"Why so?" asked the emperor.
"Because we look on it as an ill omen to write by artificial light when it is daylight."
"What conclusion do you draw from that?"
"I, sire?... I do not infer anything from it."
"But I do. I understand. You think that people passing by, seeing the light inside, will imagine there has been a death in in the house."
"Exactly so, sire."
"Ah, well, take away the candles."
The emperor did not seem to take any notice of his valet's observations, but the incident remained in his mind.
As we have already noted, he left the city of St. Petersburg at four in the morning of 13 September, just as the sun began to rise.
He stopped his carriage, and stood looking back at the city of the Czar Peter, plunged in deep sadness, as though warned by some inward voice that he was looking upon it for the last time. The emperor had spent the previous night in prayer, both in the convent of Saint-Alexandre Nevsky and in the cathedral of Kasan. In the monastery he had an interview, lasting nearly an hour, with the monks and the metropolitan Seraphin. The latter related a story to the emperor of a monk of his convent who had voluntarily submitted himself to a life of the most scrupulous austerity by shutting himself up in a hollow place, scooped out of the thick walls of the convent, where he meant to pass all his remaining days. In spite of the lateness of the hour, the emperor asked to be taken to this monk's cell, and talked with him for nearly twenty minutes.