“Princess Anna hid everything from me also, until the very last.  How dare I tell you?  Would you have believed me?  It was not my business, your excellency!”

The old princess shook her head, smiling bitterly and incredulously.

“Snake!” she hissed fiercely, looking at the girl; and then she added quickly: 

“Did any of the others know?”

“No one but myself!” answered Natasha.

“Never dare to speak of her again!  Never dare!” cried the old princess, and once more she sank back unconscious on the pillows.

About noon the next day she again came to herself, and ordered her son to be called.  He came in quietly, and affectionately approached his mother.

The princess dismissed her maid, and remained alone with her son.

“You have no longer a sister!” she cried, turning to her son, with the nervous spasm which returned each time she spoke of her daughter.  “She is dead for us!  She has disgraced us!  I curse her!  You, you alone are my heir!”

At these words the young prince pricked up his ears and bent even more attentively toward his mother.  The news of his sole heirship was so pleasant and unexpected that he did not even think of asking how his sister had disgraced them, and only said with a deep sigh: 

“Oh, mamma, she was always opposed to you.  She never loved you!”

“I shall make a will in your favor,” continued the princess, telling him as briefly as possible of Princess Anna’s flight.  “Yes, in your favor—­only on one condition:  that you will never recognize your sister.  That is my last wish!”

“Your wish is sacred to me,” murmured her son, tenderly kissing her hand.  He had always been jealous and envious of his sister, and was besides in immediate need of money.

The princess signed her will that same day, to the no small satisfaction of her dear son, who, in his heart, was wondering how soon his beloved parent would pass away, so that he might get his eyes on her long-hoarded wealth.

II

THE LITHOGRAPHER’S APPRENTICE

Later on the same day, in a little narrow chamber of one of the huge, dirty tenements on Vosnesenski Prospekt, sat a young man of ruddy complexion.  He was sitting at a table, bending toward the one dusty window, and attentively examining a white twenty-five ruble note.

The room, dusty and dark, was wretched enough.  Two rickety chairs, a torn haircloth sofa, with a greasy pillow, and the bare table at the window, were its entire furniture.  Several scattered lithographs, two or three engravings, two slabs of lithographer’s stone on the table, and engraver’s tools sufficiently showed the occupation of the young man.  He was florid, with red hair; of Polish descent, and his name was Kasimir Bodlevski.  On the wall, over the sofa, between the overcoat and the cloak hanging on the wall, was a pencil drawing of a young girl.  It was the portrait of Natasha.