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All her invitations without exception, written in French, and

delivered by a scarlet-liveried footman that morning, ran as

follows:

"If you have nothing better to do, Count (or Prince), and if the

prospect of spending an evening with a poor invalid is not too

terrible, I shall be very charmed to see you tonight between 7

and 10-Annette Scherer."

"Heavens! what a virulent attack!" replied the prince, not in the

least disconcerted by this reception. He had just entered,

wearing an embroidered court uniform, knee breeches, and shoes,

and had stars on his breast and a serene expression on his flat

face. He spoke in that refined French in which our grandfathers

not only spoke but thought, and with the gentle, patronizing

intonation natural to a man of importance who had grown old in

society and at court. He went up to Anna Pavlovna, kissed her

hand, presenting to her his bald, scented, and shining head, and

complacently seated himself on the sofa.