"It might have been one of Madame Nikitenko's men.—At four this afternoon her major-domo came saying that the Princess is believed to be dying. She—"
"Good God!—Dying!"
"There was a hemorrhage early in the morning; and—"
"She has sent for me?"
"They have come three times, Excellency; but I could not reach you. I had no idea where you—"
Ivan cut him short with a nod, clapped on his hat again, and ran hurriedly out into the peaceful, moonlit night.
Fifteen minutes later he was standing at the door of her apartment. He had not yet knocked; for his heart was beating, tumultuously, and he knew that he was afraid of the word that might greet him. Still—every window visible from below had been ablaze. Surely it could not have happened—yet.
He knocked, quietly, at last; and, after a little wait, was admitted to the antechamber by a person who was strange to him. This was a young girl, sixteen or seventeen years old, her head crowned by a coronal of heavy braids; her eyes, of a deep, purplish tint, rimmed with jet-black lashes, exact replicas of the Princess' own. Meeting those eyes, Ivan gave a sudden, comprehensive start. Then he said, a little confusedly:
"My name is Gregoriev. I understand that the Princess Nikitenko sent for me some hours ago. I received the message only within the last half-hour. Can you tell me if she is easier?"
The girl shook her head, slowly. She was very quiet, but seemed dazed. "No. It is impossible that my mother can live. I came at six o'clock. She saw me, and knew me, then. The priest is with her now; and the Signor Dottore is waiting, in the sala. Please to come in, Eccellenze. If she should be able, after receiving absolution and the unction, she—she may see you, monsignor.—Ecco!"