In the uncertain light their figures stand out like black silhouettes. Korynthia asks herself which of the gondolas is bringing to her him she is expecting—which is the silhouette of his figure?
To the watcher the last half-hour seems longest. Korynthia turns from the balcony to the interior of her room, and gazes once more at herself in her mirror. You are beautiful, very beautiful, says her mirror; that white costume lends you quite a youthful appearance, leaving, as it does, the rounded marble of the arms bare to the shoulder. Your wealth of fair hair is not stiffly arranged, but floats in two thick tresses. No ornament of any kind, bracelet or earring, enhances your charms. The confident champion enters the battle-field without helmet or shield. Even the wedding-ring is absent. You are beautiful indeed—says her mirror.
And beside the mirror hangs a picture, set in a thick gold frame. It is the picture of a young girl in the garb of a mythical shepherdess—tender and delicate as a dream. Korynthia had received it some years ago, a present from the Czar. She may possibly have divined even then that it was no fancy picture, but a portrait; she may even have guessed whom it represented. Within the last few days she knows for certain. She has met the original. It was the portrait of Sophie Narishkin.
Certainly she might long since have known it from Bethsaba—have seen portrait and original often enough, had she asked her. But although lying was foreign to the nature of the Circassian king's daughter, she knew how to be silent, and had that much Armenian blood in her veins not to answer when not directly questioned.
So the reflection in the mirror and the portrait in the frame were in close proximity. And comparison left the living reflection victor.
You pale child with your dreamy eyes, your lips seeming to open in lament; your tender, shadowy frame, how can you think to rival the divine presence of a woman? What power can you have, melancholy dream-picture of another world, against this earthly woman whose beauty arouses and quenches passion, kills and inspires life? Do you possess an Aleko, he chooses himself a gypsy maid; and that is not you. Is he not himself a true gypsy, leading a vagabond, adventurous life? In a word, is he not a poet?
Time went on slowly. Korynthia opened the windows looking on to the park. A concert of nightingales came from the bushes. A butterfly—the night peacock's eye—flew in at the open window; taking her for a flower, it flew about her, not about the portrait. Then flew in another night moth, differing from others in that it emits a sound—an unpleasant, shrill, yet melancholy hum. Its name is Sphinx Atropos. Why has it been called by the name of that one of the Parcæ which severs the thread of life? Because its back and head are the exact counterpart of a death's-head. Ss—h! The lady brushes away the weird moth; but it had found a refuge; it had flown across to the picture and had settled in a corner of the frame.
At length the twilight deepens. A few impatient employés let off the first rockets from the pleasure gardens in the islands. Bengal lights are beginning to show on Kreskowsky Island.
Ah, of course! It is Zeneida's birthday. The court calendar has found a place for her among the saints; there are great doings to-night in her palace. And something more, perhaps—a sitting of the Szojusz Blagadenztoiga. Under every possible guise and excuse, it holds its meetings at the singer's house.
When Prince Ghedimin left home that evening he had told his wife that he was commanded to the Czar, and would be away all night discussing important matters of state. It is therefore certain that he will be spending the night at Zeneida's, and Korynthia need not fear to be disturbed; it is a case of tit for tat. Any moment may now bring him—the one so impatiently expected.