piano in her _salon_, while she
listened dreamily to his interpretations or improvisation, were the
finest they knew; and wrought a beautiful pediment for their temple to
Amicitia. The difference in their natures served for each as a
stimulant. To Ivan, her sympathetic comments, frequent praise, rare
criticism, lacked absolutely nothing. Nathalie early perceived that she
was beholding a genius at work: a giant engaged upon labor too
stupendous for irreverent contemplation. And from him and his music she
gained the medicine her bruised heart and broken nerves most needed. For
Ivan, in the growth of his great love for her, unconsciously brewed an
elixir of power from which each drank, daily. So, by unavoidable
degrees, both were led unconsciously into a land from which few can
emerge still solitary. Yet that was what the gods eventually decreed for
this hapless twain.

The semi-religious festival of Christmas passed; and New Year's, the
real holiday of Europe, had arrived. Ivan, who had spent a week and sums
incredible, over gifts for the small Sophia and Katrisha, determined
also, at the last moment, on his present for Nathalie, and then passed
New Year's eve alone in his own palace, in sleepless cogitation.

Long before this time he realized that all the passion of his youth had
been renewed and increased a hundredfold: that he loved the Princess
Feodoreff as he had never loved Nathalie Dravikine. He was ready, nay,
mad, to lay himself at her feet. He dreamed, by day and by night, of the
only feasible release for her: civil divorce; to be followed, as
speedily as might be, by a marriage of the same type with him. Alexis
Feodoreff, he was convinced, would readily consent to this release; and
would offer no opposition to her plea. So far, all was easy enough. But
Nathalie: what of her? Had _she_ considered the subject? How devoutly
orthodox was she? Had she divined his heart? Was her kindness directed
towards this possible end? Finally, dared he speak, on the morrow, when
so excellent an opening would be made by his gift to her: a diamond
heart containing one priceless ruby in its centre?--Should he, by
daring, win to heaven? or should he be considered a libertine, and so
thrust back to the dull purgatory whence he had so lately risen to her?
Better risk nothing than lose all!--Whereby it may be seen that Ivan's
blood had cooled a little in the past fifteen years.

Throughout the night he fluctuated; and morning found