As she entered the ballroom she was welcomed by hundreds whom she had never seen before, but who were of the highest nobility of Poland.  Murmurs of admiration followed her, and finally Poniatowski came to her and complimented her, besides bringing her a message that the emperor desired her to dance with him.

“I am very sorry,” she said, with a quiver of the lips, “but I really cannot dance.  Be kind enough to ask the emperor to excuse me.”

But at that very moment she felt some strange magnetic influence; and without looking up she could feel that Napoleon himself was standing by her as she sat with blanched face and downcast eyes, not daring to look up at him.

“White upon white is a mistake, madam,” said the emperor, in his gentlest tones.  Then, stooping low, he whispered, “I had expected a far different reception.”

She neither smiled nor met his eyes.  He stood there for a moment and then passed on, leaving her to return to her home with a heavy heart.  The young countess felt that she had acted wrongly, and yet there was an instinct—­an instinct that she could not conquer.

In the gray of the morning, while she was still tossing feverishly, her maid knocked at the door and brought her a hastily scribbled note.  It ran as follows: 

I saw none but you, I admired none but you; I desire only you.  Answer at once, and calm the impatient ardor of—­N.

These passionate words burned from her eyes the veil that had hidden the truth from her.  What before had been mere blind instinct became an actual verity.  Why had she at first rushed forth into the very streets to hail the possible deliverer of her country, and then why had she shrunk from him when he sought to honor her!  It was all clear enough now.  This bedside missive meant that he had intended her dishonor and that he had looked upon her simply as a possible mistress.

At once she crushed the note angrily in her hand.

“There is no answer at all,” said she, bursting into bitter tears at the very thought that he should dare to treat her in this way.

But on the following morning when she awoke her maid was standing beside her with a second letter from Napoleon.  She refused to open it and placed it in a packet with the first letter, and ordered that both of them should be returned to the emperor.

She shrank from speaking to her husband of what had happened, and there was no one else in whom she dared confide.  All through that day there came hundreds of visitors, either of princely rank or men who had won fame by their gallantry and courage.  They all begged to see her, but to them all she sent one answer—­that she was ill and could see no one.

After a time her husband burst into her room, and insisted that she should see them.

“Why,” exclaimed he, “you are insulting the greatest men and the noblest women of Poland!  More than that, there are some of the most distinguished Frenchmen sitting at your doorstep, as it were.  There is Duroc, grand marshal of France, and in refusing to see him you are insulting the great emperor on whom depends everything that our country longs for.  Napoleon has invited you to a state dinner and you have given him no answer whatever.  I order you to rise at once and receive these ladies and gentlemen who have done you so much honor!”