The prince was waiting impatiently the arrival of Lucia at the Russian embassy. A tall, graceful man, some fifteen years older than his bride, with a somber yet gentle face, jet-black eyes and beard, and dressed to perfection. A friend on whom he could rely was his only companion. He did not at present wish his relatives or any one of his large circle of friends and acquaintances to know anything about this union. The ceremony was gone through, the necessary signatures given, and Lucia Gilardoni, widow of the man scarce above the rank of peasant, child of parents hardly equal to petty farmers, was the lawful wife of this proud Russian noble on whose arm she leaned. Exultant, yet weighed down by an inexplicable dread of approaching evil, the newly made princess swept down the aisle of the little chapel, on her way to his carriage. Suddenly she clutched the prince’s arm, and drew back, as if horror-stricken. With her disengaged hand she pointed to a dim corner, her great black eyes widely opened, the pupils distended. The prince looked to see what caused her overwhelming terror. Nothing was visible, as far as he could descry. “What is it, my dearest love?” he tenderly asked, stooping to gaze into her pallid face. “There--_there_!” she whispered. “He is there. They said he was dead. They pretended I killed him. But he is there. He is not dead--or is it his spirit?” “Of whom do you speak, my own dear one?” asked the prince. “My husband--Gilardoni. He stands there, and gazes at me with eyes of fire. Is he dead or living?” She continued to point with her finger, her arm stretched out, her neck craned, her eyes full of a horror too great for words. “There is no one here but ourselves,” said the prince, a vivid terror seizing on his heart with a viselike grip. The others regarded her with consternation, but could not venture to obtrude themselves on her notice--the prince’s friend, and the girl Finette. A deathly silence succeeded. The bride dropped her pointing finger, while retaining her clutch on her newly wedded husband’s arm, but she continued to gaze at the phantom conjured up by her disordered fancy. “He is gone,” she whispered, with a great, gulping sigh. “Did you not see? He melted away into the shadows. Take me away before he returns.” The prince hurried her to the door, then down the steps, and into his carriage. His friend placed the girl Finette in her mistress’ carriage and directed the coachman to take her as quickly as his horses would go to the Hotel Fleury, in the Rue de Richelieu, where the newly married couple were to sojourn in a magnificent suite of apartments for a couple of days previous to starting for Switzerland.