“‘What will you take for that knot of ribbon? I’d like to buy it,’ I said; and she fired up like a volcano, telling me I had not money enough, nor the czar either, to buy it!
“I have a good deal of respect for Ursula, and the last glimpse I had of her the tri-colors, red, white and blue, were showing conspicuously on her black dress. My mother returned home in September, and I am no longer keeping bachelor’s hall. I have told her of you and your interest in Nicol Patoff, in whom she is also greatly interested.”
There were a few more commonplace sentences and the letter closed with: “Your sincere friend, Michel Seguin.”
There was no intimation that he expected an answer to his letter, but common courtesy required that I should acknowledge the receipt of the photographs, which I did, directing my letter to “M. Seguin, Nevsky Prospect, St. Petersburg.” Whether he received my letter or not I did not know. He did not write again, and with the passing of time my visit to Russia was beginning to seem like a dream, when I found myself trying to decide whether to go there again, and wondering why my inclination leaned so strongly to that ice-bound city, and why the tall figure of a gendarme always stood in the foreground as an attraction. He might not be there, and Nicol Patoff had disappeared, or was dead. I could have no hope of seeing him. Why then was I willing to go? I asked myself, and answered as quickly: “To see Chance, if he is there still.”
And so, the die was cast; and two weeks later we took the train in Paris en route for St Petersburg. We were hoping to have our compartment to ourselves for a while at least, and had each taken possession of a corner, when at the last moment a tall, fine-looking young lady came hurrying to the door which was still open, although Jack, who was nearest to it, had wished to shut it. There was a close, searching glance at each of us, and then the young lady entered with her cloak and gripsack, while Jack scowled a little. He always scowled if he did not like anything, and he evidently did not like the companionship of this young lady, who took her seat by the window opposite him, after greeting us with a smile which lighted up her face wonderfully and smoothed the scowl from Jack’s forehead.
She had put her bag on the seat beside her and then glanced up at the rack opposite. Jack, who was always a gentleman, rose at once for her. Of course she was French, he thought, and so did Katy and I, her dress was in such perfect taste, while there was about her an air altogether Parisian. Summoning his best French, which was pretty bad, Jack said: “I will put up your bag, if it is in your way.”
The words were jumbled together in an atrocious manner; but the young lady understood and thanked him in perfect French and with a smile which showed her white, even teeth and brought into play a dimple on her cheek. Then she relaxed into silence, and, leaning back in her corner, closed her eyes and drew down her fur cap as if she were asleep. But when we passed the city limits and were speeding through the country miles from Paris she became very much awake, and her eyes flashed upon each of us, resting longest and very admiringly upon Katy, who certainly made a pretty picture in her suit of brown with a scarlet wing in her hat. I had impressed upon my nephew and niece that they were not to talk to strangers unless spoken to first, and then to be rather reticent. This rule Katy carried to an extent which sometimes made her seem haughty and cold, while Jack was always ready to talk and ask questions and find out about things, as he expressed it. On this occasion, as the day wore on, I often saw him casting glances at the young lady who slept a good deal, or seemed to, and who, when awake, paid no attention to what we were saying.
“She does not understand us,” I thought; but when at last we began to speak of Russia she roused up, and I felt sure she understood and was interested.
Still she remained silent, and we talked on, or Jack did, of St. Petersburg and the Nevsky and the Neva, and the nihilists, whose acquaintance he hoped to make, wondering if there was any way by which he could tell one. Then he spoke of the dog Chance, hoping he was still alive, and finally of his master, M. Seguin, wondering if we should meet him.
“You and he were quite friendly, weren’t you, auntie?” he asked, but I did not reply.