“Yes, yes, a trap,” said he with a cynical laugh. Then in a tone that seemed in keeping with the frivolous atmosphere that surrounded us:
“Countess,” he continued, “has it ever happened to you to go wrong in some well-known quotation? To begin, for instance, with one author, and to end with another?”
“I do not understand,” I stammered, perplexed by the strangeness of his manner. “What—what do you mean?”
Vassili was approaching, and Alexis with a scornful laugh raised his voice slightly as he spoke. “Because to-night,” he said, “a misquotation of that kind keeps ringing through my brain. “Ave, Maria!... Morituri te salutant!”
Vassili stood beside us and heard the words with a puzzled smile.
“Morituri?” he said, holding out his hand to Bozevsky with a frank and friendly gesture. “Morituri? Indeed I hope not.”
Bozevsky took his hand and looked him in the face. Vassili returned his gaze; then, with an impulsive gesture, in true Russian fashion, my husband bent forward and kissed him on both cheeks.
No! no, it was not a trap! From the depths of my broken heart, from my inmost consciousness, there springs up this protest on behalf of him who on that fatal evening wrecked my life. I know that it was an impulse of his fervent heart that impelled Vassili to open his arms to the man whom an hour before he had hated—and whom an hour later he slew.
No; it was not a trap.