The fact is the adulterous wife was an excellent mother. Two years before, when her son was attacked by a contagious sickness, she had nursed him with a devotion which had been the admiration of everybody, and she adored doubly Paul Meyrin"s child.

"Take away my daughter--separate me from her!" she cried. "Oh, no, it is impossible; the prince has not the thought. He can not disown her, for the consequence of a disavowal would be a pet.i.tion for divorce from me.

He will leave me Tekla. What could he do with her? He can not love her.

We are both mad to think of it."

The painter tried his best to calm Lise. They agreed to await the course of events and act accordingly, keeping secret from everybody what was going on.

Paul Meyrin, indeed, was not at all anxious to acquaint his relatives with the new turn that his amour with the princess had taken, for he foresaw the opposition that his mother and sister, and especially his sister, would offer to the marriage. Although he had never said anything outright to the two women upon the subject, he had every reason to believe that they knew the true state of his relations with Lise Olsdorf, and that they were well aware of his being the father of little Tekla. If the Meyrins received at their house Paul"s acknowledged mistress, it was because their vanity was flattered and their interest lay in making her welcome. Under the pretense that she adored artists, and had the right to act in Paris as she would have done in Russia, she heaped presents on all the Meyrins, big and little. Her love, then, cost them nothing; on the contrary. As formerly, the painter lived with the family and shared its expenses, giving, too, himself generously, for he reflected that he had no calls upon him and was making plenty of money.

With the Meyrins, and certainly as regarded Frantz, there was indeed no cynical and shameless speculation; but the feeling was there, though they were unconscious of it. The marriage of the artist to anybody would necessarily occasion so radical a change in their style of living that the idea of it had always been thrust into the background by those whose thorough interest it was to have him under their guidance.

Paul, without saying all these things to himself, was conscious of them.

He was much concerned about what was to happen in the near future as he made his way back to the Rue de Douai.

After the painter had left her the princess wrote to her husband to say she was ready to obey him in all particulars.

CHAPTER IX.

IN FLAGRANTE DELICTO.

During the three days that she was traveling on the railway in a compartment near that of Prince Olsdorf, the pretty Vera Soublaieff had been in one long dream. She was going to Paris, which she had so often heard spoken of and so enthusiastically by her countrymen, to meet again the Princess Lise, who had always been so kind to her, and to live a less monotonous life than at Alba. The day after her arrival, already recovered from the fatigue of traveling, she awoke joyously, and, like a bird that the sun attracts, ran to the window of her room.

The apartments the Russian n.o.bleman occupied at the Grand Hotel looked on to the boulevard. Although it was barely ten o"clock the sight it offered to Vera almost dazzled her. She had been for a long time under the charm when the body-servant of her master came to announce, in almost a ceremonious tone, that the prince was waiting luncheon for her.

"Waiting for me?" said the young girl. "I don"t understand you, my good Yvan."

"I am only bringing the prince"s message. The table is laid for two, and no visitor is expected."

After standing in astonishment for a moment, Vera dressed quickly and went to the husband of Lise Barineff.

He was looking through the newspapers, perhaps to distract his thoughts from the interview he had just had with his wife, perhaps, too, to hide his face. One of the sub-managers was standing at the door of the room, waiting for the order to serve the meal.

At the entrance of his traveling companion, Pierre Olsdorf rose, went forward to meet her, and said gallantly, offering his hand:

"Good-morning, dear child. How have you slept?"

Thinking she must have misunderstood what she had heard, the farmer"s daughter looked round the room in surprise. There was n.o.body there but herself and the manager, who still stood motionless. It was she, after all, that the prince was speaking to.

Bending forward over the hand that was offered to her, Vera wished to press her lips to it, but Pierre Olsdorf, drawing her gently toward him, kissed her forehead, and said, pointing to the table laid for two:

"Has the journey made you lose your appet.i.te?"

He drew her arm affectionately under his to lead her to the table, where she fell into, rather than seated herself on, the chair Yvan offered her.

Vera Soublaieff had never been more beautiful in her national costume.

Emotion had given a more brilliant color to her face; her scarlet lips wore a childish smile full of charm, and her big eyes, with their long black lashes, seemed to question with simple trouble all that surrounded her.

She well remembered that the prince had always been gentle and kind to her, as he was to all his servants, but she had never sat at his table, and he had never paid her such attentions as these.

Was not all this a continuance of her dream? Was she really awake yet?

The n.o.bleman recalled his beautiful guest to the reality by begging her to partake of each of the dishes that the manager offered her; but Vera, who blushed at being waited on, scarcely eat anything at all. She was forced to admit the evidence of her senses; it was really she, the daughter of Soublaieff, who was there, opposite her lord and master.

