CHAPTER XXXVIII.
A ROSEBUD.
"Mais elle etait de ce monde où les meilleures choses
Ont le pire destin;
Et Rose elle a vécu ce que vivent les roses,
L'espèce d'un printemps."
A HAPPY quiet year passed away at Nicolofsky; then Ivan and Clémence removed to St. Petersburg, where they established themselves for the coming winter in one of the palaces on the Fontanka. Clémence, upon this her first visit, found the city wonderful and fascinating in its very strangeness. It seemed a thing of yesterday; the magnificent buildings, the stately streets and squares, looked as if they had sprung into being at the touch of an enchanter's wand. Not yet had the hand of time left its impress anywhere. When she arrived, all was life, colour, animation; every pulse of the great city was throbbing, and the din of its multitudinous and busy noises smote strangely upon ears accustomed to the quiet of the country. But soon a change came. The snow spread its soft white mantle over the crowded thoroughfares, the sounds of traffic were hushed, the steps of passers-by fell silently, and the bright blue waters of the Neva were chained by the genii of the frost. "It is like a city of the dead," thought Clémence.
But she thought differently when Ivan took her, well wrapped in furs, for her first winter drive in St. Petersburg. It was pleasant to glide rapidly through the clear frosty air along the
