unconsciously and in the veriest trifles he copies him. Now, Clémence
you know another reason why I am not unwilling to trust the dearest of
sisters to his keeping.”

When the blush that passed over the face of Clémence had subsided a
little, she said softly, “No doubt you pray every day for the Czar. So
shall I.”

“I do; but it is hard to know what to ask for him. Already God
has given him everything we are wont to ask for rulers of the
earth--dominion, power, glory, wealth, victory over his foes.”

“Let us ask God to give him his very best gifts, Henri.”

“Ay, if only we knew what they are.”

“We do know, brother,--love, joy, peace, long-suffering, gentleness,
goodness, faith, meekness, temperance.”

Henri started, as though the thought were new to him. “Those would be
strange jewels for the diadem on a monarch’s brow,” he said. “Yet,
after all, the world--here in Paris as well as where I have been in
Poland--can bear witness to ‘long-suffering, gentleness, goodness.’ Of
‘love, joy, peace,’ of course I cannot speak, for they are gems whose
light is turned God-wards.”

“Then let our prayer be for those. The face we have seen to-day does
not look joyful, Henri.”

When they returned to the house they found guests awaiting them,
friends of Madame de Salgues, who wished to congratulate her niece
upon the return of Henri, and to make his acquaintance. The afternoon
was spent in entertaining them, and was already far gone when Ivan
joined the party. Madame de Talmont contrived to say a word to him in
private, which sent him with a beaming face to answer M. de Cranfort’s
multitudinous questions about the Dresden campaign.

By-and-by, when the soft May twilight had fallen, he stole to the
window where Clémence was standing looking out on the little garden.
She had wearied of the discussion absorbing all the others, about the
time and manner of the new king’s triumphal entry into his capital.
Ivan in his heart thanked the quick, eager voices which were making
just then a welcome “solitude for two.”

“Mademoiselle Clémence,” he began.

A thrill of terror swept over the girl’s heart, like the instinctive
shrinking of the sensitive plant which closes up its petals at the
lightest touch. She took refuge, not in silence, but in speech.
“Monsieur Ivan,” she said quickly, “I have seen your Czar.”

“Have you?”

“Yes; and heard Henri talk of him. There is a verse in the Gospel of
which he has taught me the meaning--‘He that is greatest among you
shall be your servant.’”

“How true! You always seem to go to the heart of everything.” There
was a pause sufficient for Ivan’s quick ear to note that the pompous
tones of M. de Cranfort were quite filling the room. “Dear Mademoiselle
Clémence,” he resumed, “one little word from you can make me richer
than the Czar himself to-night.”

Clémence murmured something inaudible, and seemed to need the hand he
tried to take to shade her face, though the room was in darkness now.

Then Ivan’s passionate heart flashed out and found its utterance. Since
the beginning of the world had no one ever loved as he loved Clémence.
It is the old fond illusion: to each young and ardent soul its own
experience is a new discovery, undreamt of heretofore by the slow heart
of humanity. Each generation sings--

  “We were the first that ever burst
  Into that silent sea.”

But the moment’s rapture was all too brief. The vigilant eye of Madame
de Talmont discerned a state of things which, if suffered to continue,
might possibly imperil “les convenances.” She rose softly from her
place and drew near, near enough to catch the low-breathed words, “My
Clémence.” After one sigh--into which all the memories of her own youth
were gathered up--she laid her hand gently on the arm of Clémence. “My
dear child,” she said, “dost thou know that the little Fanchon is very
ill? La Tante will never be content if she is not well cared for. Go
and see.”

Fanchon was only a favourite lap-dog, but Clémence lavished a good deal
of tenderness that night on the little creature.

Three very happy weeks followed; then Ivan’s marching orders came, and
he set his face towards his own country, not without sorrow, but with
the hope of a glad return at no distant day to claim the treasure left
behind him.

CHAPTER XXXI.

LEAVES FROM LETTERS.

  “Umile in tanta gloria.”--PETRARCH.

The bright spring-tide had ripened into a yet brighter summer, when
one day Clémence entered the parlour where the two elder ladies sat
at work. Her cheeks were glowing, and she held in her hand several
closely-written sheets of paper. “Dear aunt and dear mother,” she
said, “I thought you would like me to read for you part of the letter
from--St. Petersburg.”

