I was speechless.… All the details of the attempt of Merovitch, which I had heard ten years ago from my old grandmother, memory brought back vividly.
Bending towards her, I took her hand, the one that had just fired at me, and pressed it with emotion.
“Speak! speak!” whispered I.
“I could no longer remain in Russia,” she continued in a strange hurried voice. “For ten years I’ve wandered in all directions. I lived in the nunneries of Volhynie and Lithuania. I tended the sick and afflicted. A year ago, residing on the borders of the Volga, I first heard about the Princess Tarakanova, Dame D’Azow, and Wladimirskaya. Persons, quite unknown to me, called me to her side. You can understand how I longed to be near her. I tried to get an interview with her. Furnished with means by those same unknown persons, I first made the acquaintance of the Princess by letter, and then personally at Ragusa. I instinctively believed her. Oh! I did wish her happiness. Retribution for the past! I took care of her, taught her her native language and history, counselled her, informed her on all points. I followed her everywhere. After her departure from Ragusa to Rome, I wrote to her, exhorted her to take care. I was so convinced of her high destiny. You know the rest.… What was my horror when I heard she was arrested! But I shall remain at Livorno. I shall wait.… Oh! the Livornians will set her free! But tell me, what do you think of her? Are you also convinced she is no Pretender, but really the daughter of the Empress Elizabeth?”
“I can neither affirm nor deny.”
“But I am convinced. That idea is entwined round my heart, and I cannot abandon it.”
My visitor rose. Having thrown her veil over her head, she fixed her eyes upon me, pressed my hand, and, looking as though she wished to say something more, with faltering steps she took her leave.
“You are good; you are compassionate,” said she, turning round on reaching the garden gate. “Till better times!”
I saw this mysterious person once or twice. I went to her by invitation. She was living in a small asteria, at the sign of “The Lily,” within the walls of the convent of the Ursulines, whither she had taken refuge. She still hoped that the Princess might be saved, in England or in Holland, which our squadron had to pass.
“She—the persecuted—she is sent from Heaven to resuscitate her birthland,” constantly repeated Polixena, at our last meeting. “I believe in her. She will not be lost. She will be saved!”