhappy girl, blushing deeply, fell upon the bed hiding in the pillows her face bathed in tears.
Pierre Olsdorf replied to the commissary of police that he would submit to all that was needful to be done.
After casting a glance around the room where this scene had passed, the commissary passed into the adjoining room to dictate to his secretary the report in which it was stated that in a bed-chamber of his house, Prince Olsdorf had been found with a young girl who had lived with him for more than a month and, that being questioned, the prince had not denied the allegation of adultery made against him.
An intelligent and well-known officer, the commissary felt that no search was necessary. Instinctively, perhaps, he suspected that he was not witnessing an ordinary conjugal drama, and he was willing to confine himself to doing what was strictly needful.
His report having been revised, read over to the prince, and countersigned by the two witnesses, the functionary took his leave without returning to the bed-chamber, where Vera taking literally the threat that had been made about her, had risen and dressed hurriedly without asking herself what was to become of her or where she would find shelter.
When Pierre Olsdorf, returning to the young girl, found her half dressed, sobbing, and nearly distracted with shame, he suddenly felt the wrong that he had done this unconscious maiden; he understood how cruel and blamable his conduct toward her had been.
The fact was that his actions had grown one out of the other by a chain of fatal logic. He could not bear—he, the irreproachable husband up to now—to pass for the lover of the first girl he could find, easy as it would have been to put his hand on one in Paris to play the part he would have had to offer her in this singular adventure. If he could have made up his mind to the association with so vile an accomplice, perhaps no one would have believed in his guilt, or would have found it very excusable. He wished, on the contrary, to appear doubly culpable, and had taken upon himself the responsibility of an act doubly blameworthy, legally and morally, for he could be accused not only of adultery but of the seduction and abduction of a young girl over whom he had, in some sort, authority, and whose innocence and beauty would be cause enough for his passion and forgetfulness of duty.
Now the prince thought no more of all these reasons for his course of action; he saw only the despair of this child, dishonored though pure, and, deeply sorrowing, struck too, perhaps, for the first time by her adorable beauty, he sprung toward her, drew her into his arms, and, pressing her feverishly to his heart, said tenderly:
"Vera, calm yourself and think no more of going away. I will very soon explain everything; but will you ever pardon me?"
Soublaieff's daughter let her head sink on the prince's shoulder, murmuring:
"Are you not the master: am not I the slave?"
CHAPTER X.
THE INQUIRY.
While following with absolute obedience the instructions of her husband, the Princess Olsdorf still felt so deeply humiliated by the vileness of the part she had to play that now and again she had thoughts of rebelling. But she knew the character of the prince, she knew that nothing would shake his purpose, and above all she remembered the terrible calmness with which he had said: "If for any reason whatever Monsieur Paul Meyrin does not marry you, I will kill him."
Feeling, then, that she must go forward to the end marked out for her, she had bowed the head and sought forgetfulness in the arms of her lover, whom the most ordinary conventionalities bade her to meet only in secret. Her passion had gained from this unusual mystery a sort of acuteness which gave it an unreal strength, under which she hid from herself the uneasiness she felt. However, she was anxious that an end should be made; she feared what might happen, believing it impossible that there should not be new troubles in store.
She well knew, too, that there were yet many trials to encounter before the decree of divorce would be won.
As for Paul, who still seemed passionately enamored of her, he left his family in ignorance of what was going on, putting off to the last moment the announcement of his approaching marriage.
Meanwhile things followed their legal course, and one morning the princess received from a delegate of the Russian Consistory a summons to appear before him.
To simplify matters, it is needful here to sketch the process to be followed in Russia upon the presentation of a petition for divorce.
As civil marriages are not recognized in the empire of the czars, the ecclesiastical authorities are charged with the trial of cases of divorce, pronouncing or refusing a decree. The authority is made up of two jurisdictions, the Consistory and the Holy Synod. The Consistory is a kind of preliminary tribunal, or rather a court of inquiry and investigation. The Holy Synod is a permanent grand council, invested with every authority in religious matters throughout the schismatical Greek Church of the Russian Empire. The Holy Synod is made up of metropolitans, archbishops, a procurator-general and secretaries. Its seat is at St. Petersburg, whence it governs the affairs spiritual of the empire and the financial business of the Church. It has authority over all prelates and consistories. It exercises a censure over religious books and pamphlets, and enjoys a very wide-reaching power in civil matters, notably in all matrimonial cases. The head procurator who governs it represents the emperor, but it is an error to believe that the Holy Synod obeys the orders of the czar. The autocrat of all the Russias is not, as is often said, at one and the same time emperor and pope in his vast kingdom. He, as well as his people, is subject in religious matters to the ecclesiastical authority of the Holy Synod.