“Yes, dear child,” answered Madame de Talmont tenderly. “I am sorry
Henri is not here. He was so anxious about it.”

Henri had gone to Brie, that he might bring to the sorrowing family of
his “true comrade,” Mathieu Féron, what comfort he could--at least the
mournful comfort of certainty.

Madame de Salgues motioned Clémence to a footstool near her. “We
shall be glad to hear of M. Pojarsky,” she said kindly, but as if the
kindness was not quite without an effort.

From the first sheet Clémence read scarcely anything. “He says that his
journey has been prosperous,” she explained in general terms, “but that
he feels a little solitary without--without _us all_.” It must be owned
that this was a very tame and inadequate rendering of the eloquent
original, which she kept to herself. At length she began to read:
“‘You will remember our last expedition to Paris on the day of the
king’s triumphal entry, and Henri’s pleased surprise when he found how
completely the Czar kept himself and his Russians out of sight, only
mingling incognito with the crowd of spectators, that none might say of
the son of St. Louis, “Foreign bayonets have brought him back to his
capital.” You said to me then, “Think what a welcome they will give him
in St. Petersburg! That will be a triumph to throw this one completely
into the shade!” And Henri added, “Would that I could see it! But you
must tell us all about it when you write.” I must--so far as I can; but
it would be impossible to paint the rapture of enthusiasm, of loyalty,
of gratitude with which his return was awaited. Think of it! Russia
not only delivered from her enemies, but set upon a pinnacle of glory
she had never known before. In less than two short years, the invader
driven back from our capital to his own, stripped of the power he had
misused, and hurled from the throne he had disgraced. France conquered,
rescued, forgiven.’”

“If there is much more about the conquest of France, you may pass it
over,” said Madame de Salgues rather tartly. “Of course, M. Pojarsky
writes as a Russian.”

“The honour of France is dear--at least to some Russians,” Clémence
answered with a heightened colour. She went on: “‘Three long days
did the Senate spend in debating what Russia should do to show her
gratitude to the Czar Alexander Paulovitch. Other princes had been
given high-sounding titles, had been styled in their life-time the
Great, the Magnificent, the Invincible, or, still more honourable, the
Well-beloved--and for him surely that would have been appropriate.
But some who knew the heart of our Czar spoke and said, “Such titles
would give the honour to himself alone; let us find one which brings
it back to God. That will please him best.” “Blessed of Heaven” was
the name chosen at last. Would it not have sounded well in the long
and glorious line of our Czars, Alexander Paulovitch, the Blessed of
Heaven? Moreover, they planned to erect in St. Petersburg, in the
Isaac’s Square, a splendid monument, grander than your column of the
Place Vendôme, to celebrate his glory and familiarize to every eye
the names of his victories. They sent a deputation proposing these
things, and at the same time praying him to accept the Grand Order of
St. George, the highest and rarest of our military distinctions; and
to allow them to organize--or rather to _permit_, for the people were
but too willing--public receptions, fêtes, illuminations, on the most
magnificent scale.

“‘I marvel, Clémence, whether you will be disappointed, as I was,
when you hear his answer. In no words but his own can I tell it. This
is what he wrote to the Senate: “I most earnestly desire and implore
the benediction of the Most High upon the nation he has confided to
me, that I may be blessed by my dear and faithful subjects, and, if
possible, by the whole human race. But though I desire to attain this
end, I cannot flatter myself that I have attained it; nor can I permit
myself to accept this surname, for I should give the lie to my own
principles in offering my faithful subjects an example so contrary
to the sentiments of moderation and the spirit of humility that I am
endeavouring to inculcate. Therefore, while expressing my deepest
gratitude, I request the Senate to regard these things as though they
had never been. Raise a monument for me in your hearts, as there is
one for you in mine. May my people bless me, even as I also bless
them. May Russia be happy, and may the Divine benediction rest upon
her and upon me.” “It is for posterity,” he said afterwards, “to erect
me a monument if they think me worthy of it.” The Grand Order of St.
George he declined to accept, because it is only given to a general
who has saved the country from imminent danger, conducted a successful
campaign, or gained a great battle. He had not personally performed
any of these things, he said; though it may be that in this particular
posterity will not agree with him. “This arm,” added he, “has done no
more than another man’s.” As for fêtes, illuminations, and processions,
he requested most earnestly that the money which would have been
expended upon these should be used for the succour of the widows and
orphans made by the war. To insure this as far as he could, he came
back to his capital, unannounced and unattended, some days before he
was expected. He went first to the Church of Kazan to pray, then to the
Winter Palace to see his mother. That was all. Next day there was a
solemn thanksgiving service in the cathedral. I trust that to many of
us it was no empty ceremony, and that the words, “_Not us! not us! but
His name!_” went up from our hearts as well as from our lips.

