The Daughter of an Empress

"I will make myself intelligible to you," said he, in a milder tone.

"You must understand, that I know you, Corilla. That assassin who

followed the Princess Tartaroff at the festival of Cardinal Bernis, was

employed by you, Signora Maddalena Morelli Fernandez, called Corilla!"

"And what if it were true, Signor Alexis Orloff, called the handsome

Northern Hercules?" asked she, roguishly imitating his grave

seriousness. "If it were really true, what further?"

Alexis looked in her face with an expression of astonishment. "You are

wonderfully bold!" said he.

"None but slaves are without courage!" responded she. "Freedom is the

mother of boldness!"

"You do not, then, deny the hiring of that bravo?"

"I only deny your right to inquire," said she.

"I have a right to it," he responded with vehemence. "This Princess

Tartaroff is a subject of the Empress of Russia, my mistress, who

watches over and protects all her subjects with maternal tenderness."

"That good, tender empress!" exclaimed Corilla, with an ambiguous

smile. "But in order properly to watch and preserve all her children and

subjects, she should keep them in her own country. Take this Princess

Tartaroff with you to Russia, and then she will be safe from our Italian

daggers. Take her with you; that will be the best way!"

"You, then, very heartily hate this poor little princess?" asked Alexis,

laughing.

"Yes," said she, after a short reflection, "I hate her. And would you

know why, signor? Not for her beauty, not for her youth, but for her

talents! And she has great talents! Ah, there was a time when I hated

her, although I knew her not. But now, now it is different. I now not

only hate, but fear her! For she can rival me, not only in love, but in

fame! Ah, you should have seen her on that evening! She was like a swan

to look at, and her song was like the dying strains of the swan. And

all shouted applause, and all the women wept; indeed, I myself wept,

not from emotion, but with rage, with bitterness, for they had

forgotten me--forgotten, for this new poetess; they overwhelmed her with

flatteries, leaving me alone and unnoticed! And yet you ask me if I hate

her!"

Quite involuntarily had she suffered herself to be carried away by

her own vehemence, her inward glowing rage. With secret pleasure Count

Orloff read in her features that this was no comedy which she thus

improvised, but was truth and reality.

"If you so think and feel," said he, "then we may soon understand

each other, signora. A real hatred is of as much value as a real love;

indeed, often of much greater. One can more safely confide in hatred,

as it is more enduring. I will therefore confide in you, signora, if you

will swear to me to betray no word of what I shall tell you."