Such was the vision of beauty of which Prince Milan caught his first glimpse on the promenade at Nice in the winter of 1875, and which haunted him, day and night, until chance brought their paths together again, and he won her consent to share his throne.  That such a high destiny awaited her, Natalie had already been told by a gipsy whom she met one day in the woods of her father’s estate near Moscow—­a meeting of which the following story is told.

At sight of the beautiful young girl the gipsy stooped in homage and kissed the hem of her dress.  “Why do you do that?” asked Natalie, half in alarm and half in pleasure.  “Because,” the woman answered, “I salute you as the chosen bride of a great Prince.  Over your head I see a crown floating in the air.  It descends lower and lower until it rests on your head.  A dazzling brilliance adorns the crown; it is a Royal diadem.”

“What else?” asked Natalie eagerly, her face flushed with excitement and delight.  “Oh! do tell me more, please!” “What more shall I say,” continued the gipsy, “except that you will be a Queen, and the mother of a King; but then—­”

“But then, what?” exclaimed the eager and impatient girl; “do go on, please.  What then?” and she held out a gold coin temptingly.  “I see a large house; you will be there, but—­take care; you will be turned out by force....  And now give me the coin and let me go.  More I must not tell you.”

Such were the dazzling and mysterious words spoken by the gipsy woman in the Russian forest, a year or more before Natalie first saw the Prince who was destined to make them true.  But it was not at Nice that opportunity came to Milan.  It was an accidental meeting in Paris, some months later, that made his path clear.  During a visit to the French capital he met a young Servian officer, a distant kinsman, one Alexander Konstantinovitch, who confided to him, over their wine and cigarettes, the story of his infatuation for the daughter of a Russian colonel, who at the time was staying with her aunt, the Princess Murussi.  He raved of her beauty and her charm, and concluded by asking the Prince to accompany him that he might make the acquaintance of the Lieutenant’s bride-to-be.

Arrived at their destination, the Prince and his companion were graciously received by the Princess Murussi, but Milan had no eyes for the dignified lady who gave him such a flattering reception; they were drawn as by a magnet to the girl by her side—­“a child with a woman’s grace and an angel’s soul smiling in her eyes”; the incarnation of his dreams, the very girl whose beauty, though he had caught but one passing glimpse of it, had so intoxicated his brain a few months earlier at Nice.

“Allow me,” said the Lieutenant, “to introduce to Your Highness Natalie Ketschko, my affianced wife.”  Milan’s face flushed with surprise and anger at the words.  What was this trick that had been played on him?  Had Konstantinovitch then brought him here only to humiliate him?  But before he could recover from his indignation and astonishment, the Princess said chillingly, “Pardon me, Monsieur Konstantinovitch, you are not speaking the truth.  My niece, Colonel Ketschko’s daughter, is not your affianced wife.  You are too premature.”