richly decorated. Nothing more splendid than that suite of public rooms had ever come under my eye. The Countess was sitting in the central saloon, some of the company had already arrived, others were coming in. I heard the roll of carriages, the hum of voices, the rustle of silks; the novelty of the scene rather confused me, but I was determined to prove that I was clever enough to act my part. There might be a great stake to win or lose that evening, so I walked straight up to Madame Czarinski, made the bows which had been extensively practised for the occasion, saw in an opposite mirror that it was well done, and would have retired to a seat, when, to my utter amazement, she sprang from her velvet sofa, uttered a half-scream, threw her arms round my neck, and kissed me on both cheeks. I did whatever she bade me, which she did of course by signs, played cards with three old ladies, danced with two young ones, handed herself to the supper table, and felt myself in fairyland. At last, the company began to disperse. The Countess whispered to me that I had better get home; my own clothes were in the dressing-room, and the footman would show me out. I went up accordingly, redressed, was shown out at the back gate, found my way to the lane, and got in by the broken conservatory, but couldn’t fall asleep until about half-an-hour before the great bell summoned us all to our place of business. I had come to a new life in this strange northern climate. Madame Czarinski was the first woman I had ever seriously thought of, and how could I help it under the circumstances. The very next day McDiddle went out, saying that he should be away until night, and I was busily engaged with my ledger, when, with the same creak, rustle, and knock, in came the Countess. She made no excuse, did not inquire for McDiddle, but sat down at once, and began talking to me; asked me how I liked her party, what I thought of the ladies, did I know what any of them had said of me, and would I like to come again? I did my best to answer in a truthful manner; I also took occasion to insinuate my surprise at her own behaviour, and the general notice taken of me by the company.
“Oh, yes,” said she, “I received you as an old friend; that is the best passport to society.”
She congratulated me on appearing to such advantage, and advised me not to let any one else know that I was not dumb till she taught me French. “Then,” said she, “the recovery of your speech will be so interesting; but I am forgetting that I want you to write something in my album. You are to write some English poetry, anything you like from Shakespeare or Byron, within that border of forget-me-nots. It will be a specimen of your handwriting and your taste, for me to keep when you have gone back to England, and forgotten me.”
“I will never forget you, Madame,” said I; and I was going to deliver a short speech, when she rose, held her hand up warningly, and said: “Hush! there is some one coming. I must go. Bring the book with you to-morrow evening. I won’t send the carriage, it might attract attention. Good-bye, my dear young friend.”
With all the care and precision requisite for such a task, I copied a passage from Romeo and Juliet, into the ivory album. It was intended to indicate my private sentiments. I don’t think I was actually in love, but Madame Czarinski, though some years older than myself, was a young, fair, and wealthy widow.
I copied the passage, and I went to the party. I got arrayed, rang the bell, was inspected by the countess, conducted to the drawing-room, and presented to more company.
If Madame had given me a quiet interview with herself in one of the back rooms, where I might get up courage enough to make a declaration, it would have been very satisfactory to my wishes; but she called me her dear young friend—what better signs of a tender interest could any man expect? I was weighing the whole subject in my mind when Madame Czarinski entered. The usual remarks and inquiries about her last party having passed, she began to compliment me on the elegance of my handwriting, and I made a bold attempt to direct her attention to the moaning of the passage written, and its suitability to my particular case.
“Ah! they are moving,” said the Countess, with a very embarrassed look. “You should not have written them—I must not hear such things. You do not know all. I am an unhappy woman.” Here she sighed deeply.
“You unhappy, Madame,” said I, coming a step or two nearer, for I thought it a good opportunity.
“Yes,” said the Countess, casting her eyes to the ground. “But do not ask me; I cannot tell you. Yet you are the only person upon whom I can depend.” Her eyes were raised now; and, looking me keenly in the face, she said, “Will you do me a service?”
“At the risk of my life, Madame,” said I.
“I believe you,” she replied; “but fortunately there is no such risk requisite. All I want you to do is to make a fair copy of this paper. You see,” she added, spreading it open before me, “it is a law paper, absolutely necessary in a very important suit, one which may result in riches or ruin. Family reasons make it unadvisable to entrust such a paper to any clerk or lawyer. You are the only man in the world from whom I could ask such a service, and to your honour and discretion I can trust for keeping the secret. When do you think you can get it finished?”
“To-morrow,” said I, glancing hastily over the paper. It was large, a folio sheet of parchment, and written in the old Sclavonic character.
“Well,” replied the Countess, “to-morrow evening bring it to my house. The footman will admit you at the back gate, and I will explain everything to you in my boudoir. Be particular in copying this,” and she pointed to some words like a signature at the end of the paper. “Good-bye, I must go.”
I copied the paper with great attention to accurate transcription and strict secresy. There was some difficulty in matching the parchment and copying the signature, but I managed it at last. The work cost me a sleepless night, but it was finished in good time. No one could have told the difference between the copy and the