I nodded gravely in the affirmative, then told her of our meeting in Paris, and her refusal to make any satisfactory explanation.
“I envied Elizaveta once,” she said reflectively at last. “I envied her because she was so supremely happy in your love. Yet it now seems as if I, degraded outcast that I am, have even more happiness and freedom.”
“You were once her friend—she visited you every day. You can be her friend now; and by telling me the truth, bring joy and confidence to both of us. You can make our lives happy, if you only will.”
“No,” she answered coldly, her face hard and set. There was a cruel look in her eyes. “Why should I? Why should I strive for the happiness of one to whom I owe all my grief and despair?”
“Surely no misfortune of yours is due to her?” I protested quickly.
“Misfortune!” she wailed, her eyes flashing. “Would you not call the loss of the man you love, misfortune?” Then, in quieter tones, she added with a sigh, “Ah, you don’t know, Geoffrey, how intensely bitter my strange, adventurous life has been. You believe, no doubt, that a woman of my character cannot love. Well, I thought so once. But I tell you that in London I loved one man; the only man I ever met that I could marry. I had renounced my past, and sought to lead a new life when I knew that he cared for me, and was preparing to make me his wife. But she, the Grand Duchess who tricked you so cleverly, came between us, and we were parted. Then I came here, to Russia, sought solace among my former companions, the scum of the gaols and ghettos, and have now descended in despair to what I am. By her, the woman you ask me to free from a terrible thraldom, I have been thrust back into hopelessness, and have lost for ever the one chance I had of joy and love.”
Then, covering her handsome face with her hands, she burst into a torrent of tears.
“Come,” I said, rising, and stroking her soft, silky hair. Her arms were upon the table, and she had buried her head in them, sobbing as if her heart would break. “Come, do not give way,” I urged. “Who was the man you loved?”
“That concerns no one but myself,” she murmured. “Even she has never had proof that we loved one another. Yet to her is due all this grief, that has fallen upon me.”
Raising her head, she strove to suppress her emotion, and her brilliant tear-bedewed eyes fixed themselves steadily upon mine.