men of her empire. And the Count von Brenda was a very
handsome man. He had been the favorite of Elizabeth, why should he
not also be the favorite of Catharine? The former had treated him with
motherly kindness, for she was old; but Catharine was young, and
in her proud breast there beat an ardent heart--a heart that was so
powerful and large, that it had room for more than one lover.

The young count had been for some short months the declared darling of
the empress, and the whole world did homage to him, and looked upon
it as a matter of course that Catharine should make him Prince
Stratimojeff, and bestow on him not only orders and titles, but lands
and thousands of slaves.

What a mad, intoxicating, joyous life was his! How all the world
envied the handsome, rich prince, surrounded by the halo of imperial
favor! But nevertheless a cloud lay always on his brow, and he plunged
into the sea of pleasure like one ill of fever, who seeks something to
cool the heat which is consuming him. He threw himself into the arms
of dissipation, as the criminal condemned to execution, who in the
intoxication of champagne revels away the last hours of life in order
to banish the thought that Death stands behind him, reaching forth his
hand to seize him.

Thus did the prince strive in the wild excitement of pleasure to kill
thought and deaden his heart. But there would come quiet hours to
remind him of the past, and, at times, in the middle of the night, he
would start up from his couch, as if he had heard a scream, a single
heart-piercing cry, which rang through his very soul.

But this scream existed only in his dreams, those dreams in which
Elise's pale, sad face appeared, and made him tremble before her
indignant and despairing grief. Near this light figure of his beloved
appeared another pallid woman, whose sorrowful looks tortured him,
and struck his soul with anguish. He thought he saw his wife, the late
Countess Lodoiska von Sandomir, who, with weeping eyes, demanded of
him her murdered happiness, her youth, her life.

She was dead; she had died of grief, for she had felt that the man
for whom she had sacrificed every thing--her youth, her honor, and her
duty--despised her, and could never forgive her for having cheated him
into taking her for his wife. She died the victim of his contempt and
hatred. Not suddenly, not as with a lightning-stroke, did his contempt
kill, but slowly and steadily did it pierce her heart. She b