Part 2

“If you had not heard something of me, I should have told you nothing. Why should we ask questions about each other? We meet to-day, art students in a Paris atelier, and we shall part to-morrow. What have we to do with formalities? Of you I know that you are a young American studying painting here, and I think, in a way, sympathetic to me. I am content to know that, and no more, of you. Do you feel the same about me?”

Martha replied eagerly in the affirmative, and in five minutes the two had come to a perfect understanding. The girl felt her awe at being in “the presence” gradually fading away,

as this winning young woman sat and talked with her on a footing of friendly equality. It was after a short silence between them that the princess said:

“There are one or two things that it will be necessary for you to know--that is, if you like me well enough to come to see me, as I hope you do. I am living in the Rue Presbourg, and when you come to see me, you are to ask for the apartment of the Princess Mannernorff. You will come, will you not?”

“Oh, if you will only let me, it will be my greatest happiness!” said Martha. “I can’t understand what has made you so good to me!”

“Simply, I like you. It isn’t hard to understand. I’ve noticed you a long time, and I’ve liked you more and more. I like your manner; I like your face; I like your devotion to your work; and I like your work.”

“My work! My scratching and smudging, you mean! Oh, how _can_ you notice it or care for it when you look at yours? Every one must see that Etienne knows that you are his best pupil. He does not speak to any one as he does to you, and you must know as well as I that it is not because you are a princess.”

“Yes, of course; I know that perfectly well. But I fancy that Etienne, in his little critical heart, feels that he hasn’t got out of me what he looked for at first. At least, I have that idea; and you see I have studied enough, compared with you, to be a great deal further ahead of you than I am. I have digged and delved for that treasure more than you realize. I hope to do something tolerable some day; but I’m not as confident about it as I used to be, and I fear Etienne is not, either. Oh, I _wish_ I could!”

She said this with such fervor, and followed it by such a wistful sigh, that Martha, who had not yet taken in the idea that the princess might not be the all-fortunate creature she imagined, felt a sudden protest against the thought of her wishing for anything vainly.

“Surely you will!” she said. “I can’t imagine your wanting anything very much without getting it.”

The princess laughed, throwing up her chin, and looking at Martha with an indulgent smile.

“You can’t?” she exclaimed. “Well, if you take the trouble to continue my acquaintance, you will find that I’ve missed pretty much everything in life that I very greatly wanted. It is sad, but true.”

Martha did not answer, but she looked as if she would like to speak out something that was on her mind, and her companion saw this, and said:

“What is it? Speak! I give you full permission.”

“It was nothing,” said Martha, rather confusedly. “I was wondering about you--as, of course, I can’t help doing. I don’t want to be told things, however. I would far rather imagine how they are.”

“Very, very sensible. I see that I shall like you more and more. There are a few things, however, which it will be well for you to know. For instance,”--she paused, with a slight look of reluctance, and then went on rapidly,--“no doubt you wonder whether I am married.”

Martha’s eyes confirmed her.

A cloud seemed to have settled with surprising suddenness upon the face of the princess. She looked fixedly at the passing prospect outside the window as, after a moment of difficult silence, she said almost brusquely:

“I am a widow.” Then she turned and looked at Martha. “You will understand, for the future,” she went on more naturally, “my wish for silence on this subject. I am living temporarily in Paris with my aunt. I used to know French society well, but I am out of it now, and I don’t regret it. Painting is the only thing I really care for--that, and music, and some books; some, but not many. Books give such false ideas of life. I think it was what I read in books that led me to expect so much. I was not to be convinced but that all the happiness I imagined was quite possible; and when it would not come to me, I thought there was a force in me which could compel it. As a rule, I’ve given that idea up; but there are times even yet when it rises and conquers me. I know it is very foolish, and that experience cures one of such feelings, but I’m not altogether cured yet, in spite of hard and repeated blows.”

Martha had listened with intense interest, and now, as her companion paused, she felt that she ought to volunteer, on her part, some sort of sketch of herself and her surroundings.

“I don’t care to tell you anything about myself,” she said, “because it’s so uninteresting. My father has been dead a great many years; mama is delicate; and we live in Paris so that I may study painting and the younger girls may have lessons. We go to America for the summers. My brother is the eldest of us, and he lives there. The younger girls are pretty, and mama wishes them to go into society and to be admired. She used also to wish this for me, but she saw how I hated it, and how little chance I had in it, so she lets me alone now, particularly since I got Harold to speak to her.”

“Are you sure that she would not disapprove of your friendship with me, knowing of me only the little that you are able to tell her?”

“Yes; I’m certain of it. She wouldn’t mind. She knows I never get into mischief. I feel perfectly free to do as I choose about this, and I don’t mean to mention you to any one--not because there would be any objection, but because you are too sacred to me, and if you let me be your friend, I can’t share that knowledge and possession with any one.”

