He was back to the minute. It was a light meal, but Madame Quéro, persuading herself that she was happy in this sudden reconciliation, had provided him some dainties that he was very fond of. Zouroff was in the highest spirits; he praised everything, drank her health several times in the excellent champagne she had provided. The singer ate sparingly and drank very little. It was a gala night at the Opera, she had to be careful of her voice, of those liquid notes which were presently to charm the house.
The moments fled swiftly, it was time for her to start. Zouroff was going on foot to the house of a fellow conspirator.
He bade her good-night, and carelessly drew a small box from his pocket. “See, I did not forget you, I have brought a box of your favourite chocolates.” He pointed with his finger to one. “See, here is a fine fat fellow, I will take a smaller one.”
La Quéro could never resist chocolates. She took the big one Zouroff pointed out to her and crunched it in her even white teeth. The Prince laid the box on the table.
“Good-night,” he said. “There is no time to lose. We are both a little late.” He went out, with a strange smile on his face.
Looking back to it in the happy after years, Corsini always declared that of all days this had been the most eventful day in his life.
At the hotel, on the previous evening, he had found waiting for him the note from Ivan the Cuckoo, who did not know at the time he despatched that missive that he was a free man. Corsini, accompanied by his faithful bodyguard, was to repair to Ivan’s mean lodging that night.
Nello was not without a spirit of adventure. He was rather looking forward to what would happen at midnight. He was to change places with Stepan, heavily handicapped as to hearing and speech, and listen to the conversation of the conspirators.
It was a gala night at the Opera. The Emperor and his consort were to be there. On such ceremonious occasions, Corsini was wont to conduct the orchestra himself, as a mark of respect to the autocrat. The Opera given on this particular night was a famous masterpiece in those days, Rossini’s “Semiramide.”
It was a great house. The flower of Russia’s nobility was gathered in the boxes and stalls of the vast building, the men attired in immaculate costume, the women radiant in their flashing jewels. In a far box, Nello saw the charming young Princess with an elderly friend, acting as her chaperon in place of her mother. Evidently she had not taken his advice. He cast a lightning glance around as he bowed to the plaudits of the audience. He was looking for Zouroff, but he could not see him. If the Prince was in the crowded house, he had missed him. Certainly he was not in the box where his sister sat.