After thus inspecting her dominions, testing her power, and convincing
herself that her subjects were docile, and that there was no novelty to
be got out of them, Natacha settled herself in the darkest corner of the
music-room with her guitar, striking the bass strings, and trying to
make an accompaniment to an air from an opera that she and Prince André
had once heard together at St. Petersburg. The uncertain chords which
her unpractised fingers sketched out would have struck the least
experienced ear as wanting in harmony and musical accuracy, while to her
excited imagination they brought a whole train of memories. Leaning
against the wall and half hidden by a cabinet, with her eyes fixed on a
thread of light that came under the door from the rooms beyond, she
listened in ecstasy and dreamed of the past.

Sonia crossed the room with a glass in her hand. Natacha glanced round
at her and again fixed her eyes on the streak of light. She had the
strange feeling of having once before gone through the same
experience--sat in the same place, surrounded by the same details, and
watching Sonia pass carrying a tumbler. "Yes, it was exactly the same,"
she thought.

"Sonia, what is this tune?" she said, playing a few notes.

"What, are you there?" said Sonia, startled. "I do not know," she said,
coming closer to listen, "unless it is from 'La Tempête';" but she spoke
doubtfully.

"It was exactly so," thought Natacha. "She started as she came forward,
smiling so gently; and I thought then, as I think now, that there is
something in her which is quite lacking in me. No," she said aloud, "you
are quite out; it is the chorus from the 'Porteur d'Eau'--listen," and