"But who, then, was Ivan?"
Madame de Fersen's features darkened, and she answered me, with a sigh: "Ivan was one of our relatives who died quite young,"—she hesitated a moment,—"died a violent and frightful death two years ago. Irene had become so attached to him that I was almost jealous. I can hardly tell you of the incredible grief of this child when she no longer saw Ivan, for whom she asked incessantly. She was then four years old, and so deep was her sorrow that she fell seriously ill, and came nigh unto death. At this time it was that I dedicated her to the wearing of white, and implored God to spare her to me. But what astonishes me exceedingly, is that, for the past two years, you are the only person to whom Irene has said that she would love him."
Irene, who had listened to her mother with all attention, now took my hand, and, with an almost inspired air, she raised to heaven her eyes still wet with tears, and said:
"Yes, I shall love him like Ivan, for soon he will go up there, like Ivan."
"Irene, my child, what are you saying? Ah, pardon her, monsieur!" cried Madame de Fersen, almost with terror, looking at me with an imploring glance.
"Were I even to purchase it with the same end as poor Ivan," said I, smiling, "allow me, madame, the enjoyment of so touching an affection."
I am neither weak nor superstitious, but I can hardly describe the strange impression produced upon me by this childish speech which I will explain presently. There is no half-way. Such incidents are either of the utmost absurdity, or they act powerfully on certain minds.
By a happy chance, M. de Fersen came in at this moment to beg his wife to accompany him in a vaudeville song, and thus a strange scene came to an end.
I noticed that Madame de Fersen did not mention to her husband the strange declaration that Irene had made me.
That day, after dinner, the princess complained of a bad headache, and retired to her room.