ents, with a feeling of revulsion against
herself.

CHAPTER III

In 1811 there was living in Moscow a French doctor--Metivier--who had
rapidly become the fashion. He was enormously tall, handsome, amiable
as Frenchmen are, and was, as all Moscow said, an extraordinarily clever
doctor. He was received in the best houses not merely as a doctor, but
as an equal.

Prince Nicholas had always ridiculed medicine, but latterly on
Mademoiselle Bourienne's advice had allowed this doctor to visit him and
had grown accustomed to him. Metivier came to see the prince about twice
a week.

On December 6--St. Nicholas' Day and the prince's name day--all Moscow
came to the prince's front door but he gave orders to admit no one
and to invite to dinner only a small number, a list of whom he gave to
Princess Mary.

Metivier, who came in the morning with his felicitations, considered
it proper in his quality of doctor de forcer la consigne, * as he told
Princess Mary, and went in to see the prince. It happened that on that
morning of his name day the prince was in one of his worst moods. He had
been going about the house all the morning finding fault with everyone
and pretending not to understand what was said to him and not to be
understood himself. Princess Mary well knew this mood of quiet absorbed
querulousness, which generally culminated in a burst of rage, and she
went about all that morning as though facing a cocked and loaded gun and
awaited the inevitable explosion. Until the doctor's arrival the morning
had passed off safely. After admitting the doctor, Princess Mary sat
down with a book in the drawing room near the door through which she
could hear all that passed in the study.

* To force the guard.

At first she heard only Metivier's voice, then her father's, then both
voices began speaking at the same time, the door was flung open, and
on the threshold appeared the handsome figure of the terrified Metivier
with his shock of black hair, and the prince in his dressing gown and
fez, his face distorted with fury and the pupils of his eyes rolled
downwards.

"You don't understand?" shouted the prince, "but I do! French spy, slave
of Buonaparte, spy, get out of my house! Be off, I tell you..."

Metivier, shrugging his shoulders, went up to Mademoiselle Bourienne who
at the sound of shouting had run in from an adjoining room.

"The prince is not very well: bile and rush of blood to the head.
Keep calm,