She was also troubled in mind, though in a lesser degree, about the fate of the remainder of the Russian colony.  Were they not all her brothers and sisters—­these laughing, round-cheeked primitives?  The magistrate, that caricature of a man, that vindictive and corrupt atheist, that tiger in human form, was doubtless thirsting for the blood of those still at liberty on Nepenthe.  How much longer would Peter escape his malice?  The dear boy!  Her lambkin, her little soul—­she had learnt to babble a few words of Russian—­her play for, harmless, ever-hungry Peter!  On this lovely island, where all men should be at peace—­how harshly they dealt with one another!

The rest of the foreign colony, undisturbed by such bitter personal reflections, appeared to bear the loss of the lady with praiseworthy equanimity.  They were, in truth, considerably relieved in mind.  Death is the great equalizer.  In his pale presence they forgot their old squabbles and jealousies; they forgot their numberless and legitimate complaints against this woman.  All honoured the defunct who had now lost, presumably for ever, the capacity of mischief-making.

There was undisguised sorrow among the trades-people and Residency servants.  They flocked to the procession in crowds, desiring by this last mark of respect to attract the benevolent notice of the Commissioner and to be remembered in the event of some future settling-up of accounts.  To their tear-stained eyes, it looked as if this happy event were receding further and further away into the dim distance.  Hoping against hope, they mourned sincerely.  And none wept more convincingly that the little maid Enrichetta, an orphan of tender years whom the lady had taken into her service as an act of charity and forthwith set to work like a galley-slave.  The child was convulsed with sobs.  She foresaw, with the intuition of despair, that instead of being paid her miserable wages for the last five months she would have to content herself with a couple of her deceased mistress’s skirts, thirty-eight inches too wide round the waist.

There were wreaths—­abundance of wreaths.  Noticeable among them was an enormous floral tribute from the owner of the FLUTTERBY.  It attracted the most favourable comment.  People said that nobody but a multi-multi-multi-millionaire could afford to forgive an affront like that affair of the crepe de Chine.  As a matter of fact, old Koppen would have been the last person on earth to forgive an injury of this particular kind.  He was a good American; he never permitted loose talk about women, least of all if they were in any way connected with himself; he would get purple in the face, he would ramp and rage and hop about like a veritable Sioux, in the face of any suggestion of improprieties on board his yacht.  No, Cornelius van Koppen had acted in all innocence, from natural kindliness of heart.  The legend had never reached his hears, nobody (for a wonder) having dared to mention it to him.