The injured party must address his or her complaint to the Consistory. This first tribunal examines the facts, and if it finds in them primâ facie a case for divorce, it tries first of all to reconcile the petitioner and respondent, summoning them before it, and seeking to persuade the one to pardon and the other to return to the path of duty.
Not until it has failed in this attempt at reconciliation does the Consistory inform the Holy Synod of the petition that has been made to it, and it is only after a long and careful examination that the higher court will pronounce the decree of divorce, inflicting upon the guilty one at the same time a religious penance and celibacy.
The penance may be a stay of several months in a convent, but the condemned one can easily escape from the enforced retirement by the payment of a sum of money. As for the decree of celibacy, the emperor alone, on the recommendation of the Holy Synod, can abrogate it; but if authority is sometimes given to a divorced husband to marry again, the grace is always withheld from a guilty wife. A woman can marry a second time only in case of the decree having been pronounced against her first husband, or when the separation has been without stain upon the honor of the husband or wife; for instance, in case of incompatibility of temper, or of certain infirmities duly provided for by the civil code.
Formerly, it is true, matters of the kind were managed among the Russians with greater simplicity. The husband and wife who longed for a separation went out of their house holding a piece of linen or other thin stuff, each of them having an end of it. So they went to the nearest public square and pulled till the piece of stuff parted. Then they went each their way: they were divorced.
Unhappily for the Princess Olsdorf this was no longer the practice; the summons of the delegate of the Consistory recalled the fact to her. She knew that she would again be brought face to face with her husband, to accuse him of having been unfaithful to her; and, though the lesson had been taught her, and mortifying as was the memory she had of the encounter with the beautiful Vera Soublaieff in the Rue Auber, still, it is not hard to suppose, she dreaded not being able to support her petition with due firmness.
The arch-priest of the Russian Church in Paris was at this period the Pope Joseph Wasilieff, an old man full of wit and kindness. Husband and wife must appear before him. After receiving the plaint of the Princess Olsdorf, the Consistory of St. Petersburg had sent a commission of inquiry to the venerable priest of the Rue Daru.
On the day and at the hour indicated Lise Olsdorf attended at Pope Wasilieff's. The prince had been there a few minutes. On entering the room where the priest awaited her, the guilty wife saw her husband; she hesitated and fell back a pace, but a look from Pierre Olsdorf made her understand that, not shrinking or pausing, she must play her part to its last line.
"Madame la Princess," said the venerable Joseph Wasilieff, "I am charged by the Consistory to question you on the facts you have reported to it, and I must also, in conformity with the law as well as in pursuance of my duty as a minister, ask you if you persist in your petition. Before you reply to me, let me urge how generous it would be on your part to forget the outrage you have suffered. Pardon it—for the honor of the name you still bear, for the sake of your children's future. You would know how to win again your husband's heart and you would avoid a great scandal."
Pale and trembling Lise Olsdorf found not a word to say. Leaning back in the deep chair in which she was seated she remained there silent and with downcast eyes.
"As for you, prince," the pope went on, "you can not hide from yourself the gravity of the sin you have been guilty of. The sin is doubly to be condemned in that your accomplice in it was a young girl over whom you had the authority of a master, and whom you carried off from her father to give her in your house the position that your legitimate wife alone has the right to fill. I am convinced that if you would but express the regret that you should feel for your past conduct, Madame la Princess would pardon you."
"Forgive me, holy father," said Pierre Olsdorf with great deference but in a firm tone, "if I can not follow you in the way of conciliation that you are so good as to point out to madame and me. Things have come to such a pass that we can not either of us retrace our steps. It would be best, I think, to shorten this scene, which is equally painful to both of us. What you reproach me with imposes upon me an obligation which my honor, and of it I am the only judge, will not allow me to shrink from."
Pope Wasilieff did not think he ought to insist further. Perhaps he knew more of the facts than the princess imagined. He said, then, addressing her:
"It only remains for me, madame, to put to you this question: Do you persist in your petition?"