Martha was determined to say this, but she did not accomplish it without a good deal of hesitation and embarrassment. Her companion looked at her with a sort of wondering scrutiny.

“Where do you get that earnest, concentrated nature, I wonder--so different from mine!” she said. “Does it go with the American character? Your words are very foolish, child; but it is so long since any one has held me sacred that I am ridiculously touched by it.”

There was something that looked like rising tears in the beautiful eyes of the princess; but a gay little laugh soon banished the shadow from both her face and her voice. Suddenly she sat upright and said:

“Suppose you come home with me now! I want you to learn the ways of the place, so that you may come and go as you please. Will you come with me there to-day?”

Martha agreed at once, and with evident satisfaction the princess leaned out of the window, and gave the address to the cabman.

III

Martha felt herself in a dream of delight as she descended from the cab, and, following the princess into the courtyard of a large apartment-house in the Rue Presbourg, mounted the stairs at her side.

Their ring was answered by a foreign-looking man-servant, to whom the princess spoke in a tongue which Martha recognized as Russian, but of which she understood not a word. She saw, however, that it related to herself; for the servant, who wore a curious and elaborate livery, looked at her and bowed.

“I have been telling him,” explained the princess, “that whenever you come you are to be brought at once to my private sitting-room, whether I am at home to other people or not. If it should chance that I cannot see you,--an unlikely thing, for I generally do what I want, and I shall always want to see you,--my maid can bring you word there. You see, I am not going to take any risk of having you turned away from my door.”

The antechamber into which they had been admitted was charmingly furnished, not at all in the French style; and there was something in the whole environment of the princess which commended itself strongly to Martha’s artistic taste. Everything that she saw, as she passed along, deepened this impression. She followed her companion in excited silence through the antechamber, and into the large and sunny salon, where two persons were sitting.

One was a little old lady with very white hair, elaborately arranged under a queer-looking lace cap fastened with jeweled pins; the other was a dark and severely dressed woman, who, Martha at once saw, was a sort of companion or maid. As the princess approached, this woman rose and courtesied. The old lady looked up, with some surprise in her placid face, and immediately laid down her embroidery, and took up a silver ear-trumpet, holding out her other hand to the princess.

The latter bent, and kissed the proffered fingers lightly, and then, raising her voice a little, uttered several sentences in Russian into the trumpet, at the same time indicating Martha in a way that made her understand that this was an introduction. The girl also bent, and kissed the hand now extended to her, and then the princess led her away.

“My poor aunt is so deaf,” she said, “that it is almost impossible to talk to her, and I could not go into any long explanation about you. She never interferes with me, however, and no questions will be asked. Come now to my own room.”

Martha, following her companion, found herself in a small boudoir opening into a bedroom. The door of the latter was open, and the two apartments gave an impression which she told herself she could best describe by the word lovable. The musical instruments stood open. The lounges and chairs seemed to have taken the shapes of their occupants. Flowers that looked as if they had been willingly plucked were all about in vases. Well-worn volumes and drawing-books were scattered about, and some of the princess’s atelier studies were placed against the walls on the floor. Martha, who could hardly believe in her good fortune in having received even the smallest notice from the princess, was yet more bewildered and delighted when the latter crossed the little boudoir, and led her into the bedroom.

Here the French maid whom Martha had seen at the atelier sat sewing. She stood up, evidently surprised. As she courtesied, and came forward to take her lady’s wraps, the latter hastily threw her cloak to her, and then, striking her hands together with a quick little clap, said:

“Va-t’en, Félicie!”

The maid smiled. She and her mistress evidently understood each other well. Deftly gathering up her work, she left the room, and Martha found herself alone with her divinity, in the privacy of her own bedroom. She felt quite foolishly happy. Perhaps the princess saw it, for she said, with her bewildering smile:

“You like it, do you not? You needn’t explain. I see you do, just as I saw that you liked me, without your saying a word. I am so glad.”

“_Like_ you!” said Martha, protestingly. “Oh!”

Then the princess came and stood in front of the young girl, and put her arms around

her neck, clasping her long hands at the back, and looking down at her.

“It will be quite safe, I see,” she said, still smiling, “for me to make my confession to you, and own that I was drawn to you in quite an extraordinary way. I really did not mean to go so fast, however; and if I had stopped to think, I should probably not have proposed to you to take this drive with me. But for once I am glad that I did not stop to think. My impetuosity is generally my bane in everything. This time I feel that it has brought me a blessing. I can prove to you that it is not my habit to go out to strangers in this way by the fact that I am so friendless. I have no intimate friend in Paris, though I know scores of people here. If I like you, and want to see more of you, and you have the same feeling toward me, why should we not indulge ourselves? Very well! So we will!” and she bent, and kissed Martha on the cheek.

