The Emperor's Candlesticks

That same night his Eminence, as he had told Iván, was not dining at his hotel: he was spending an evening -- the last of a series -- in the company of Madame Demidoff, the most charming, the most mysterious, the most dangerous of those Russian _grandes dames_, who haunt the societies of Vienna, Paris, and London, live on apparently boundless means, are received everywhere, admired by the men, envied by the women, and feared by the staff and even the head of the respective Russian embassies.

Why the beautiful Madame Demidoff should be feared by her own compatriots, it were difficult for an Englishman or a Frenchman to say; she was always affable, equally so to everyone whom she met in society, and appeared not to take the slightest interest in matters political; true, there had been a rumour a year ago, that at the Austrian frontier one day, an over-zealous custom-house official, in inspecting the luggage of Madame Demidoff, who was going across to Russia, is said to have found some papers, wherein the lady gave a curiously minute account of all the sayings and doings of the Tsar's subjects residing in Vienna, including one or two intimate conversations between "Monsieur l'ambassadeur" and Madame his wife, that had actually taken place in their own bedroom; but this never got beyond a rumour, and the fact that "Monsieur l'ambassadeur" was shortly afterwards asked to retire from the diplomatic service, may have had nothing to do with that intimate conversation which, after all, he had had with his wife between four walls and one or two doors. Anyhow, his Excellency, the present ambassador, and all his staff, also "Madame l'ambassadrice," are always particularly amiable with Madame Demidoff, and ask her to all their most select parties -- but, the moment she leaves, they sigh a sigh of relief, and when her name is mentioned before his Excellency, he invariably says, "Do not name her to me, it gives me a cold shiver down the back."