I was greatly agitated, and remained silent; she also paused. At last she began again, and even though so many years have elapsed, I seem to hear that low, charming contralto voice of hers,-- “Listen,”--said she. “I am a Russian princess, the daughter of your once beloved empress. It is true, is it not, that my mother, the daughter of Peter the Great, was much loved? I, both by blood and by her testament, am her only heiress.” “Yes. But you know,” I at last ventured to say, “that there now reigns the no less beloved Empress Ekaterina the Great.” “I know, I know,” interrupted the Princess, “how all powerful and idolized by her people the present empress is; and it is not for me--poor, weak, and abandoned by all, torn from the Imperial house, and from the land of my birth--to try to dispute the throne with her. I am the most devoted of her slaves.” “Then what are you seeking? what are you expecting?” I asked with astonishment. “Protection, and that my rights may be respected.” “Excuse me,” I returned; “but you must first prove your birth and your rights.” “I have the proofs here,” the Princess replied; and, hastily rising, she opened the drawer of a Buhl side-table, with silver incrustations. “Here is the testament of my grandfather, Peter I., and this one is my mother’s, Elizabeth’s.” The Princess tendered me a French version of the papers mentioned. I looked them over hastily. “But these are only copies,” said I; “mere translations.” “Oh, yes; but make your mind easy: the originals are in safe hands.… How would it be possible to carry such important documents about with me; the risk would be too great,” answered the Princess, turning her head a little from me. Then she moved to the other side of the room, where, in heavy gilt frames, hung two oil paintings: one a remarkably good copy of the portrait of the late Empress Elizabeth Petrowna, with a small crown upon her head; the other that of the Princess now standing before me. “Do you see the likeness?” she said, looking at me. “Well, yes, there is a likeness. I noticed it as soon as I came in,” I answered. “Allow me to ask how long ago that portrait was taken?” “This very year, at Venice.… The celebrated Piacetti painted my intended bridegroom’s portrait, the Prince Radzivill’s, and begged to be allowed to paint mine at the same time.” “Mysterious coincidence!” I exclaimed, with uncontrollable agitation; “we see things past all imagining. The dead rise out of their graves. There beyond the Volga the Emperor Peter III., buried in the face of all the nation;[12] here, unexpected, undivined, the daughter of the Empress Elizabeth.” “Do not, if you please, confound me with Pougachoff,” answered the Princess, slightly reddening; “although he gives himself out as the Emperor, coins his money with the legend _Redivivus et Ultor_ (the risen Avenger), still, as yet, he is only my lord-lieutenant in that part of the country.”