With the departure of their Majesties the tongues of the guests were once more let loose, and the little Countess Vera, flitting across the wide hall, stops long enough beside the grave keen-eyed State minister, who in the guise of an elephant had graced her costume ball, to say, in a half whisper, and with a mocking smile:
"Well, monsieur, and were you present at the famous marriage function this morning? Was ever man so lucky as ce cher Ivor?—if it be luck to win so cold and cheerless a bride as Olga Naundorff. For my part, I could think of no one save that unfortunate Vladimir, whose shrift I hear is to be short enough. No trial for him, poor soul! He has played his game but ill, and we know, monsieur, you and I, what fate awaits one who has played to win for the Chancellerie and—lost. It's a dreary march to Siberia, even in the best of company; what must it be then when one's companion is a murderer by confession? Hélas, poor Vladimir, you should not have failed; for to failure Patouchki is implacable, and for failure Russia can punish silently and surely. And so ends the farce, monsieur, or was it tragedy? But let me whisper one word—let him laugh loudest who wins last. There are evil days in store for Ivor, or I am no true prophet; and for his bride? Bah! she will get but what she deserves; I will leave her fate in the hands of the gods, whose mills, we are told, 'grind slowly, but with justice grind they all.' And, after all, her beauty will not last. Sans adieu, monsieur, à tantôt."
Then with another laugh the little Countess flew away, and was lost in the undulations of the crowd.
A second day's journey had begun for Ivor and his bride; the afternoon was already closing down upon them, as they halted at a small post-house where a relay of fresh horses awaited them. Ivor sprang out, glad to exercise his cramped limbs and light a cigarette; but Olga remained within the sleigh, buried in her costly wraps of fur.
There was some little delay, and as she sat alone, half lost in a retrospective dream, she was suddenly aroused by the dull clank of arms and the regular tread of marching feet. Leaning forward she looked out, and saw coming towards her a party of men and women, who trod wearily, with downcast heads, and hopeless hanging hands, and whose every step was accompanied by the monotonous clank of steel chains. As she gazed upon them she realised their situation and their destiny. They were Russian criminals, arrested by Russian law, on their way to Siberia and the mines.
Instinctively she drew back, shivering; as she did so the foremost detachment of prisoners came into line with her sleigh. At that moment a halt was called, to enable the officers in charge to refresh themselves at the bar of the post-house.
Once more Olga leant forward; her heart beat rapidly, her breath came quick and short, she clasped her hands together passionately, and as her white face gleamed out from the heavy sables surrounding it, one of the prisoners, he who was nearest to her, lifted his head, and thrust back as well as he could with his manacled hand, the peaked hat that shaded his forehead.
As he did so he turned his head slowly towards her, and in the dark haggard face, the burning feverish eyes, Olga beheld the countenance of Vladimir Mellikoff!
Fascinated, she gazed upon it, her own face blanched, her eyes wild with horror. She tried to speak, to call out, to break the cruel band of silence that held her as in a vice. It was useless. No words would come, no sound, no cry.