Perhaps the wretched years of degradation and
suffering during which he had been a soldier in
the Caucasus, and from any reference to which
he always shrank, had changed his character.
He often reminded me of the traditional Italians
of the middle ages: such Italian as Macchiavelli
knew, and Shakespeare painted.

He and I now met less frequently than before.
He did not often spend his evenings at the
Leczinzka palace, excusing himself on the score
of pressing business, and throwing out hints
which seemed to indicate that he was
importuning the Imperial Chancellerie for the restoration
of his forfeited estates. The old prince,
always good natured, in spite of his indolence
and frivolous habits, offered his interest at court,
and Gliska gratefully accepted the proffer. He
seemed pre-occupied in his mind, and there were
new lines of care on his forehead, and a
harassed look in his bold keen eyes; but he
treated Sophie with the same indifferent good
humour as before.

One day, when I was driving out of the city
with one of the French attachés, young Dumanoir,
to whom the sledge belonged, and who was
not a little vain of his heavy apron of Astracan
fur, and of the spirit and beauty of his gallant
horses with their silver bells, we had an
unexpected rencounter. "We had made a short cut
through the wretched suburbs inhabited by the
tshernoi narod, or "black people," as the ill-fed
poor of St. Petersburg are called, and were
striking across towards the broad drive on the
bank of the Neva, when we spun round a corner,
and nearly ran over a group of four men in earnest
converse. They started with evident alarm and
vexation as they caught sight of us in that
unfrequented quarter; and we on our part
were surprised to see them, for more
incongruous companions could scarcely have met
together.

The party consisted of a young Russian in
black clothes, wearing a scrap of coloured
ribbon at his button-hole, and who was some
government clerk or other member of the
privileged bureaucracy of the empire; of a
sergeant in the Guards, trim and smart in his well-
fitting uniform; of a long-bearded grizzled
peasant, in a torn caftan and sheepskin boots;
and—of Gliska. We nodded to him—the Frenchman
and I—but he was too much startled to
return the salute, and his pale face flushed like
hot iron as we dashed by.

"What an odd quartette!" said I.

"Very!" said Dumanoir, dryly, knitting his
black eyebrows; then he thawed into a laugh of
unfeigned mirth, as he said, " I never saw rats
so neatly caught! You are too guileless and
unsuspicious, my dear colleague, for such a métier
as our rascally one of diplomacy. We catch a
Polish noble, whose very name is as wormwood
in the emperor's august mouth, conferring with
his friends in this delightful and civilised quarter;
and those friends are a discontented sergeant, a
sulky Raskolnik, and a hungry understrapper of
some government bureau; and you wonder at
their confusion on being seen by us! Foi
de Dumanoir! My chief would never
forgive me, if I omitted to inform him of what will
be welcome news to his Majesty Louis Philippe,
King of the French."

I could not but own that there was
something suspicious in the affair, though I with
some trouble extorted from Dumanoir a promise
that he would not mention what we had seen to
any other than his ambassador: unwilling as I
was that the Leczinzka family should be annoyed
by any fresh proceedings against their relative.
But though I was not one of those who see a
conspiracy in every gathering of men, I felt an
innate conviction that all was not right. Gliska's
politics were notorious, and his secret
communing, in so lonely and barbarous a quarter of
the town, with persons so unlike himself in rank
and bearing, seemed ominous of coming troubles.
I had heard—as who had not?—of disaffection
existing among the Poles, Finns, and Malorossians,
who had been forced into the Muscovite army;
of disaffection among the educated servants of
the state, weary of a career in which corruption
and chicanery overruled zeal and merit; and of
deadly hatred on the part of the fanatics of
the old Greek faith—those grim Raskolniks
of whom Dumanoir had spoken. A junction
of such malcontents with the restless Polish
nobles, was exactly what the authorities most
dreaded.

When, later in the day, I drove to the
Leczinzka palace, I saw Gliska leaving it
on foot. He seemed to avoid recognition,
turning up the collar of his furred overcoat so
as nearly to conceal his face, and hurrying on
with a quicker step as he caught sight of my
vehicle. I found Sophie, with sparkling eyes
and a flushed cheek, alone in the great drawing-
room: the old princess coming in as soon as she
was informed of my arrival. Never had I seen
Sophie look more beautiful; but her excitement,
which I could not help connecting with
Gliska's visit, caused me a sensation of pain
as contrasting with her usual cold resignation,
when its cause was explained.

Invitations had just been issued for a masked
ball at the residence of Prince Wittgenstein, the
Austrian ambassador; and this ball, long
projected, was to be by far the most splendid of the
season. It was to have taken place long before,
but had been postponed, and many of the
intended guests had their fancy dresses prepared,
while all the town talked of the ruinous cost of
the decorations and the skill of the artists who
were to turn the embassy saloons into an
ephemeral fairyland. Sophie was wild with pleasure
at the prospect of the fête; it was her first
season, poor child, and she had truly a child's
delight in the coming treat. Her aged relatives
smiled as she talked with unusual animation
of the fantastic splendours that were
anticipated. It was said that the emperor and
empress would be there. The grand-dukes and
the Grand-Duchess Olga would certainly attend.
Count Demidoff was to go as a Chinese—no, as
a Persian Khan, with the Sancy diamond to
fasten the plume on his turban. The four