The girl’s heart quivered with joy; but she could find no words in which to express it, so she was quite silent. She felt herself very stupid as she let the princess take off her wraps and hat, and lead her to a seat.

“Now,” said the lovely lady, “as I am one of those people who must be comfortable before they can be happy, I am going to put on a loose gown. No excuses necessary, I know.”

She disappeared for a moment, and came back in an exquisite garment of pale-blue silk with borderings of dark fur. She had seemed to Martha very splendid and beautiful before, but now she was so winning, so sweet, so adorable, that the young girl felt her whole heart glow with delight as, with a long-drawn sigh of ease, the princess threw herself on the lounge at her side.

“Now,” she said, as her hand closed on Martha’s, “talk to me.”

Poor Martha! What could she say? Her gratefulness for this unexpected confidence and friendliness moved her almost to tears, but she was silent.

“Talk to me, Martha,” said the princess, coaxingly. “I may call you that, may I not?”

She called it “Mart’a,” with her pretty foreign utterance; and Martha thought her homely name had suddenly become adorable. But she could not even tell this to the princess. How dull and stupid she was! Her consent must have shown itself in her eyes, however, for the princess went on:

“I can’t call you Martha unless you call me by my name, too. Will you? I have a fancy to hear you say it now. Will you call me by my little Russian name--Sonia?”

It was evident that the girl’s silence did not offend her. She must have understood its basis, for she said, with an encouraging smile:

“Say it. Say ‘Sonia.’”

“Oh, you are too good to me!” exclaimed Martha. “You spoke of knowing that I liked you. I don’t _like_ you--I _love_ you! I don’t _love_ you--I _adore_ you! O _Sonia_!” and the girl actually slipped from the low chair to her knees beside the lounge.

The princess jumped to her feet, and with strong hands lifted Martha to hers; then holding both the girl’s hands, and stretching her arms apart to their full length, as their two faces were drawn together thus, she kissed Martha with affectionate warmth.

“What a dear thing you are!” she said. “How good it is to see some one who can really feel! How tired one gets of the _fin-de-siècle_ spirit in both women and men! Bless you, my Martha! You have come to be a great joy in my life. I feel that we are going to be friends for always--do you?”

“Oh, if you will let me! If you will only not be disappointed in me! I am afraid to speak, afraid to breathe almost, for fear that you will find out that I am only a poor, commonplace little creature, in whom your goodness has made you see something which does not exist. Oh, I _pray_ I may not disappoint you! And yet how can I dare to hope?”

“Listen, Martha,” said the princess in a matter-of-fact tone, as she drew the other down to a seat beside her on the lounge; “let us take each other quite simply, and not promise anything. We will just agree to be perfectly natural with each other--just to be ourselves. If you continue to like me, and I you, it is all right. If not, we shall have broken no pledges and done each other no wrong. Now, with that basis to go upon, we can both feel natural and satisfied. Only don’t cover up your real self to me, for you may be concealing just what I love, and pretending what I hate. It is because you are different from others that I have been so drawn to you. Now don’t try to be like other people, and ruin everything.”

“Oh, I feel I can be myself with you. I feel I can tell you everything that is in my heart, and talk of things that I have never been able to speak of to others. How beautiful it is! How strange that such a relationship between two women can come about here in Paris in this age of the world!”

“It could not if we were Parisians; but both of us being foreign to this atmosphere, it can. I love your being an American. I felt sure you were even before I asked Etienne.”

“And did he tell you? I have always understood that he never answered questions about his students.”

“So have I; but I asked him all the same, and he told me who you were. I had quite fancied you before, and after that I fancied you still more, as I love the ideal of the American, a creature newer from Nature’s hands, and nearer to her heart, than we of the Old World; and, fortunately or otherwise, I have known too few of your people either to confirm or contradict this idea. So now I think I shall go on liking you. And how is it with you? Do you think you will not be disappointed in me?”

Her beautiful lips widened in a smile of broad amusement that made her eyes twinkle. Martha looked at her with a speechless adoration which she could not have been so dense as to misunderstand.

“How delightful!” said the princess. “It has been so long since I have permitted myself the luxury of a friend that my appetite for one is all the keener.”

She had thrown herself back on the lounge, and as Martha sat down by her, the princess again took her hand, saying as she did so:

“Now I will tell you two things about myself at the outset of our acquaintance: one is that I love to ask questions; the other is that I hate to be questioned. Will you remember these facts, and will you be as frank with me if I do what you don’t like? I am very nearly certain that we shall get on together admirably, for the reason that I know you have no vulgar curiosity about me or my affairs. You have sense enough to be convinced by one look at my aunt, if there were nothing else, that I am respectable. Now I am pretty confident that you have an impulse to talk out freely to me, and to answer any questions that I may choose to put--all the more so because your general habit is one of strict reserve.”

