Some men are lucky if they can be wise. Be at the Winter Garden at seven to-morrow evening, in a black mask and domino, look out for a Russian officer of Hussars, and believe in your good fortune.
I did believe, as what man at twenty would not. Our winter garden was a greenhouse on a large scale, with the plants arranged so as to form parterres and alleys; there was a salon attached, where balls and concerts were held, and a number of retired pavilions where friends had talk and refreshments. I was there in mask and domino half an hour before the time. There were many in similar guises straying about the flowers and arbours, but at length I saw the Russian officer beckoning to me from the entrance of one of the most shaded bowers. I still believe, though I cannot prove it to myself, that the hussar was none other than the princess. The disguise was perfect; there was no mask worn, but a red beard which would have done honour to the taste of any Cossack; the black wig had been exchanged for a crop of the same colour cut in the most approved style of the north.
“Come in,” he said: the voice was scarcely deep enough for a hussar, but had that hard metallic ring which I have never heard from good or honest people. “Come in; I want to hear your opinion of my uniform. How does it fit?—should you like to wear it? But I suppose you could not leave Fatherland, or trust yourself in Russia; yet who knows what promotion a clever young man might come to there.”
“I don’t understand you,” said I, taking the seat to which he directed me by his side.
“Of course you don’t; but I understand you. You are a steady student who mind your studies, keep out of clubs and mischief, and have such a nice circle of your own in Frau Subert’s rooms, with that sensible old doctor and those clever young men in the third floor. Well, there are people in palaces who envy those snug social evenings of yours,” and the Russian sighed like the wind through an old house. “If one of them stole in some night, would you let him warm himself at your fire?”
<!—illustration inserted here --> “A stranger should always get the best seat,” said I.
Sensibly spoken; but would the stranger get it?” And my new friend proceeded in the same half-bantering, half-serious strain, showing a surprising knowledge of my life and society at Frau Subert’s, and drawing out further information by well-directed questions. I observed, not at the time, but afterwards, that he made many sidelong inquiries regarding the young men in the third floor; and when, in answer to some of them, I mentioned that we had arranged to spend New Year’s Eve together in my room, he promptly responded.
“I’ll put your hospitality to the test that night. Your landlady is, doubtless, too prudent to admit strangers without question, but you will wear this,” and he drew from his waistcoat a magnificent diamond pin. “And when a stranger comes inquiring how it suits you, have him shown in at once.”
I protested against accepting such a costly present, but he rose, saying:
“Nonsense, you’ll wear it for my sake; but don’t follow me.”
His command was obeyed, the pin went home with me, yet somehow I felt uncomfortable in the prospect of his visit. If it really were her Excellency, she had taken a strange fancy for seeing me at home, which, flattering as it was, I could have dispensed with. My friends were to be kept in the dark, of that I had been warned more than was necessary, for the secret involved a princess, and who that has lived under the small German courts does not know the danger of discovering such tales; but they would be present, and must get some explanation. So I wore the diamond-pin, and manufactured a story about winning it by a wager with a masker in the winter garden on Christmas Eve.
Before they were done admiring my jewel, the last night of the year arrived. I believe my arrangements for the supper rather astonished Frau Subert; but she set all down to the luxury and extravagance which we Hanoverians are supposed to have learned by our connection with England. We were all assembled, the Doctor, the two Hessings, and myself—a small but cheerful company. I had kept back every appearance of expectation, and the supper was progressing, when about the time that the select dinner-party given that evening at the palace might have terminated, there was a ring at the door-bell, and the Frau’s daughter came up with the fact, that a gentleman had called to know how the pin suited me.
“Show him in,” said I. “Now you’ll see a regular Russian.”
Before my companions had time to ask a question on the subject, the officer of hussars was in the room, looking exactly as I saw him in the winter garden, and with a general bow to the company, and acknowledgment of my flurried welcome, he took his seat among us, made a few polite observations on the contrast between the frosty night without and our warm cheerful room, which seemed to set everybody at his ease except Hubert Hessing, and I could not help noticing the look of terrible recollection which passed over the boy’s face as he spoke. The Russian noticed nothing, looked at nobody, but addressing himself to me, said he happened to be in my part of the town, and could not resist the temptation of calling to see me and my friends, talked of our meeting in the garden in such a vague and easy manner, that my company could make nothing of it, but declined to join us at supper, saying he had agreed to meet a party in the theatre; gave me a grim smile at the door, to which I accompanied him, and walked away with a servant wonderfully like Karlowitz. My company were informed that was the gentleman from whom I won the diamond-pin, and that I believed he was an officer in the Duke’s Guard, who chose to masquerade in the Russian uniform. This satisfied them all, and the rest of the evening passed merrily. Hubert recovered from that sudden attack of memory, and seemed more light of heart than I had ever seen the grave and gentle boy before. We sat to see the New Year in, drank his welcome, and parted in high spirits and friendship.
Early next morning I had a note from my cousin inviting not only myself but the doctor to dinner,