Destiny, so amorous of surprises, of pathetic or cynical contrasts, had in
this instance excelled herself. My obscure acquaintance, Maurice Cristich!
The renowned Romanoff! Her name and acknowledged genius had been often
in men's mouths of late, a certain luminous, scarcely sacred, glamour
attaching to it, in an hundred idle stories, due perhaps as much to the
wonder of her sorrowful beauty, as to any justification in knowledge,
of her boundless extravagance, her magnificent fantasies, her various
perversity, rumour pointing specially at those priceless diamonds, the
favours not altogether gratuitous it was said of exalted personages. And
with all deductions made, for malice, for the ingenuity of the curious,
the impression of her perversity was left; she remained enigmatical and
notorious, a somewhat scandalous heroine! And Cristich had known her; he
had, as he declared, and his accent was not that of bragadoccio, invented
her. The conjuncture puzzled and fascinated me. It did not make Cristich
less interesting, nor the prima-donna more perspicuous.
By-and-by the violinist looked up at me; he smiled with a little dazed air,
as though his thoughts had been a far journey.
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