The Genius | Page 6

and a boy
entered.
Sophia rose, hastily. "Ivan! You were asleep two hours ago!"
"But I woke up. And Másha said you were so splendid with the
diamonds all on, that I came to see." He looked up at his mother, his
big, black eyes shining with interest as he inspected her unusual array.
His aunt, sharper-eyed than her sister, perceived that, under his
eider-down wrapper, the boy wore no night-flannel, but a more or less
complete suit of day-clothes. She said nothing, however, for, though
she had no love for children, Ivan was quiet enough to have won her
liking.
"Eh bien, mon fils, tu m'as vu. Allez vous en! Retournez
immédiatement au lit. Tu vas prendre un rhume! Allez! Vite!"
Laughing, she kissed the boy--nor had far to stoop to reach his lips.
Then, with a gentle hand, she led him back to the door. The boy moved
reluctantly, and, ere he left the room, caught his mother round the neck
and whispered in her ear a question which was answered by a
determined shake of the head.
When he had gone, the Princess stood for an instant looking after him,
all her heart in her unconscious eyes. Then, her eyes shining with a
softened light, she turned again to her sister, saying, with a smile:
"Come, Katrelka, let us go down. The opera must be over by this time;
and I must see the rooms before the first arrival."
"Just one moment more, then, Moussia." Madame Dravikine rose,

crossed the room, and laid her hand caressingly on the other's arm. "If
Michael Petrovitch should be out of temper when we meet him, do not
be disturbed. Do not, for the sake of our family, Sophie, betray yourself
by--by your face--to-night. Remember, if the scene should grow
unbearable I can always--"
"Yes, yes, Kasha. Thank you. But let us not speak of it further--just
now."
A moment's silence. Then suddenly, by a common impulse, the two
women threw themselves into each other's arms and kissed fervently.
When they had separated again, the eyes of the Countess were no less
suspiciously wet than those of her sister, the wife of Michael
Gregoriev.
It was a pity that functions of formal magnificence were affairs of such
rarity in the Gregoriev palace; for no private dwelling in Russia was
better adapted to the purpose. The grand entrance opened into a hall of
royal dimensions, at the back of which rose a massive staircase, which,
ascending to a broad marble landing, separated there into two parts, one
of which wound upward to the right, the other to the left, to the upper
floor. Upon this landing, facing the hall below, stood the figure of a
Diana carved from Carrara marble, its exquisite Greek curves wreathed
to-night in smilax and white roses, brought up from the southern estates
of the Prince.
As the sisters descended the stairs together, each critically surveying
the decorations of the rooms below, Prince Michael himself appeared
from the direction of the great dining-room, accompanied by his
major-domo, to whom he was giving some final orders concerning the
reception of his Imperial Majesty.
A remarkable man was Michael Petrovitch, Prince Gregoriev;
nominally a chief of the Third Section under Ryeléff; actually head of
the secret police of the whole Moscow district; confidential adviser of
the royal Governor-General; and privately and intimately known to the
Czar, who had long been aware that he had at least one man in his
Empire who would balk at no order that should be given him.

In Prince Michael, as so seldom happens, the story of the mind was
plainly written upon the body. Six feet three inches he stood in his
stockings--two inches more in his regular dress; his head large in
proportion, and finely shaped; eyes black, glittering, and unfaceable;
mustache jet-black and upstanding, as if made of wire, from the set,
ugly mouth, below which jutted a square, blue-shaven chin. And the
appearance thus presented was not to be overshadowed, in any feature,
by the magnificence of the uniform he wore to-night. Tunic and
trousers were of heavy white cloth, the first garment so long, and so
heavily embroidered in gold, that his body seemed cased in a glittering
sheath down to where the edge of the coat met the top of the boots of
softly wrinkling black, that cased his legs almost to the thigh. On his
breast were ranged half a dozen orders; conspicuous among them that
of St. George, for gallant conduct on the field of action, won years
before in the streets of thrice-sacked Warsaw.
As the two women halted, Gregoriev finished his orders; and, turning
from the cringing serf, stood staring at his wife and her sister. Madame
Dravikine was smiling brightly; but Sophia's face was set, her