VII HERACLIUS OF GEORGIA A disappointed dream of love One day a new figure appeared in the princess’s circle. A man of about forty: elegant figure of medium height, regular features with a melancholy, almost gloomy expression, and a long, narrow black imperial. “My dear cousin, Prince Heraclius of Georgia—my darling Contessina, of whom I have told you so much,” said the princess, as she introduced us. The cousin from Georgia pleased me and I pleased him also. Such a thing is detected instantly. A lively conversation immediately sprang up between us. Now we met several times a day, for the prince was constantly in his cousin’s company, was invited to her rooms for all meals and for the evenings. In the evening they used to have music—what is called music: the oldest son drummed on the piano and sang all kinds of songs from the music-halls and the boulevards; the rest joined in; I rendered a few real piano pieces,—Chopin nocturnes, Mendelssohn caprices, and Liszt rhapsodies,—sang a few of the ballads that were lying around, and reaped a rich harvest of applause. I was admired day after day as a musical marvel. I liked to have the Dedopali tell me about her cousin. He was the son of the last King of Georgia; properly bore the name Bagration, just as the Russian emperors are Romanofs—he was a “Bagratide.” This designation sounded to me particularly heroic and classic. He had a palace in Tiflis and an ancient royal castle in the mountains. He lived much in Europe, but frequently went back to his home in the Caucasus, where he was still treated by the population as a king. In temperament he was melancholy rather than cheerful, the probable cause being his not altogether robust health—his yellowish complexion indicated a diseased liver. To cure such ailments he alternately drank of the waters of Homburg, Karlsbad, or Vichy. “He would cure his ailments better,” added the princess, “if he would take a young wife who would cheer him up and make him right happy, a sweet young wife like you, _ma petite Contessina_—Just try and see if you can’t turn his head a little; it has long been the wish of my heart to have him married.” Such advice turned _my_ head a little. I really found this exotic sprig of royalty, this dark Bagratide, who was at the same time a thorough _homme du monde_, in the highest degree interesting. There is yet a step from being interested to being in love, but not a very long one. The slightest occasion, and this step is taken. This is the way it happened with me (I made use of this episode many years later in my novel _Trente-et-quarante_):