"No, it's not Zeneida. I know her handwriting."
"Perhaps too well. But who else could have written to me?"
And they began guessing who the writer could have been while the letter passed from one to the other. At last Alexander proposed that the best way to see who had written the letter would be to open it.
As they saw the signature both simultaneously cried, "My godmother!" "Your godmother!"
"What can she have written about?"
Presently, as if it were intended for a joke, Bethsaba laughed heartily over the letter.
"Ha, ha, ha! She wants me to go to the Masinka Fête! Alone! Without Alexander! 'It is to be a grand affair; the Czar and Czarina and several foreign princes will be there; I shall have an opportunity to entreat the Czar to grant Alexander permission to go back to St. Petersburg!' Ha, ha, ha! Did you hear that, Alexander Sergievitch? My godmother sends me an invitation to a ball without you! The letter could not have come at a more opportune moment—I just wanted it!"
And with these words she seized the precious epistle; it just covered the damage the dragon had sustained, and a couple of pins fixed it in place—the black seal just forming the pupil of the eye. (The court had gone into mourning for six weeks after Sophie's death, and society used black sealing-wax during the period.)
"A large case also arrived by post-chaise," said the dvornik.
"Put it on one side. I have no time now to look at it."