"I will make myself intelligible to you," said he, in a milder tone.
"You must understand, that I know you, Corilla. That assassin who
followed the Princess Tartaroff at the festival of Cardinal Bernis, was
employed by you, Signora Maddalena Morelli Fernandez, called Corilla!"
"And what if it were true, Signor Alexis Orloff, called the handsome
Northern Hercules?" asked she, roguishly imitating his grave
seriousness. "If it were really true, what further?"
Alexis looked in her face with an expression of astonishment. "You are
wonderfully bold!" said he.
"None but slaves are without courage!" responded she. "Freedom is the
mother of boldness!"
"You do not, then, deny the hiring of that bravo?"
"I only deny your right to inquire," said she.
"I have a right to it," he responded with vehemence. "This Princess
Tartaroff is a subject of the Empress of Russia, my mistress, who
watches over and protects all her subjects with maternal tenderness."
"That good, tender empress!" exclaimed Corilla, with an ambiguous
smile. "But in order properly to watch and preserve all her children and
subjects, she should keep them in her own country. Take this Princess
Tartaroff with you to Russia, and then she will be safe from our Italian
daggers. Take her with you; that will be the best way!"
"You, then, very heartily hate this poor little princess?" asked Alexis,
laughing.
"Yes," said she, after a short reflection, "I hate her. And would you
know why, signor? Not for her beauty, not for her youth, but for her
talents! And she has great talents! Ah, there was a time when I hated
her, although I knew her not. But now, now it is different. I now not
only hate, but fear her! For she can rival me, not only in love, but in
fame! Ah, you should have seen her on that evening! She was like a swan
to look at, and her song was like the dying strains of the swan. And
all shouted applause, and all the women wept; indeed, I myself wept,
not from emotion, but with rage, with bitterness, for they had
forgotten me--forgotten, for this new poetess; they overwhelmed her with
flatteries, leaving me alone and unnoticed! And yet you ask me if I hate
her!"
Quite involuntarily had she suffered herself to be carried away by
her own vehemence, her inward glowing rage. With secret pleasure Count
Orloff read in her features that this was no comedy which she thus
improvised, but was truth and reality.
"If you so think and feel," said he, "then we may soon understand
each other, signora. A real hatred is of as much value as a real love;
indeed, often of much greater. One can more safely confide in hatred,
as it is more enduring. I will therefore confide in you, signora, if you
will swear to me to betray no word of what I shall tell you."