“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.