“‘Yet I will own that at first I was disappointed--and that
_bitterly_--at the self-abnegation of my Czar. But now I am more than
content; I am rejoiced that he has put aside the intoxicating cup that
was borne to his lips. I am learning to see more honour in humility
than in monuments, decorations, high-sounding titles.

“‘He intends soon to hold a levee for the especial benefit of the
officers who have been wounded during the war; and we are invited, each
of us, to state his wants and desires directly to himself. I will not
say that I long for this opportunity--nor perhaps could I say it with
truth. For I _trust_. I leave with perfect confidence my future--_our_
future, which is infinitely more--in the hands of my God and of my
sovereign.

“‘Yesterday I called upon General Soltikoff, who showed me so much
kindness two years ago. He looks greatly aged and broken; indeed, I
fear the days of mourning for the noble old man are at hand. But he was
kind and thoughtful as ever. He told me he had just had the honour of
presenting a memorial to the Czar upon a matter which nearly concerned
me, but that at present he could say no more, as his Imperial Majesty
had expressed a wish to be himself my informant. This has piqued my
curiosity not a little, as you may readily imagine. I conclude he will
speak to me about it at the levee.’”

This was as much of her letter as Clémence saw fit to read aloud. One
more paragraph may, however, be given here: “My beloved, I read every
day the little book you gave me.” (The parting gifts of Clémence to her
betrothed had been the sketch of his mother pencilled by her father’s
hand, and that treasury of heavenward aspiration, so loved by devout
and earnest souls like hers, the “Imitation of Christ.”) “It is grand
and beautiful, but terrible to me. I feel more and more, as I read,
how full of sin, how utterly unworthy and vile I am--how far from
being wholly detached from the world and given up to Christ. Then I
go back to my Bible, and that makes me feel my own unworthiness yet
more deeply; but it also makes me think of the love of God and the
gentleness of Christ, and thinking upon these I have hope. There are
some words of yours that often come to my mind. You said that the day
you saw me first, lying wounded in the hospital, you were surprised and
touched to hear me say I could not help rejoicing in the triumph of my
Czar, though _I_ had no share in it. You said it made you think that if
you truly loved your King and Saviour, you would be able even thus to
rejoice in him, however it might be with yourself. When I read his own
good and gracious words, and think what he is, and what he has done for
us, I seem to understand your meaning. But I am very ignorant; and oh,
how I need you to teach me--you, beloved, so much wiser and better than
I. I often marvel how you deigned to care for me at all. I think it
could not have come about had not a ray of light reflected from my Czar
fallen upon me.” The letter did not by any means end there; but there
may fitly end the extracts presented to the general reader. Of course
many courteous and grateful messages to Madame de Salgues, Madame de
Talmont, and Henri found a place ere it was concluded, and these were
duly delivered by Clémence.

About a week afterwards another letter arrived, and Henri had now
returned to share its tidings. At first Clémence did not read any part
of it aloud; she only told its contents more or less fully. Afterwards
she read some portions of it to her mother. It ran thus:--

            “ST. PETERSBURG, _Wednesday Night_.

