“Nada is quite conscious and her faculties are coming back rapidly,” she told her husband; “but she is terribly anxious to know all that has happened since she was drugged. She wishes to see you. Of course, I can tell her nothing, as I have not had time to hear anything from you.”
“She is not too excited?” questioned the Count.
“Only from anxiety to know. She will grow very excited if she is kept much longer in suspense.”
The Count beckoned to Corsini. “Let us go to her. You can explain better than I.”
But Corsini shrank back and a hot blush showed through the dark stain that had been rubbed on his face in the mean lodging of Ivan the outlaw.
“I cannot present myself in these miserable clothes, disguised as I am, to the Princess,” he stammered.
The Count smiled his quiet rather cynical smile. “I will wager she will penetrate with the first glance through the disguise and the shabby clothes.”
He turned to his wife. “My dear, permit me to re-introduce to you Signor Corsini, the Director of the Italian Opera. He doesn’t cut quite such a brilliant figure as usual, but his excuse is that he has been doing some very good work for the Emperor.”
The Countess, a woman of charming manners, advanced to him with outstretched hands. “A thousand pardons. Please forgive my obtuseness, but my thoughts were so occupied with our poor dear Nada.” So adroitly did she redeem a somewhat awkward situation.
The three went up to the chamber whither the young Princess had been conveyed. The Count went to the bed and shook her warmly by the hand.