The Tzarevna was followed at some distance by two maids of honour. One of them, a short, thin, sprightly brunette, struck Irena by the brightness of her black, sparkling eyes, which literally seemed to shoot forth sparks. She was gaily talking with her companion. It was Nelidova. Mischievously winking at the stout housekeeper, who was respectfully bowing to her, she said to her with a charming smile, “I’ve had no time yet, Anna Romanovna,--always that hymn; to-morrow morning.” “Ah! at last, to-morrow,” thought Irena, in ecstasy, and following with enraptured eyes the enchanting, elegant fairies, who so unexpectedly had passed before her eyes. At the appointed hour, Anna Romanovna took Irena to the pavilion of the maids of honour, not far from the guard-house, and led her into the drawing-room. “It would seem that Ekaterina Ivanovna has not yet returned from the palace of the grand-duchess,” she said; “we will wait for her here, my dear; take off your hood, it’s too warm.” “It does not matter; I’ll leave it.” The room was filled with vases, statuettes, and medallions hung on the walls. “This is all the work of the grand-duchess,” said the housekeeper. “Look here, dear, what talent! how she paints on porcelain! And look here, in this black cupboard, these ivory things, that’s her work. She can engrave also on stones, on gold, lovely _paysages_; she can also turn on the lathe, and how fond she is of Ekaterina Ivanovna! those are all presents to her. Look, she embroidered this beautiful cushion for her. Look, what a rose! and this myrtle! What a delicate design, and the colours, you might mistake it for a painting.” Irena gave no answer. “Why are you so silent, my dear? What are you thinking about?” “A rose and a myrtle,” whispered Irena, sighing; “life and death. What will be the end of all my efforts, my researches, my hopes?” At that very minute, the notes of the clavichord were heard from the room of Nelidova. A melodious splendid contralto was singing the very solemn and sad hymn from Glück’s opera, “Iphigenia in Tauridus.” “Well, Irena Lvovna, let us go; I suppose we are too late. Ekaterina Ivanovna is at her music, and no one will dare disturb her. Very likely the grand-duchess is with her now.” Irena made a sign to her companion to wait a little, and with a beating heart she listened to the so well known notes of the imploring hymn of “Iphigenia.” In past days she had herself sung that to Konsov. “Oh! if I could only implore them like that; but when will that be? They have their own cares, they have no time,” thought she, feeling that her tears were choking her. “Let us go, let us go,” said Anna Romanovna, hastily. They both went out together, went down the steps, round the pavilion of the maids of honour, and into the garden. The wicket-gate banged to. “Where are you off to?” they heard a voice gaily calling out.