“You have been at Wredna?” asked the Prince, in an altered voice.
But the other, not heeding the interruption, went on:
“I remember, when at Wredna, to have heard an anecdote which strikingly illustrates the rigid obedience yielded to power, and the condition of public opinion at the same time. A manumitted slave, who was raised to high rank and wealth by the favor of the Czar, had returned to Wredna in the capacity of governor. A short time after his arrival he was tormented by applications and letters from a woman in great poverty who asserted that she was his mother. Fedeorovna, of course in secret, proved the truth of her assertion; but the only answer she received was a significant caution to be silent, and not appeal to a relationship which could only prove offensive. Perhaps incredulous of the authentic character of so cruel a reply, perhaps stung to angry indignation by it, she carried the humble basket of fruit and vegetables that she hawked for a livelihood before the door of the great mansion where her son resided; but, instead of advertising her wares, as is customary in these Muscovite markets, by some picture of a saint or some holy inscription, she carried a little placard, with the inscription, 'The Mother of Alexovitch,' the name of the Governor. A crowd soon gathered around this singular booth, heralded by so strange an announcement, and as speedily the police resorted to the spot, and carried the offender before the judge. The defence was the simple one that she had merely averred the truth. I need not weary you with the mockery of investigation that followed; the result is all I need tell. This woman was knouted and sent away to Siberia. So much for the Governor. As for the governed, they were enthusiastic in praise of his justice and clemency; for he might have ordered her to be beheaded.”
“Do you tell the story as a fact, sir?” said the Prince, whose dark cheek became almost green in its sallowness as he spoke.
“I tell it distinctly as a fact. The Papa who received the woman's confession repeated the tale on his own deathbed, from whence it reached me.”
“Priests can be liars, whether Greek or Roman,” said the Prince, in a voice almost suffocated with passion; and then, suddenly checking the course of his anger, he turned to Kate with a sickly smile, and said, “Mademoiselle will pardon a rudeness in her presence which nothing short of so gross a calumny could have elicited.”
“I will furnish you with all the names to-morrow, Monsieur le Prince,” said D'Esmonde, in a whisper; and sauntered away into the adjoining room.
“You look pale, Miss Dalton,” said the Prince.
“That shocking story—”
“Which of course you don't believe.”