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Updated: June 21, 2025
The Princess Helena Koltzoff-Massalsky, better known by her pseudonym of Dora d'Istria, came of the family of the Ghikas, formerly princes of Wallachia, and was born at Bucharest, on the 22nd of January, 1829. Through the care and conscientiousness of her instructor, Mons. Papadopoulos, and her own remarkable capacity, she acquired a very complete and comprehensive education.
There was no mention of Madame Lola Brandt, but to my unspeakable comfort I saw the announcement: "Professorin Anastasius Papadopoulos und ihre wunderbaren Katzen." Lola was working the cats under the little man's name. That was why she had baffled the inquiries instituted by Dale and myself and had not received my telegram.
I had just written the last word, seated at my hotel window in the sunshine, and enjoying, in spite of my uncheerful thoughts, the scents that rose from the garden, when I heard a knock at my door. At my invitation to enter, Anastasius Papadopoulos trotted into the room in a great state of excitement carrying the familiar bunch of papers.
Lola gave a cry and rushed forward. I pushed her aside, and glared at him. I was in a furious rage. We glared at each other eye to eye. I pointed to the door. "Monsieur, sortez!" I went to it and flung it wide. Anastasius Papadopoulos trotted into the room. His entrance was so queer, so unexpected, so anti-climatic, that for the moment the three of us were thrown off our emotional balance.
"That," said I, with a smile, "was my friend Professor Anastasius Papadopoulos." "A friend of yours?" "He had just been calling on me." "Then I wish you'd entreat him not to go downstairs like a six-inch shell. I'll have a bruise to-morrow where the crown of his hat caught me as big as a soup-plate."
She wanted to know the colour of her eyes and hair and how she dressed. Women are odd creatures. The weeks passed. Besides ministering to my dilapidated spirit, Lola found occupation in looking after the cattery of Anastasius Papadopoulos, which the little man had left in the charge of his pupil and assistant, Quast.
Anastasius Papadopoulos, a curate, or a champion wrestler. He would do desperate things for a month or two; but then he would wake up sane one fine morning and seek out Maisie Ellerton in a salutary state of penitence. I wish I knew a curate who combined a passion for bears and a yearning for ladylike tea-parties. I would take him forthwith to Cadogan Gardens.
He sighed then his face lit up with inspiration. "Ah, signor! What would one not sacrifice for an idea, for duty, for honour, for the happiness of those we love?" "Those are sentiments, Monsieur Papadopoulos," I remarked, "which do you infinite credit." "And, therefore, I express them, sir," he replied, "to show you what manner of man I am."
A heavy, uncouth German lad, whom the professor introduced as his pupil and assistant, Quast, was in attendance. Mr. Papadopoulos polyglotically acknowledged the honour I had conferred upon him. He is very like the late Emperor of the French; but his forehead is bulgier.
And I, too, felt a lump in my throat when they sentenced Anastasius Papadopoulos to the asylum, and I saw him for the last time, the living parody of Napoleon III, frock-coated and yellow-gloved, the precious, newly written dossier in his hand, as he disappeared with a mournful smile from the court, after bowing low to the judge and to us, without having understood the significance of anything that had happened.
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