The Muscovites whispered loudly that the new nun was the daughter of the late Empress Elizabeth, by her secret husband Razoumovski.
What emotions the count underwent, are only known to himself.
“It is she! it is she!” he would murmur in his agitation, not knowing that his victim, the Princess Tarakanova, still hopelessly languished in the fortress. “It can be no one else; of course not. She has renounced everything, she has submitted, she has taken the veil.”
Thoughts of the newly-arrived captive troubled him so much that he even avoided driving in the street where the convent was, and if this were impossible, he would avoid looking up at the windows.
“Traitor, murderer!” would resound in his ears, on recollecting his last interview with the Princess. In bitter anguish he would remember every detail of that interview, when she had loaded him with curses, stamped at him, spat in his face, and passionately flung at him whatever came near her hand. Once, when the Prince Volkonski had paid him an unofficial visit, to see over his stables and horses, Chesmenski tried to bring the conversation round to the Princess. They had returned from their walk to the stables, and were taking tea. The count began in a roundabout way to refer to foreign and home news, and rumours, and then, as if merely en passant, asked who the person was whom report said had been brought to the convent?
“Why do you ask that?” suddenly interrupted the prince, Michael Nikititch.
“What?” asked the bewildered Chesmenski.
“Nothing!” answered Volkonski, turning round, and looking aimlessly out of the window. “I was just recollecting a little Petersburg incident, that happened last year at Court.”
“What incident? Honour me, Batiushka Prince!” said the count, with a smile and a bow. “You see, here I hear nothing and see nothing of the new, curious, and to us very often incomprehensible occurrences in the court regions?”