“The Princess!” said I, to Christianok. “We must follow and find out where she goes.”
We called a cab,[33] and followed her. The carriage, its blinds drawn down, rapidly passed through several streets, bowled out into the Corso, and drew up at the door of the banker Jenkins. All was clear now; the magical key, the count’s cheque, had opened the door to the confiding and fearless beauty.
Another week passed, and still no news of the Princess. I had caught cold, and was obliged to keep indoors, but Christianok, who alone now watched the house, told me with great indignation that we had been made fools of, and nothing else; the Princess did not even think of going to Bologna. She had, as the emissary learnt, paid all her debts; the creditors and the police, who had threatened her with arrest, had been tranquillized, and had therefore left her at peace.
The house of Juani had wonderfully altered. Before the perron all day and late at night stood a whole crowd of carriages. The retinue of the Princess had again increased; she had taken the two floors of the vast house of Juani, and had ordered herself splendid toilettes. Again, as before, she was to be seen constantly driving out, visiting museums, galleries, paying and receiving visits: she kept open house.
At this very time Rome was especially lively; the new Pope was to be chosen in place of the late Clement XIV. In the evening the salons of the Princess were filled with the most celebrated painters, musicians, littérateurs, and high clergy. The “Unknown” in the black dress had not been seen for a long time. Once I had met her at the door of the house of Juani. On seeing me, she turned away impatiently, and, did I dream it?—said something in Russian. I just caught a glimpse of golden hair streaked with grey, and the angry flash of splendid grey eyes. The windows of the Princess were often open, and through them were heard the strains of the harp, on which she played artistically. A whole crowd of loiterers and beggars, always expecting her generous gratuities, surrounded the house from morning to night, and we could often hear them noisily applauding the splendid cavalcades of the Princess. I had quite recovered now, and could see for myself the Princess, as before, heedless, gay, now riding a spirited charger, flying like the wind along the squares, in the streets, now driving in an open carriage; always merry, always laughing. Involuntarily I felt glad for her, poor young thing, having, through me, because of her sex, found help and support in her dark days. One thing alone vexed me. Christianok, who had been given to me as an assistant, began to hint at the possible want of candour of the count towards me. Rome began to talk of the lovely Princess, just as Venice had talked, and even—though in the last days so bitter against her—Ragusa. Christianok, somehow or other, learnt that the banker Jenkins had paid her in the name of the count 10,000 ducats. The revived beauty spent the money she received with a lavish hand, never thinking that some day it would come to an end. I was once invited to one of her soirées; the Princess seemed a radiant sun among surrounding stars. She played on the harp with such feeling, that I was deeply moved. Of her departure, however, she said nothing. She merely remarked once, en passant, “Be easy; it will be all right.”
At the end of a few days, on the advice of Christianok, I wrote her a letter, reminding her of the count. The answer was very long in coming. We were lost in conjectures. At last I received a note from her, inviting me to meet her in the Church of Santa Maria dell’ Angela.
It was evening. I went silently into the dim church, which was filled with the odour of incense. Here and there flickered a taper before the picture of some saint. A mysterious silence seemed to fill the deserted obscurity of the columns and prie-dieux. In the loneliest corner, behind a high prie-dieu, with a prayer-book in one hand, stood, wrapped in a very elegant mantilla, a tall slender figure, veiled—I recognised the Princess.
“The wish for the welfare and happiness of my fatherland, and future subjects,” said she, bending her head over her prayer-book, “is so strong in me that I have decided to accept the invitation of the count. Before, he frightened me; I did not believe him. Now I have full confidence. You see, I have kept my word. To all my friends I have said that I am bidding adieu to the world; that for the rest of my life I am shutting myself up in a nunnery.—To you I will say something else.…”
She lingered, as though gathering strength.
“To-morrow I take my departure,” said she, in a dignified voice; “not for a convent, but with you for the Count Orloff’s. You will not deceive me; you will not betray me?”