our Emperor Alexander, and he, too, was laying himself out for successes in fashionable life exclusively—as it seemed. As it seemed.

‘One afternoon Tomassov called on the mistress of his thoughts rather earlier than usual. She was not alone. There was a man with her, not one of the thick-waisted, bald-headed personages but a somebody all the same, a man of over thirty, a French officer who to some extent was also a privileged intimate. Tomassov was not jealous of him. Such a sentiment would have appeared presumptuous to the simple fellow.

‘On the contrary—he admired the officer. You have no idea of the French military man’s prestige in those days, even with us Russian soldiers who had managed to face them perhaps better than the rest. Victory had marked them on the forehead—it seemed for ever. They would have been more than human if they had not been conscious of it, but they were good comrades, and had a sort of brotherly feeling for all who bore arms, even if it was against them.

‘And this was quite a superior example, an officer on the Major-General’s staff and a man of the best society besides. He was powerfully built and thoroughly masculine though he was as carefully groomed as a woman. He had the courteous self-possession of a man of the world. His forehead, white as alabaster, contrasted impressively with the healthy colour of his face.

‘I don’t know whether he was jealous of Tomassov, but I suspect that he may have been a little annoyed at him as at a sort of walking absurdity of the sentimental order. But those men of the world are impenetrable; and outwardly he condescended to recognise Tomassov’s existence even more distinctly than was strictly necessary. Once or twice he offered him some useful worldly advice with perfect tact and measure. Tomassov became completely conquered by that kindness piercing through the cold polish of the best society.

‘Tomassov, introduced into the petit salon,^* found these two exquisite people sitting together, and became aware that he had interrupted some special conversation. They looked at him strangely he thought; but he was not made to feel that he had intruded. After a time the lady said to the officer—his name was de Castel, “I wish you would take the trouble to ascertain the exact truth as to that rumour.”

‘ “It’s rather more than a rumour” remarked the officer. But he got up submissively and went out. She turned to Tomassov and said “You must stay.”

‘This express command made him supremely happy, though as a matter of fact he had had no idea of going.

‘She regarded him with her still kindly glances, which made something grow and expand within his chest. It was a delicious feeling, even if it did cut one’s breath short now and then. Ecstatically he drank in the sound of her tranquil seductive talk full of innocent gaiety and spiritual quietude. His passion appeared to him to flame up and envelop her in blue fiery tongues, from head to foot and over her head, while her soul reposed in the centre like a big white rose …

‘H’m. Good this. He told me many other things like that, but this is the one I remember. As to himself he remembered everything because these were his last memories of that woman. He was seeing her for the last time, though he did not know it then.

‘Mr de Castel returned, breaking into that atmosphere of sortilege Tomassov had been drinking in even to complete unconsciousness of the external world. Even at that painful moment Tomassov could not help being struck by the distinction of his movements, the ease of his manner, his superiority to himself. And he suffered from it. It occurred to him that these brilliant beings were made for each other.