The princess kept her eye on her companion’s face while she was talking, and she could tell by its expression that she had interpreted her correctly. She said so, with a little laugh of contentment, and then added:

“Tell me about yourself first of all.”

Martha’s countenance fell.

“Ah, I have made a mistake, I see,” said the princess. “We have not come to that yet; but we will come to it--you and I. Some of these days you will find yourself telling me all those close-locked secrets of your heart; and yet even they, I fancy, will relate more to others than to yourself. So be it! I can wait. Tell me now about your people--your family here in Paris.”

“Well,” began Martha, “there are mama and we four girls--Alice, Marian, Florence, and I. Alice is very handsome, and poor mama has had to shift over to her and to the younger girls, who also bid fair to be charming, all the hopes which she once centered in me. I have been struggled with for years, and finally let alone. Mama agrees to my working at my painting because she has made up her mind that unless I amount to something in that I shall never amount to anything at all; but I don’t think she has much hope of me. She is not far from beautiful herself, and is accustomed to being admired, and it took her a long time to accept my indifference to it. However, it’s quite accepted now; and I even think that, with three other girls to be taken into society, she finds a certain relief in leaving

me out of it. The other girls are studying music and languages. Alice has a fine voice.”

“And your father is dead, is he not? Did you not say you had a brother?”

Martha’s face grew quite white with the concentration of mind which this thought produced.

“Yes; I have a brother,” she said.

“Forgive me,” said the princess, with swift sympathy. “There is evidently some reason why it pains you to speak of your brother. Forget that I asked you.”

The blood rushed to Martha’s face as it occurred to her that her companion might misunderstand her reluctance to speak on this subject.

“It’s not that I am not proud of him that it is hard for me to speak,” she said; “it’s expressly because I am. I made up my mind long ago not to talk about Harold. I found I must not, because I could not speak of him with any freedom without saying things that people would think no merely mortal man deserved. I have worshiped him all my life, and, as I’m rather ashamed to own, I’ve had a great many other idols which turned out to be made of clay. This one, however, has never proved for an instant unworthy of my adoration.”

The princess smiled.

“One would like to get a look at him,” she said. “An absolutely faultless being must be interesting to look at.”

“Don’t laugh at me!” cried Martha. “If it were any one but you I could not bear it; but I know you would say or do nothing that could hurt me really. I don’t wish you to understand that I think Harold faultless. He is not. But to one who understands him as I do, his very faults are part of his greatness. They all have their seat in something noble, and to see how he fights to conquer them is a thing that thrills me. He is now off in America hard at work. He has done some quite extraordinary things in electricity, and is absorbed in his career. When I am a little older, and mama gives me up as a hopeless job for society, I am to go and live with Harold, and keep house for him. That is my dream and his.”

“Sooner or later, dear child, you will have to wake from that dream. I do not find it as unlikely as you seem to that you will marry; and even if you should not, your brother probably will.”

The princess was smiling, but her smile faded at the look of tragic pain in her companion’s face. She could see that the young girl had been touched in her heart’s tenderest place.

“No,” she said, with that frown of sadness unrelaxed, “he will never marry.”

“Forgive me again, dear Martha,” said the princess. “Your brother has had some disappointment, about which your heart is as sensitive as his own. I see that, and you need tell me no more. It is good that he has you to comprehend and sympathize with him. It is good that you have each other. If you gave your heart and life to a husband as wholly as you have given them to your brother, he would probably break the heart and wreck the life, and even the right to dream would be taken from you. Living with this brother, whom you love and worship so, whether he deserves it or not, you may have many a sweet and joy-giving dream which no reality would equal. I wish I could make you see how fortunate you are.”

“I care very little for my own happiness,” said Martha, too absorbed to realize that she was saying anything that called for comment. “All that I care for is to give Harold a little comfort and calm. He can never be happy again.”

“He tells you so, dear child, and no doubt he believes it. _I_ tell you it will pass. Men do not grieve perpetually for women. I know them better than you do.”

“You do not know this man. If you imagine that he is like any other man in the world, you are wrong. He could not get over this sorrow and be the man that he is. It is simply a thing impossible to him. Not that he shows it! It has been two years since it happened, and no doubt every one except myself thinks he has recovered. I dare say he wants to have it so, and he’s generally cheerful and bright. Even to me he never says a word, but I think he knows that I understand. At all events, he knows that, though it is the desire of my life to go and live with him, I would never do him the wrong to suppose that I could make him happy.”

“He has, then, it would seem, the same ardent temperament as yours. Dear me! how odd it would be to see a man like that in this

generation! Was this woman very cruel to him that you resent it so?”