She. You knew me?
He. How could I have failed? A mask may hide your features, not your soul. There’s an air about you like the air that folds a star. A blind man knows the night, and feels the constellations. No coarse sense of eye or ear had made you plain to me. Through these I had not found you; for your eyes, as blue as violets of our Novgorod, look black behind your mask there, and your voice—I had not known that either. My heart said, “Pauline Pavlovna.”
She. Ah, your heart said that? You trust your heart then! ’Tis a serious risk! How is it you and others wear no mask?
He. The Emperor’s orders.
She. Is the Emperor here? I have not seen him.
He. He is one of the six in scarlet kaftans and all masked alike.
Watch—you will note how every one bows down
Before those figures; thinking each by chance
May be the Tsar; yet none know which is he.
Even his counterparts are left in doubt.