"I persist, holy father," replied Lise Olsdorf, in a stifled voice.
"Then you may retire. With deep sorrow I shall inform the Consistory at St. Petersburg of the defeat of my attempts to reconcile the prince and you."
The princess rose and walked out of the room, lowering her veil. Soon afterward she reached her home, at the moment that her husband arrived at the house in the Rue Auber, where the daughter of his farmer Soublaieff still was.
The pretty Vera was greatly changed. Since the night when she played a part so completely unforeseen by her, everything had tended to add to her uneasiness—the events that succeeded this evening and were not without mystery for her, and also the bearing of the prince toward her.
It will be remembered that, on returning to the bed-chamber where the commissary of police had appeared to bear witness against him as having been found in flagrante delicto, the prince had asked for Vera's forgiveness, and that she, letting her head sink upon his shoulder, replied: "Are not you the master; am not I the slave?"
This was more than an act of submission to his will on the part of the young girl; it was an avowal of the passion that had seized on her wholly, and against which she did not try to struggle—out of the deep love to which her very innocence delivered her without defense.
Chaste as her abandon was to the feeling, the prince was deeply moved by it. He remembered that a few minutes earlier, when the knocking came at the door of the bedroom, and she feared some danger for him, Vera had wound her arms about his neck.
He had gently drawn himself from the embrace and had done his best to calm the poor child by telling her there was nothing to fear. Then, calling her maid, he had begged her to go to bed again.
As usual, Vera obeyed his wish, but it was easy to guess what a wretched night she had passed.
The prince went to his room, and there, thinking over what had happened, he soon grew very discontented with himself, though he had gained the end he had aimed at. But had he been right in choosing as his accomplice this maiden who was now irretrievably compromised, and in whose heart he could not doubt that he had awakened a feeling which he was forbidden to return? What answer could he make to Soublaieff, her father, who had trusted to the honor of his master, when he asked for an account of the honor and happiness of his daughter? Had not he done everything to persuade Vera of his love for her, and was not it his duty now to undeceive her? But what would she think of him then?
Must he tell her that she had been nothing but a tool in his hands, to be broken and cast aside when she was of no further use? He felt he could not tell her this. But if he were silent, if he left Vera to her illusions, her love would grow with each day, and inevitably the time would come when he must yield to this love or speak out. Pierre Olsdorf was too honorable a man to think of making this young girl his mistress, and as, at the same time, he was full of tenderness for, and gratitude toward her, he dreaded the infliction of a cruel wound in telling her the truth.
Moreover, his pride as a nobleman revolted from the thought of taking as a confidante of his dishonor the daughter of one of his tenants. And then, how could he tell her what had passed between him and the princess? In what words could he explain to an innocent girl the outrage he had been the victim of? Was there not, too, some danger for the success of his plan in acquainting Vera with the part he had made her play? Would not she refuse indignantly to continue her rôle, and would not she, in the course of the inquiry that was to be held, betray by her bearing, if not in words, the real situation in which she had been placed?
Troubled by all these doubts, Pierre Olsdorf cast himself on his bed to seek a few hours' rest. He had come to no decision by the next morning, when his valet came to say that breakfast was served.
Not knowing what he should say or do, he went to the breakfast-room, where Vera awaited him. Seeing her white and trembling, in his remorse he thought only of comforting her with tender words.
"Dear child," he said, pressing her little hands in his, "will you give me a fresh proof of your devotion?"
Vera's only reply was a smile, which told the prince, better than any words could have done, how completely he might count on her.
Pierre continued:
"This fresh proof that I require of you is not to question me on the events of last night, to be calm, not to doubt me, and to have full confidence in the future. The mysterious trial that my selfishness has condemned you to must last some weeks longer. During this time we shall not be separated; we shall still live the life in common that we have lived since our arrival in Paris; you will still be my dear, my tenderly loved daughter. Do you consent to this?"
"I will do all that you wish," said the young girl, lifting her eyes to his. "I will ask no questions; I will wait. But, my father—"
Pierre Olsdorf could not but tremble slightly. He went on quickly:
"I will tell Soublaieff what it is needful for him to know, that he may continue to love and respect you as you deserve. In the future every one will respect and love you as I do; I will not fail in my duty to you. Meanwhile, I want you to go out, to amuse yourself, and be as happy as possible."