of their grand-parents. And the second son,
who had long wandered, an exile, from country
to country, had died far from his home and
friends. All this happened long ago, and the
Leczinzkas, if still watched, were smiled upon
at court. Their entertainments were among
the most splendid at St. Petersburg, and the
foreign residents, in especial, met with the most
kindly reception there.

Sophie Leczinzka was a beautiful dark-haired
girl, in the early bloom of a loveliness that gave
promise of becoming queenly and majestic at a
later period; but just then she was a bright-
eyed young creature, simple and frank of manner,
and more like an English maiden than the languid
Russian damsels around her. Indeed, Sophie,
by far the cleverest of the household, was also
the most national. It was her pride to be a
Pole; she loved to sing Polish songs, and to listen
to Polish stories; and I remember her pretty
sorrow, half sad, half petulant, when her
grandmother absolutely forbade her appearing at the
empress's masquerade in the high cap, velvet
jacket, and gold-braided vest of the old Sarmatian
pattern.

It is not surprising that I, who was most
heartily made welcome at the Leczinzka palace,
on the strength of some intimacy in long-past
times between the old prince and a relation of
my own, should have become attached, and
deeply so, to the beautiful Polish girl, but the
wonder should rather be that my suit received
the sanction of Sophie's guardians and kindred.
For an attaché, even though tolerably well off,
to aspire to such a match would have seemed
idle in most cases, since even in their hour of
captivity there is no prouder nobility than that
of Poland, and a Leczinzka might, as I well
knew, reasonably expect to ally herself with
some man of rank much more brilliant than
mine. It must, however, be remembered that
Sophie was no heiress, since the estates were
strictly entailed, and I was at that time understood
to be the next inheritor of a considerable
property in England. Whatever the cause, so
the matter stood. I was regarded in the household
as actually betrothed to Sophie. There
had been no formal troth-plight; still less had
any time been fixed for our marriage, which,
indeed, the princess desired to defer for a year
or two on account of her grandchild's youth,
and her own reluctance to be parted from her,
but the affair was no secret.

And Sophie? With all my wish to relate
calmly and fairly what occurred, I cannot, even at
this distance of time, be certain as to what were
her feelings. Perhaps she herself did not realise
their nature. She certainly did not dislike me.
She had merely looked down, with a timid blush
and smile, when the old princess bade her look
upon me as her future husband. Her lips had
never ratified the tacit consent thus given, nor is
this expected in a continental country, and
especially in a rank so elevated.

Gliska, being in some way related to the
princess, and having been brought up in the
Leczinzka mansion in Poland, was often to be
met in the family circle, where he was always
welcome. He had been a ward of the old nobleman's,
having been early left an orphan, and both
the prince and princess had a regard for him,
which was probably in great measure the result
of habit. Nothing could be more unlike than the
bent of the ex-guardian's mind and that of his
former charge. The kind white-headed master of
the house had a soft easy nature, that shrank
from disagreeable or painful topics, and a narrow,
though cultivated intellect. He had travelled
much, had many foreign friends, and loved to
recal bygone intimacies among the wits and
statesmen of the West. His correspondence,
his French novels, and his curious cabinet of
rare coins and medals, filled up his leisure fully.
The chevalier, on the other hand, was calm and
thoughtful, rather silent, but evidently not from
lack of thoughts. When he did speak, it was
always in well-chosen words, and with a
certain suppressed fire and eloquence that told of
great powers undeveloped.

I could not exactly make out on what footing
Gliska stood with reference to Sophie Leczinzka.
They were cousins. Sophie, as a child, had
been used to look up to the tall playfellow so
much older and wiser than herself—nothing
would have been more reasonable than that they
should have been on the same terms as brother
and sister. Yet Gliska seemed to me rather to
avoid his pretty cousin than otherwise, and
Sophie rarely mentioned his name. There were
times when I could not help feeling a thrill of
jealous suspicion, as a vague idea dawned in my
mind that this apparent indifference, on Gliska's
part at any rate, was mere feigning. But such
impressions were always fugitive, and were not
long able to disturb my peace.

I was one night at a ball at the Gortschakoff
palace, and happened to stand close to the open
door of a card-room, where the whist-players,
ignorant of my proximity, were chatting of the
Leczinzkas and their prospects. One of them
asked, carelessly, whether there had not once
been some talk of a match between the chevalier
and his beautiful cousin? Involuntarily, I
listened for the reply, which was as indifferently
spoken as the question had been:

"Why, yes, there was such a plan. The old
princess, who has a match-making turn, like
most of your ex-beauties—your deal, general!
—was eager about it, long before mademoiselle
was out of the nursery. But then came the
coup, and the lad's lands were confiscated, and
himself packed off to carry a musket against
Sehamyl in the Caucasus—so there was an end
of the matter—cut the cards, marshal, if you
please."

"But the chevalier is pardoned,'' observed a
cracked female voice across the table.

"True, madame; but poor—poor as Job;
and not only penniless, but compromised.
No, no, the English fellow is a better parti,
though I should not wonder if Sophie
preferred the 'suspect.' Women are problems,
madame."

In the midst of the laugh that succeeded, I