A slight rustle made her rise. Almost with terror flew her glance
through the suite of rooms. There below she saw the approach of
something strange, singular, magical. It was a never-before-seen
form, but surrounded by a wonderfully bright halo, enveloped in rich,
glittering garments, such as she had never before seen. It was a
strange, unknown face, but of a sublime, heroic beauty, proud and noble,
bold and mild.
"That is he!" she breathlessly and sadly murmured--"yes, that is he!
That is a man and a hero! Ah, I shall die under his glance!"
He still continued to approach, and with every forward step he made
she felt her heart contract with anxiety, admiration, and a feverish
sadness.
Now he stood on the threshold of the boudoir--his glance fell upon her.
And she? She lay, or rather half knelt upon the divan, motionless, pale
as a marble statue, with that divine smile which we admire in ancient
sculpture.
Touching was she to behold, white and delicate as a lily, so humble and
devoted, so shelter-needing and love-imploring!
But Count Orloff felt neither sympathy nor compassion. He saw only that
she was beautiful as an angel, an admirable woman, whom he desired to
possess!
Proud as a king, and at the same time very reverential and submissive,
he approached and sank upon his knee before the divan upon which she
reclined in trembling yet blissful sadness.
"Princess Natalie," he murmured low, "will you be angry with your slave
for daring to intrude upon you without knowing whether he would be
welcome?"
She breathed freer. It was a relief to her to hear his voice--it made
her feel easier. He was no magician, no demon, he was a man, and spoke
to her with human words! That gave her courage and strength, it gave
her back the consciousness of her own dignity. She was ashamed of her
anxiety, her trembling, her childish helplessness. Yet she could say
nothing, answer nothing. She only gave him her hand, and with a charming
smile, an inimitable grace, and welcomed him with a silent inclination
of the head.
Taking her hand he pressed it to his lips. His touch seemed to kindle
in her an electric glow, and with something like alarm she withdrew her
hand.
"Are you, then, angry with me?" he asked in a tone of sadness.
"No," said she, "I am not angry, but I fear you. You are so great a
hero, and your sword has done so many brave deeds. I looked at your
sword, and it alarmed me."
Count Orloff gave her a surprised and interrogating glance. Why said
she that? Had she some suspicion, some mistrust, or was it only a
presentiment, an inexplicable instinct, that made her tremble at his
sword?
"No, she suspects nothing," thought he, as he gazed upon that
pure, innocent, childish brow, which was turned toward him in pious
confidence, and yet with timid hesitation.