The Countess L— ordered me to tell you that you must return at all costs, and here is a letter for you from her.’

Ibrahim seized it with tremulous fingers and gazed at the familiar handwriting on the address, not daring to believe his eyes.

‘How glad I am that you have not died of tedium in this barbarous Petersburg!’ Korsakov went on. ‘What do people do here? How do they spend their time? Who is your tailor? Is there at least an opera-house?’

Ibrahim absently replied that probably the Tsar was just then at work in the dockyard. Korsakov laughed.

‘I see you have no thoughts to spare for me at present,’ he said. ‘Some other time we will talk to our hearts’ content. I will go and present myself to the Tsar.’

With these words he spun round on his heel and ran out of the room.

Left alone, Ibrahim hastily opened the letter. The Countess reproached him tenderly, accusing him of evasion and lack of trust.

You say [she wrote] that my peace of mind is more precious than anything in the world to you. Ibrahim, if this were true, could you have brought me to the condition to which the unexpected news of your departure reduced me? You were afraid that I would detain you; believe me that, in spite of my love, I should have known how to sacrifice it to your well-being and to what you regard as your duty.

The Countess concluded her letter with passionate assurances of love, and adjured him to write to her occasionally – even should there be no hope of their ever meeting again.

Ibrahim read the letter twenty times over, kissing the dear lines with rapture. He was burning with impatience to hear about the Countess, and was just preparing to drive to the Admiralty, in the hope of finding Korsakov still there, when the door opened and Korsakov appeared again in person. He had already paid his respects to the Tsar, and as usual seemed much pleased with himself.

‘Entre nous,’ he said to Ibrahim, ‘the Emperor is a very strange man. Imagine, I found him, clad in a sort of linen jacket, on the mast of a new ship, whither I was obliged to clamber with my dispatches. I stood on a rope-ladder, without room to make a decent how, and became completely confused-a thing which has never happened to me in my life. However, after reading my papers, the Tsar looked me up and down, and no doubt was agreeably impressed by the taste and elegance of my attire; at any rate, he smiled and invited me to the Assembly this evening. But I am a perfect stranger in Petersburg: during the six years I have been away I have quite forgotten the local customs. Pray be my mentor, call for me and introduce me.’

Ibrahim agreed, and hastened to turn the conversation to a subject that held more interest for him.

‘Well, and how is the Countess L—?’

‘The Countess? Naturally, at first she was very much grieved by your departure; then, of course, she gradually grew reconciled and took unto herself a new lover – do you know whom? That lanky Marquis R—. Why do you stare at me like that with your goggle eyes? Does it seem odd to you? Don’t you know that it isn’t in human nature, particularly feminine nature, to sorrow for long? Think it out, while I go and rest after my journey; mind you don’t forget to call for me.’

What emotions filled Ibrahim’s heart? Jealousy? Rage? Despair? No, but profound, overpowering dejection. He kept repeating to himself: ‘I foresaw it, it was bound to happen.’ Then he opened the Countess’s letter, read it through again, bowed his head and wept bitterly. He wept long. The tears relieved his heart. Glancing at the clock, he saw that it was time to go. Ibrahim would have been very glad to stay at home, but an Assembly was a matter of duty and the Tsar strict in demanding the presence of his entourage. He dressed and set out to call for Korsakov.

Korsakov was sitting in his dressing-gown, reading a French novel.

‘So early?’ he said, when he saw Ibrahim.

‘Why, it’s half past five,’ Ibrahim answered. ‘We shall be late. Make haste and dress, and let us go.’

Korsakov started up and rang the bell violently; his servants came running in; he hurriedly began dressing. His French valet handed him slippers with scarlet heels, blue velvet breeches, and a pink coat embroidered with spangles. His peruke was quickly powdered in the ante-room and brought in to him. Korsakov thrust his closely cropped head into it, asked for his sword and gloves, turned round a dozen times before the looking-glass and informed Ibrahim that he was ready. The footmen handed them bearskin cloaks, and they drove off to the Winter Palace.

Korsakov bombarded Ibrahim with questions: Who was the reigning beauty in Petersburg? Who was supposed to be the best dancer? What dance was now in fashion? Ibrahim very reluctantly gratified his curiosity. Meanwhile they reached the palace. A number of long sledges, old-fashioned carriages and gilded coaches were already standing on the rough grass in front. At the steps there was a crowd of liveried coachmen with moustaches; running footmen glittering with gold braid and feathers, and carrying maces; hussars, pages, awkward footmen loaded with their masters’ fur cloaks and muffs – a retinue which the noblemen of the period considered essential.