“Her cook, prince?” “Ye—yes, her cook, a Frenchman, abroad. She bought him a count’s title a—broad; he was a good-looking fellow enough, with little moustaches——” “And how did they get on?” “Oh, very well indeed; however, they p—arted very soon; they quarrelled about some sa—sauce. He robbed her—and bo—olted.” “Mamma, what shall I play?” asked Zina. “Better sing us something, Zina. _How_ she sings, prince! Do you like music?” “Oh, ye—yes! charming, charming. I love music pass—sionately. I knew Beethoven, abroad.” “Knew Beethoven!” cried Maria Alexandrovna, ecstatically. “Imagine, Zina, the prince knew Beethoven! Oh, prince, did you really, _really_ know the great Beethoven?” “Ye—yes, we were great friends, Beet—hoven and I; he was always taking snuff—such a funny fellow!” “What, Beethoven?” “Yes, Beethoven; or it may have been some other German fellow—I don’t know; there are a great many Germans there. I forget.” “Well, what shall I sing, mamma?” asked Zina again. “Oh Zina darling, do sing us that lovely ballad all about knights, you know, and the girl who lived in a castle and loved a troubadour. Don’t you know! Oh, prince, how I do _love_ all those knightly stories and songs, and the castles! Oh! the castles, and life in the middle ages, and the troubadours, and heralds and all. Shall I accompany you, Zina? Sit down near here, prince. Oh! those castles, those castles!” “Ye—yes, ye—yes, castles; I love ca—astles too!” observed the prince, staring at Zina all the while with the whole of his one eye, as if he would like to eat her up at once. “But, good heavens,” he cried, “that song! I know that s—song. I heard that song years—years ago! Oh! how that song reminds me of so—omething. Oh, oh.” I will not attempt to describe the ecstatic state of the prince while Zina sang. She warbled an old French ballad which had once been all the fashion. Zina sang it beautifully; her lovely face, her glorious eyes, her fine sweet contralto voice, all this went to the prince’s heart at once; and her dark thick hair, her heaving bosom, her proud, beautiful, stately figure as she sat at the piano, and played and sang, quite finished him. He never took his eyes off her, he panted with excitement. His old heart, partially revivified with champagne, with the music, and with awakening recollections (and who is there who has no beloved memories of the past?), his old heart beat faster and faster. It was long since it had last beat in this way. He was ready to fall on his knees at her feet, when Zina stopped singing, and he was almost in tears with various emotions. “Oh, my charming, charming child,” he cried, putting his lips to her fingers, “you have ra—vished me quite—quite! I remember all now. Oh charming, charming child!——” The poor prince could not finish his sentence. Maria Alexandrovna felt that the moment had arrived for her to make a move.