And as he recalled the feeling of servile emotion which the consciousness of his self-sacrificing loyalty to his Sovereign had evoked in him, he drove from his mind the thought which for a moment had disturbed him—signed the rest of the papers, and rang again.
“Is tea ready?” he asked.
“It is just being served, your Excellency.”
“All right … you may go.”
The Governor sighed deeply, and rubbed the place where his heart was. Then, heavily treading through the large empty hall, with its freshly polished parquet-floor, he went towards the drawing-room, whence came the sound of voices.
The General’s wife had visitors: the Governor and his wife; an old Princess, an ardent patriot; and an officer of the Guards—the fiancé of his last unmarried daughter. His wife, a thin-lipped, cold-faced woman, sat at a low table, on which tea was laid, a silver teapot standing on the top of the samovar. She was speaking with affected sadness of her anxiety about her husband’s health, to the Governor’s wife—a lady who gave herself the airs of a young woman.
“Every day fresh information brings to light conspiracies and all sorts of dreadful things. … And it all falls on Basil—he has to decide everything.”
“Oh, don’t mention it!” said the Princess. “ Je deviens féroce quand je pense à cette maudite engeance! ”
“Yes, yes … it’s awful! Will you believe it? He works twelve hours a day, and with his weak heart, too. I really am afraid. …”
Seeing her husband enter, she did not finish the sentence.