“No—no.” Her pale, child-like face was overspread with a strange air of weariness. “All we can do is of no use. Come. Come when you choose.”
When we were in the street Ivan broke out in apologies, urging that I should not feel myself insulted.
“I do not feel insulted,” I said. “In fact, I find Madame Waluiski much more interesting than I expected.”
And this was truth. If she were an impostor, an adventuress, I had been impressed with the fact that she was one clever enough to be worthy of study. But again, how doubt a personality apparently so unlike that of a trickster, a face so transparent, a whole being so unusual, so ingenuous?
I knew not what to think.
The scene was, perhaps, one of the most picturesque in Petersburg. After the dust and heat of the August day Mascha, Bounakoff, and myself were sitting at dinner in the beautiful Gardens of Catherinenhoff. With the sunset a cool wind had sprung up from the Neva, rendering Andrejeff’s Restaurant an exceedingly pleasant retreat under the clear sky and brilliant stars. At one of the small al fresco tables we were in the full enjoyment of our meal. It was a band night, and those who have visited the Russian capital know how upon such occasions the Gardens are illuminated and the tables filled by a fashionable throng of men and women.
Ivan was sitting at the next table, and we had invited him to join us, but as he had already finished his dinner he was waiting until we commenced to smoke.
Those of my readers who have refreshed themselves at Andrejeff’s will remember that one of the tables is placed against a large trellis covered with tangled masses of creepers, which screens it from the gaze of passers-by, and makes it a very cosy nook. It was here that Ivan sat alone, contemplatively smoking a cigarette and sipping from the glass of port beside him, while at our table we chaffed and laughed merrily together. Conversation was general, and the hearty laughter and gay tones of French voices mingled with the guttural exclamations of the Tzar’s subjects as they walked under the linden trees beside the lake, while ever and anon a burst of military music reached us from over the water.
As I sat watching the crowd of promenaders two figures that passed engaged my attention. Why, I cannot tell. One was that of a lady, apparently about forty years of age, good-looking, well-preserved, and attired fashionably in a black jet-trimmed evening dress, with a lace mantilla over her head. Alone, she walked past slowly and deliberately, at the same time casting a searching glance in our direction. In the dim half-light I could see she was undeniably handsome, but in a few moments she had passed out of my sight, and I, joining in my companions’ conversation, forgot her.