Who was she? Paul did not know, even now. Mademoiselle Vseslavitch had said nothing of her family or her home. Beyond the fact that she was Russian, and a friend of the Dalmatian Ambassador's wife--herself a Slav--Paul was still ignorant. Indeed, for all he knew, she might be some poor relation--lack of fortune was the only possible reason he could ascribe for her being unmarried. Beautiful and attractive women, of good family--if they were rich--did not wander over the Continent long without husbands. Well--that mattered nothing. Thank heaven, he was not bound by any necessity of fortune.
Before he switched off his light that night Paul took from one of his boxes a small flat object of red morocco inlaid with gold. He lifted a tiny lid and there, through wide-set and strangely fascinating eyes a lady looked at him. It was the most amazing miniature Paul had ever seen. And the face depicted there with some unknown master's consummate skill--how often had it proved for him the only consolation he could find in the whole world.
His eyes dimmed as they conveyed to him the image of his still beloved _Imperatorskoye_--he pressed the bauble to his lips. Ah! God! the cold glass! How different from her melting kiss!
Not easily did he control his emotions. Of late years he seldom opened the portrait because of the almost overwhelming rush of memories it always brought to him.
"There is a strange resemblance," he mused, after he had carried the miniature where the light shone full upon it. Was it the strong predominance of the Russian type which stamped alike the features of his dead Queen and the living lady he had seen that evening? Paul could not tell. He closed the case reluctantly. Never had he expected to see another comparable to his long lost love. Well, he was drifting, perhaps. Who knew?
And yet he felt again, as his hand rested upon the precious casket, that _she_ in her wisdom must be cognizant of it all. Indeed, Paul had gone through the years of his manhood with a feeling that her presence was always near to him. The conviction that had come to him as he had stood in the Cathedral at Langres was too strong to be shaken off. Whatever happened--and Paul meant to win the woman he had that night left in the _Faubourg St. Germain_--he felt sure his Queen had willed it.