The thought of the princess then came suddenly to her mind. She wondered why she had not yet seen her, why the prince had not taken her to his wife, and why she was not with her husband.

An instinctive fear seized upon her. She rose suddenly, and clasping her hands, her eyes filling with tears, said, in a supplicating voice:

"Pierre Alexandrowich, what have I done that you should ridicule me so?

What is your will with me, your servant?"

The young girl had spoken in Russian, adding, as is the custom, to the first name of the prince the first name of his father. Pierre Olsdorf, in his turn, was for the moment taken by surprise.

He told the manager to leave the room, sent away Yvan with a gesture, and going to Vera, said in a tender voice:

"What is the matter, child? Why are you so agitated? How could you think that I wished to ridicule you?"

He had led her to a sofa, on which she sunk, trembling.

The prince went on, seating himself beside her:

"You are the daughter of an old retainer, for whom I have a great esteem and affection. That in itself should rea.s.sure you. When I told your father I wished to bring you to Paris, he did not ask me for what object. He knew, and he knows, that you have nothing to fear while you are with me; that your honor is guarded by mine. I need your devoted, complete, and blind aid. I must not tell you why; young as you are, you will understand these things only too soon. It will be for me then to thank you and prove my grat.i.tude. Until then do not question me; be surprised at nothing, no matter what I may require of you, or how strange and inexplicable the scenes may seem to be in which you will take part. I have chosen you to help me in accomplishing the end I aim at because you are young, beautiful, intelligent, and worthy of respect."

Her fine eyes, still tearful, fixed on her master"s, Vera listened and scarcely understood the meaning of his words; but her calmness had returned. She was no longer frightened, and when the prince asked if he could count upon her obedience she took his hand and kissed it, replying:

"Your servant is your property. Do with her as you please."

At this moment there was a tap at the door, and Yvan entered with a letter for his master which a commissionaire had brought.

In it the princess told her husband that she was awaiting his instructions and was ready to follow them.

"Dear child," said Pierre Olsdorf to Vera as soon as they were again alone together, "the moment for action has come sooner than I looked for it. To-morrow we shall leave this hotel. Meanwhile dry your eyes and go for a drive with Yvan to see Paris, that you were so happy in the thought of visiting."

The prince pressed the young girl"s hands gently, and left her still somewhat moved, but no longer alarmed. Fear had yielded to curiosity.

Pierre Olsdorf and Vera met again in the evening at dinner, and the meal was almost a merry one. Yvan had driven his countrywoman to the Champs Elysees, the Bois de Boulogne, and the Jardin d"Acclimation; and the daughter of Soublaieff, who had only seen St. Petersburg and the great park at Pampeln, was so astonished at what she beheld that, encouraged by the approving smile of her master, she told him with enthusiasm about all she had seen. At the end of the evening when she had retired to rest, she slipped into the large bed with a sort of indefinable pleasure after linking the name of the prince with that of G.o.d in her prayers.

Next day Pierre and Soublaieff"s daughter were able to move into some charming rooms in the Rue Auber, in consequence of the sudden departure for St. Petersburg of the Countess Panine. She was charmed to be able to let Prince Olsdorf have her furnished rooms, leaving him, too, her cook and her maid, who, on account of her health, could not go with her mistress to Russia. In this way, within twenty-four hours, the prince had his house on a comfortable footing.

Thenceforward began for Vera a life she had never dreamed of, surprise following surprise. Every morning in waking her, Julie, the lady"s maid, brought her flowers from the prince, and almost every day there was some present or other offered by himself--a jewel, or fan, or one of those costly gewgaws, which are so thoroughly identified with Parisian luxury.

Moreover, Soublaieff"s daughter must abandon herself to the dress-makers, who took possession of her, acting under orders; and the surprises for her grew more frequent and complete as she saw herself, a child of the people, clothed ordinarily, in holland or wool, a fine lady robed in silk and velvet. Obedient, as she had promised to be, she made no difficulties; she murmured her thanks and was pa.s.sive. But one evening, when, being dressed--the prince had told her they were going out together--she saw herself covered with diamonds, in a long gown of white satin terminating in a train, her luxuriant dark hair twisted up above the neck instead of hanging in thick plaits, she scarcely knew herself.

However, with the singular faculty of adaptation that all women have, Vera was neither awkward nor strange in a part so new for her; she played it with simplicity and admirably. Up to now she had been adorably pretty; the transformation made her strikingly beautiful.