‘I am told the old count is touching. He cried like a child when je doctor told him there was danger.’
‘Oh, it would be a terrible loss. She is a fascinating woman.’
'You speak of the poor countess,’ said Anna Pavlovna, coming up. sent to inquire after her. I was told she was going on better. Oh, no ubt of it, she is the most charming woman in the world,’ said Anna vlovna, with a smile at her own enthusiasm. ‘We belong to different mps, but that does not prevent me from appreciating her as she serves. She is very unhappy,’ added Anna Pavlovna.
Supposing that by these last words Anna Pavlovna had slightly ited the veil of mystery that hung over the countess’s illness, one wary young man permitted himself to express surprise that no well- own doctor had been called in, and that the countess should be rated by a charlatan, who might make use of dangerous remedies. ‘Your information may be better than mine,’ cried Anna Pavlovna, ling upon the inexperienced youth with sudden viciousness, ‘but I ve it on good authority that this doctor is a very learned and skilful in. He is the private physician of the Queen of Spain.’
And having thus annihilated the young man, Anna Pavlovna turned Bilibin, who was talking in another group about the Austrians, and d his forehead puckered up in wrinkles in readiness to utter un mot. ‘I think it is charming!’ he was saying of the diplomatic note which d been sent to Vienna with the Austrian flags taken by Wittgenstein, heros de Petropol,’ as he was called at Petersburg.
‘What? what was it?’ Anna Pavlovna inquired, creating a silens for the mot to be heard, though she had in fact heard it before.
And Bilibin repeated the precise words of the diplomatic despaU he had composed.
‘The Emperor sends back the Austrian flags,’ said Bilibin; ‘drapeai amis et egares qn’il a tro'uves hors de la route,’ Bilibin concluded, lettii the wrinkles run off his forehead.
‘Charming, charming!’ said Prince Vassily.
‘The road to Warsaw, perhaps,’ Prince Ippolit said loudly, to tl general surprise. Everybody looked at him, at a loss to guess what 1 meant. Prince Ippolit, too, looked about him with light-hearted wondt He had no more notion than other people what was meant by li words. In the course of his diplomatic career he had more than on noticed that words suddenly uttered in that way were accepted , highly diverting, and on every occasion he uttered in that way the fir words that chanced to come to his tongue. ‘May be, it will come out i right,’ he thought, ‘and if it doesn’t, they will know how to give son turn to it.’ And the awkward silence that reigned was in fact broki by the entrance of the personage of defective patriotism whom Am Pavlovna was 'waiting for to convert to a better mind; and smilir, and shaking her finger at Prince Ippolit, she summoned Prince Vassi to the table, and setting two candles and a manuscript before him, si begged him to begin. There was a general hush.
‘Most high and gracious Emperor and Tsar!’ Prince Vassily boomi out sternly, and he looked round at his audience as though to inqui whether any one had anything to say against that. But nobody sa anything. ‘The chief capital city, Moscow, the New Jerusalem, receiv her Messiah’—he threw a sudden emphasis on the ‘her ’—‘even as mother in the embraces of her zealous sons, and through the gatherii darkness, foreseeing the dazzling glory of thy dominion, sings aloud triumph: “Hosanna! Blessed be He that cometh!” ’
Prince Vassily uttered these last words in a tearful voice.
Bilibin scrutinised his nails attentively, and many of the audien were visibly cowed, as though wondering what they had done wron Anna Pavlovna murmured the words over beforehand, as old womi whisper the prayer to come at communion: ‘Let the base and insole Goliath . . .’ she whispered.
Prince Vassily continued:
‘Let the base and insolent Goliath from the borders of France e compass the realm of Russia with the horrors of death; lowly faith, t sling of the Russian David, shall smite a swift blow at the head of li pride that thirsteth for blood. This holy image of the most venerat Saint Sergey, of old a zealous champion of our country’s welfare, borne to your Imperial Majesty. I grieve that my failing strength hi ders me from the joy of your most gracious presence. Fervent prayo I am offering up to Heaven, and the Almighty will exalt the faithf. and fulfil in His mercy the hopes of your Majesty.’
‘Quel force! Quel style!’ was murmured in applause of the reader and te author. Roused by this appeal, Anna Pavlovna’s guests continued ir a long while talking of the position of the country, and made various srmises as to the issue of the battle to be fought in a few days.
‘You will see,’ said Anna Pavlovna, ‘that to-morrow on the Em- I ror’s birthday we shall get news. I have a presentiment of something Eiod.’
II
