The bell would not ring! What was he to do? He soon made up his mind,
supple Slav that he was. With a muttered apology he sank back and closed
his eyes in polite despair.
His consternation was overwhelming when a voice addressed him in
Russian, a contralto voice of some indefinable timbre, the voice of a
female, yet not without epicene intonations. His eyes immediately
opened. From her gauze veiling the young woman spoke:--
"We are sorry to derange you. The guard made a mistake. Pardon!" The
tone was slightly condescending, as if the goddess behind the cloud had
deigned to notice a mere mortal. Her attendant was smiling, and to
Pobloff his grin resembled a newly sliced watermelon. But her voice
filled him with ecstasy. His ear, as sensitive as the eye of a Claude
Monet, noted every infinitesimal variation in tone-colour, and each
shade was a symbol for the fantastic imagination of this poetic
composer. The girlish voice affected him strangely. It pierced his soul
like a poniard. It made his spine chilly. It evoked visions of white
women languorously moving in processional attitudes beneath the chaste
rays of an implacable moon.
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