eek with a
compliment that made Princess Shulka-Mirski scowl with displeasure--her
own daughter having received no more than the conventional
acknowledgment. Later, as Nathalie, her cheeks burning, her big eyes
cast down, backed slowly from the room, still prostrating herself at
intervals, every woman present _felt_ that little, insensible murmur of
applause that came from every member of the royal circle--the
grand-dukes indeed attempting no concealment of their admiration.

The great formality over, Mademoiselle Nathalie was bestowed upon her
own, voluntary subjects: a throng of brilliantly uniformed men, among
whom already--oh remarkable girlhood!--Nathalie's eyes were eagerly
searching, for a certain one. He was there; and presently, catching that
look, he came to her: the handsome, black-eyed cousin, whose heart was
throbbing for and with her. And her triumphant mother would have been
dismayed indeed had she known that all that evening, throughout her
unprecedented success, Nathalie had moved and spoken and blushed and
been still for one alone, whose eyes, from the moment of her entry into
the royal presence, she had felt upon her!

How this feeling had come, whence it sprang, whereon been nourished,
grown, who could say? Certainly not the maiden herself. Indeed, until
this night, she had not given Ivan his rightful place with her. But
henceforth she was to hold his image in her heart, and, sleeping and
waking, it was to be with her, her delight, her anguish, her wonderment.

Already she had given all that was in her to give. She was totally
inexperienced. But he had at last, and recently, tasted the forbidden
apple. And already there had risen in him such a host of fierce,
conflicting passions as left him half frightened at the forbidden
possibilities now thronging his heart. To-night, as he looked into the
eyes of this pure and exquisite girl, there rushed upon him all
suddenly, the real meaning of man-love; the fulness thereof; the fury of
perfected passion: the union of love and of desire.

Poor Ivan! The evening held things other than delight for him. As he sat
beside his cousin, talked to her, held her in his arms during one of the
wild, Russian mazurkas, he felt his body tremble with the terrible force
within him. And once the little form he held twisted, suddenly, in his
embrace. Nathalie cried out, and looked up at him; and he realized that
his strong clasp had hurt her. His look answered hers. Then the