Ibrahim could already foresee her beginning to cool towards him. Hitherto he had not known jealousy, but with horror he now felt a presentiment of it. Thinking that the pain of parting would be less agonizing, he resolved to break off the ill-starred love affair, leave Paris and return to Russia, whither Peter and a vague sense of duty had long been calling him.

2

DAYS, months went by – and the love-struck Ibrahim still could not make up his mind to leave the woman he had seduced. With every hour that passed, the Countess grew more attached to him. Their son was being brought up in a distant province. Gossip was dying down, and the lovers began to enjoy more peace, silently remembering the past storm and trying not to think of the future.

One day Ibrahim was at the Duc d’Orléans’ levee. Walking past him, the Duke stopped and handed him a letter, telling him to read it at his leisure. The missive was from Peter I. Guessing the true cause of his godson’s absence, the Tsar had written to the Duke that he did not intend to put the least pressure on Ibrahim, that he left it to his own free will to return to Russia or not, but that in any case he would never forsake his old protégé. This letter touched Ibrahim to the bottom of his heart. From that moment his destiny was decided. The next day he informed the Regent of his intention to set out for Russia without delay.

‘Reflect upon what you are doing,’ the Duke said to him. ‘Russia is not your native country. I do not suppose you will ever see your torrid fatherland again; but your long residence in France has made you equally a stranger to the climate and customs of semi-barbarous Russia. You were not born a subject of Peter. Follow my advice: take advantage of his gracious permission, remain in France for whom you have already shed your blood, and rest assured that here, too, your services and talents will find their due reward.’

Ibrahim thanked the Duke sincerely but clung to his intention.

‘I am sorry,’ the Regent said to him, ‘but I admit you are right.’

He promised to let him retire from the French service, and wrote in full to the Russian Tsar.

Ibrahim was soon ready to leave. On the day before his departure he spent the evening as usual at Countess L—’s. She knew nothing. Ibrahim had not the courage to tell her the truth. The Countess was tranquil and gay. Several times she called him to her side and rallied him upon his pensive mood. After supper the guests departed. Only the Countess, her husband and Ibrahim remained in the drawing-room. The unhappy man would have given everything in the world to have been left alone with her; but Count L— seemed to be so comfortably settled by the fire that there was no hope of getting him out of the room. All three were silent.

‘Bonne nuit!’ the Countess said at last.

Ibrahim’s heart sank and he suddenly felt all the pain of parting. He stood stock still.

‘Bonne nuit, messieurs,’ the Countess repeated.

Still he did not move… Then his eyes went dim, his head reeled; he was scarcely able to walk out of the room. On arriving home, in a hardly conscious state he wrote the following letter:

I am going away, dear Leonora; I am leaving you for ever. I write to you because I have not the courage to tell you in any other way. My happiness could not have lasted; I have enjoyed it against fate and nature. You are bound to cease loving me; the enchantment must inevitably pass.