"I have heard," she began, "that you yourself have seen some of the
horrors of Siberia, but I doubt it. I do not even believe that you are
a Russian, and to be perfectly frank I do not believe that your name is
Dubravnik. I am of the opinion--and I did not think of it until since
the commencement of this interview--that you are not what you seem to
be, and that your mission in Russia is in some way connected with the
Government police; that you are more than a passive enemy of
nihilism--that you are, in short, an active one. If I am right there
exists all the more reason why I must appeal to your manhood, your
honor, your sense of justice, to your bravery and chivalry. Who are
you, Mr. Dubravnik?"
"I am Daniel Derrington, an American, in the service of the czar."
"And therefore connected with the police."
"No. The police do not know me, save as you know me; not even the
terrible Third Section."
She scarcely noticed my confession, so absorbed was she by the mere
thought of the story she was about to relate.
Her eyes were turned towards the window, her hands clasped tightly
together in her lap, her chin was raised, and she seemed to be looking
into the past as one might look upon a picture hanging against the
wall, observing every detail of it minutely, and yet conscious only of
the whole.
"Fancy yourself, a Russian of noble birth, an officer in the army, a
favorite at court, the possessor of almost unlimited wealth and happy
beyond the dreams of heaven," she said, dreamily. "Search your memory
for the picture of a beautiful girl--she was only a girl, not yet
twenty, when my story begins--and make this one of whom I speak thrice
more beautiful than the picture you delineate. She was your sister. She
is your sister. You are her brother in the story I shall relate to
you. You two are fatherless and motherless; you are all that is left of
your family, once famous, and seemingly destined through you to become
so again. You are a favorite with the czar, and your sister is the pet
of the royal family. Your influence at court is unlimited. You are on
the summit of the wave of favor and popularity. Have you drawn the
picture?"
"I endeavor to do so, princess."
"You and Yvonne--she had a French name--reside in the same palace where
your fathers lived before you. Your sister is the idol of your heart.
You worship her with such devotion that it becomes a maxim quoted by
mothers to their sons. You idealize her, and are proud of her; and she
is worthy of it all. Ah, sir, follow me with care, for the story will
touch you, I believe, as nothing else could do."