Vainly striving to overcome her emotion, she exclaimed excitedly—
“I—I was unprepared—I did not think you loved me, Vladimir. Do you doubt I care for you? Have you not seen it? Mon Dieu! my married life has been only a grim and dismal tragedy. I loved no man until I met you!”
“Do you really think sometimes of me, Princess?” I asked, scarcely believing the truth.
“To you I am Irene,” she said in pretty broken English. “All my life has been wasted hitherto. You have asked me; I have give you answer. I love only you. Some day you will know me better. Now, you know me only for the mad passion I bear for you. But yourself shall make satisfy of my past, my truth, my honour, and—and I shall get—what you call—divorce from the Prince, and we two will marry—eh? Of you I ask not one single question. You are my lover, the only man for whom I have affection, and—and in return I am your serf.”
She buried her flushed face upon my shoulder and sobbed.
Taking her in my arms, I swore to her everlasting constancy. All my heart was in the declaration. In the glamour of that hour we were reckless and egotistical as most lovers, heedless of the shadow that was growing up behind the sunshine of our happy vows of undying affection. When she grew calm, she looked up searchingly into my eyes and said: “You cannot understand me. You do not know the bitterness of my life.”
“No, Irene. Tell me about yourself,” I said.
Hesitatingly she seated herself in a wicker chair, and motioned me to a seat at her side.
“No, no,” I said, laughing. “At your feet, Princess; always at your feet,” and, casting myself upon a low footstool, I took her hand in mine.
“My life has been wasted,” she said mournfully. “My mother was French; my father an Imperial Councillor of Russia. My earlier life was passed at Moscow, and afterwards at the Court at Petersburg. I was forced by my father to marry the Prince, who, as you are well aware, is rich and powerful. But, ma foi! from the first he treated me cruelly. Within six months of our marriage he commenced to ill-use me brutally; indeed, I bear upon my body the scars of his violence. The world was débonnaire while I was triste and downcast, for I found he had a liaison with a French danseuse. I bore his insults and blows until I was in fear of my life; then I came here.”