Lounging aimlessly along the streets in the hope of meeting her, I was walking one afternoon along the English Quay, when a drosky drove swiftly past, and pulled up before one of the great palaces that face the Neva. A woman, wrapped in costly furs, alighted, and in a moment I recognised her. As I approached, she halted, with her eyes fixed upon me, her mouth slightly open, and the same curiously blank expression on her countenance. At first I was prompted to stop and speak, but the tall man-servant in livery who had thrown open the great door looked down upon me with suspicion, therefore I hesitated, and walked on.
As I brushed past her, I thought I heard a long sigh, and, turning, I was just in time to see her enter the palace, saluted by the gigantic dvornik.
Stumbling blindly on for a few hundred paces, I met a man I knew, and, pointing out the house, asked him who lived there.
“The woman has enmeshed you, eh?” he suggested, laughing. “Well, you are not the first who has been smitten by her extraordinary charms.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Flirtation is a dangerous pastime here, in Petersburg,” he replied, shrugging his shoulders ominously. “Especially so if one’s idol is Agàfia Ivanovna, the Princess Tchikhatzoff.”
“Princess?” I echoed, in surprise.
Then, linking my arm in his, I begged him to tell me what he knew of her. But he only replied—
“I really cannot tell you anything, mon cher, except her name. Ugly rumours were once afloat, but perhaps the least said of her the better.”
And, waving his hand and wishing me a hurried adieu, he went on.