“Cannot you let me accompany Madame Virouboff?” I said.
“The order is for Madame Virouboff,” replied the A.D.C., and at this moment an officer entered.
“What’s all the fuss about?” he demanded. The A.D.C. explained. “What ... is Madame Virouboff really here?” cried the officer. “Well, I’ve always wanted to have a look at her ... which one is it?” The A.D.C. indicated Anna, who was gazing from one to the other with frightened eyes.
“Get up,” ordered the officer.
Anna meekly obeyed; as she did so, her crutch was visible.
“But ... what’s wrong?” asked the officer, now evidently greatly astonished.
“I’m a cripple,” faltered Anna.
“Good God,” exclaimed the officer. He was silent, but he examined Anna much in the same way that a naturalist surveys a prehistoric beast. He could not reconcile the Anna of reality with the Anna of fiction. In common with many people, not only in Russia, but all the world over, he had imagined a totally different Anna Virouboff. Perhaps he had visualised her as an adventuress of melodrama, a passionate intrigante, a subtle schemer, the masterful confidante of a weak Empress!
What did he actually see?
Rasputin’s reputed sorcière-en-chef stood before him, a little trembling creature, with the prettiness and the plaintive voice of a child. The officer could not believe his eyes.