He had come in answer to an urgent message and found Marie Feodorovna sitting straight-backed in one of her gilt chairs, embroidering, apparently quite placid. A closer inspection showed him that she was haggard and pale, and that her hands, usually so skilful, wielded the embroidery needle with trembling clumsiness. When he bent to kiss her she threw the piece of framed cloth to the floor and clung to him. “What is it, Mother, what’s the matter? …” Marie Feodorovna stared up at him in open terror. “I had to send for you, my son.… Alexander, have you heard this rumour?” “What rumour?” he asked her. “The rumour that a cell is being got ready in the Novo Diévichy Convent.… They say it’s being prepared for me!” He knelt beside her and took her hands in both his own. “Oh, my God,” he said slowly. “Then the rumour that he is going to marry Princess Gagarine must be true.… That’s what I was afraid you had heard.…” Marie Feodorovna held on to him and it was the first time that he had ever seen her show real fear.
