“Nineteen months. He died on the 23d of February, 1877—three weeks after the last letter that I ever got from him.”
“But how—but how did you never know?” said May, wildly.
“Was it not cruel? The despotism of the White Czar! Sometimes they would keep his letters for a year, sometimes they would let them come directly. They would not let me know for fear that I—ah, God!” She sprang to her feet with a sweep of her long robe, and shook her jewelled finger at the chandelier.
“Can you blame us that we kill and die for such a despotism, such a tyranny, as that?” Then suddenly, as she crossed by a sofa, she straightened up to her full height, like a wave cresting, poised a brief second, then fell in a heap—a graceful heap—her head resting on the sofa in her hands.
Then the young man had to seek, not to console her, but to calm her, to lift her from the floor, to bring her ice-water, a fan, a feather, pour oil and salt upon the wound, toilet-vinegar, or other salads. May never knew exactly what he did; but it was like consoling an equinoctial gale. Hardly had she got fairly calm, and sobbing comfortably, and sitting in a chair, and he beside her—and he remembered patting her clasped hands, as one does a spoiled child’s—when she would dash upright, upsetting the chair, and swear her vengeance on the cruel Czar.... And at this point in his reminiscences May winced a little; for he had by no means a distinct recollection that he had not sworn his vengeance on the Czar with hers. And, when you come to think of it, the Czar’s injuries to Mr. May cried not as yet for deeds of blood.
III.
DIDO AND ÆNEAS.
May repeated his visit of condolence every day for several weeks. At the end of that time the season at Baden-Baden was drawing to a close, and it became necessary that the countess should betake herself and her sorrowing heart to some other refuge. May knew this, and it troubled him.
For he now felt that he not only admired Mme. de Valska as a patriot, but that he loved her as an exceedingly beautiful and fascinating woman. Surely, here was the heroine of his youthful dreams—a life that were a poet’s ideal.
To link himself with her and her noble aims, to be a Byron without the loneliness, to combine fame in future history with present domestic bliss—what a career!
He loved the countess, he adored her; and he fancied that she deigned to be not indifferent to his devotion, to his sympathy. But—there was the shadow of the late count.