“And who told you you are an old man? Who taught you that nonsense? Do men like you ever grow old? You, with your wealth of taste and wit, and animation and vital energy and brilliant manners! Just you make your appearance at some watering-place abroad with a young wife on your arm—some lovely young girl like my Zina, for instance—of course I merely mention her as an example, nothing more,—and you will see at once what a colossal effect you will produce: you, a scion of our aristocracy; she a beauty among beauties! You will lead her triumphantly on your arm; she, perhaps, will sing in some brilliant assemblage; you will delight the company with your wit. Why, all the people of the place will crowd to see you! All Europe will ring with your renown, for every newspaper and feuilleton at the Waters will be full of you. And yet you say, ‘If I could but _venture_ to _hope_,’ indeed!” “The feuilletons! yes—ye—yes, and the newspapers,” said the prince, growing more and more feeble with love, but not understanding half of Maria Alexandrovna’s tall talk. “But, my child, if you’re not tired, do repeat that song which you have just sung so cha—armingly once more.” “Oh! but, Prince, she has other lovely songs, still prettier ones; don’t you remember _L’Hirondelle_? You must have heard it, haven’t you?” “Ye—yes, I remember it; at least I’ve for—gotten it. No, no! the one you have just sung. I don’t want the Hir—ondelle! I want that other song,” whined the prince, just like any child. Zina sang again. This time the prince could not contain himself; he fell on his knees at her feet, he cried, he sobbed: “Oh, my beautiful _chatelaine_!” he cried in his shaky old voice—shaky with old age and emotion combined. “Oh, my charming, charming _chatelaine_! oh, my dear child! You have re—minded me of so much that is long, long passed! I always thought then that things must be fairer in the future than in the present. I used to sing duets with the vis—countess in this very ballad! And now, oh! I don’t know what to do, I don’t know _what_ to do!” The prince panted and choked as he spoke; his tongue seemed to find it difficult to move; some of his words were almost unintelligible. It was clear that he was in the last stage of emotional excitement. Maria Alexandrovna immediately poured oil on the fire. “Why, Prince, I do believe you are falling in love with my Zina,” she cried, feeling that the moment was a solemn one. The prince’s reply surpassed her fondest expectations. “I am madly in love with her!” cried the old man, all animated, of a sudden. He was still on his knees, and he trembled with excitement as he spoke. “I am ready to give my life for her! And if only I could hope, if only I might have a little hope—I,—but, lift me up; I feel so weak. I—if only she would give me the hope that I might offer her my heart, I—she should sing ballads to me every day; and I could look at her, and look and gaze and gaze at her.——Oh, my God! my God!”