His eyes were on her then, watching lithe movements, the slim, girlish figure. He could not help but compare her to Anja, athough he did not realize that he did so. Anja was small and pretty like a little bird. She was sweet and delicate, but she paled before this other one. Such broad, square shoulders, such a splendid waist! He marveled at her, even as he scoffed at her. She darted here and there, alluring, charming, wild-but never beautiful.
Someone called his name. It was an acquaintance of his, a man he met at his university in St. Petersburg. He turned his head to acknowledge him, but was unaware of their exchange. His attention belonged to the waif with the locks of flaming hair.
The light reveled in her coppery tresses, on her many jewels, the smooth contours of her arms, her neck, her unfashionably bare throat.
His colleague paused, noticing for perhaps the first time his companion's distraction. He looked to where Constantin looked, and a wide smile parted his boyish lips.
"Aha!" he cried with great mirth. The prospect of discussing girls, and flirting, and dancing made him forget what he was saying about the Zemstvos. "Pretty, that girl. An American, most likely."
Constantin was silent. He pursed his lips in annoyance, for he did not wish to discuss the creature in such plain terms; to do so would be nothing short of desecration, for surely such a girl was like the nymphs in the old Greek stories.
"Pretty," his companion repeated. "Though not so pretty as Natasha or Glafira. Still, not bad for an American! " Constantin ground his teeth. "It is too bad she is betrothed," the scholar sighed, drinking deeply of his Medovukha.
Betrothed. It was inconceivable to him, to Constantine, that the strange girl belonged to anyone. She was so free. Anyone but himself, for he had already claimed her. He forgot Anja, for whom he had declared his undying love to his highly amused father only that afternoon. His whole existence had wound itself inextricably with hers, whether she would have it or not.
Constantin was not a bad fellow. He was honest and his family, the Selanovs, was an old and honorable one. He was intelligent, but never smug, and rarely given to the fickle whims that so ruled his youthful friends. Good looking, the girls were apt to giggle, but so serious! Even his smile- so dazzling a smile, too!-was grave. How they envied Anja her good fortune.
Face flushed from the good Russian vodka, Constantin excused himself and left the company of his still-rambling schoolmate. He staggered to the drawing room and dropped heavily into a seat. Anja came to him and stroked his brow with her slim, white hand. As she prattled, Constantin felt that she was boring, that her superficiality was intolerable. He stood abruptly, bowed, and hastily left her. Immediately afterward he regretted his rudeness. After all, he thought, she cannot help the way she is, and she has always been kind to me.
Later, his mother, the celebrated Princess Stasia Ivanova Selanova, introduced him to the girl. Then, upon spying an acquaintance to whom she had not spoken in nearly a year, the princess took her leave.
"Inès" the girl smiled and offered her broad, long fingered hand. As he shook it, he noted the white teeth, charmingly irregular. Her proximity thrilled him, affected him more than drink ever had. It made him bold and for once, Constantine lost his reserve. As they talked, he loved her more. He admired her height, her gray eyes, her rough French voice.
"Monsieur," she smiled to show that she was about to jest with him. "Have you any loves? I have seen dozens and dozens of your Russian girls and I feel that I should never tire of looking at them."
"Loves? No." An image of Anja came unbidden to his mind and his conscience smote him.
"None?" her eyes danced. "Surely not! A handsome fellow such as yourself must have all the girls in Ryazan dancing after you! Not all men that are so fine and so good-looking come from such lineage as the Selanovs.
"No. And you, Inès?" He asked. He was so strange then that she grew wary. "Have you any loves?"
"Monsieur, I am to be married next Fall!" she laughed. "So all the young men in my own Lille pine and cry to their cups." She laughed again to show him her joke, but he did not join her in her merriment.
"Why are you so serious? Why do you not laugh as I do?" Her Russian was not very good and he thought it charming.
"Do you love him?"
"I?" Her smile faltered. "He is rich, and very kind. Only a little older, not like my sister Orlene. Her husband is already an old man. But he is the richest of them all!" Inès chuckled. "I think she is very happy. She spends here, spends there, Oh! Left hat in Paris, must buy two new ones! But her husband-Olivier-he loves her very much. Orlene is very beautiful. My grand-mère likes to say that Orle got our maman's good looks and I got her temper!" Here her good humor was restored and she threw back her head in mirth. The sound drew several scandalized looks.
"Do you want to marry him?"
"Alphonse is a good man," Inès said slowly. "I do not know him very well, but his father is good friends with Papà. So you see, it is all right."
"You are very beautiful, but it will be wasted. You do not love this Alphonse," Constantine spoke to her in French. His French, unlike her Russian, was flawless.
Inès as silent. Her lips pursed in disapproval and her eyes grew icy. She noticed then that he looked at her the way young men always looked at her.
"It is late," She said formally, rising.
"Wait!" Constantin's hand closed over her arm. Inès froze him with a look. Her eyes held his disdainfully then flicked deliberately to his hand on her arm. He released her hastily.
"I believe I love you," he words came out quietly, half-choked.
"I know you better now than Alphonse ever will."
"That is not for you to judge, Monsieur. You forget yourself. Good night!" As she turned to go, she heard him reply, quietly, so that his answer fluttered below the din of the other guests.
"He could never please a woman like you. Deny it now, but tomorrow,the next day, the next year, you will remember! Then you will wonder what it might have been like to love and be loved by me!"
Inès turned slowly to face him. Eyes ablaze, she drew herself up to her full height-taller than some men-and said: "I? You flatter yourself. A bumbling country boy, fresh from university and overconfident in the charms from money and fine stock. You think all the girls will fawn and fall like sheep before you? I? Love you? Incroyable!" To show him how incredible it all was, she laughed. Then she was gone.
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