    “MY BELOVED,--It is with a full heart--half glad, half
    sorrowful--that I write to thee to-night. God has been good
    to me--good beyond my utmost dreams; for has he not given
    me _thee_? But in the sweetest cup some longed-for drop
    of sweetness is still lacking; in the brightest life some
    brightness is still wanting--some cherished wish ungranted. God
    wills it so, and his will is best. Since my childhood a strong
    untold longing has lain hidden in the depths of my heart. Now
    I know it can never be fulfilled--never on this side of the
    grave. The old hope, the hope of my boyhood and youth, is gone
    from me. I cannot help these few tears which are falling on the
    page as I write. But do not heed them; they are not tears of
    bitterness--for I have been comforted. I am going to tell you
    how.

    “To-day the Imperial reception of which I told you was held for
    the wounded officers. It was crowded. Amongst those who were
    present I saw Count Rostopchine, to whom I shall always feel
    grateful, because he was the first man who gave me work to do,
    and bade me go and do it. He looks ill and haggard. It is said
    he sees nothing day or night except the flames of Moscow. The
    world gives him the credit of the conflagration; and I cannot
    say that in this instance the world is mistaken, although
    hitherto it has been the fashion here to assume that it was
    done by the French. The count has made himself very unpopular
    by his severities towards those who were suspected of favouring
    the invaders, and it is not thought that he will continue in
    office. He has nobly refused to accept any compensation for his
    own enormous losses in the doomed city.

    “I suppose I am writing all this just to make you a sharer in
    my own long suspense and weary waiting. I thought my turn for
    a word from my sovereign would never come, there were so many
    present older than I. Besides, on such occasions his Majesty
    never is in haste. He speaks to each: the words perhaps are
    few, but they are so spoken that each feels that his own
    particular case and circumstances are for the time the sole
    objects of attention. But _my_ five minutes came at last,
    and proved enough to crown my long patience with an abundant
    reward. A kindly question or two about my wound was asked and
    answered; and then, without further preface, the Emperor spoke
    to me of my father. He said that after our first interview
    he had requested General Soltikoff to ascertain whether he
    yet lived, and that, ‘during our absence,’ the general had
    succeeded in obtaining full information about him. ‘He will
    give you the papers to-morrow,’ he added--and paused for a
    moment. Something in his face told me my father was no more,
    and almost unawares the words passed my lips, ‘He is dead,
    sire.’ ‘I wish I could say you are mistaken,’ he answered.
    ‘All was different from what we thought. He was never sent
    to Siberia. At his own earnest and impassioned request--the
    request of a brave man--his punishment was changed to that of
    compulsory service in the army as a private.[56] “Let me show
    my sovereign,” said he, “that although the enemy of Louis of
    France, I am faithful to Catherine of Russia.” Ivan Ivanovitch,
    he redeemed his word nobly, though not to the Czarina. He
    was one of the many gallant men whom I led to their death at
    Austerlitz, on the most unfortunate day of my life.[57] His
    regiment kept its place until not a man was left unwounded.
    Will it comfort you to know that he died a hero’s death, and
    that he died for me?’

    “‘What more could I desire for him, or for myself?’ I said.
    That was nearly all that passed between us. But it was enough.
    I am comforted concerning my father.

    “I cannot write or think of aught else just now. My dear
    unknown father! So unfortunate! So young too--scarce older,
    when the storm burst upon him, than I am now. What agony
    he must have suffered! what desolation! Yet he kept his
    sorely-tried loyalty without a taint; only craving, as his
    last boon, leave to die for the sovereign who drove him from
    her presence with insult, and doomed him to ruin and disgrace.
    Surely his heart was true, whatever baseless, fantastic dreams
    of liberty and equality may have set his brain on fire. The
    Czar says he died a hero’s death, and that he died _for him_.
    Thank God!

    “My Clémence perhaps will wonder that I said nothing to the
    Czar about our future--about my plans, hopes, or prospects.
    Truly I had intended, if the opportunity offered, to have
    spoken of these. But to-day I could not--I could think of no
    subject save one. Forgive me this delay.

    “It is late, but I am still sitting at my desk with that
    precious sketch before me which your father’s hand transferred
    to paper, and your hand placed in mine. My dear mother’s
    face seems to look upon me and to say, ‘I too am comforted
    concerning all I love. Here or elsewhere they are in God’s
    keeping. Never, even in their darkest days, did he wholly take
    away his loving-kindness from them.’

    “To-morrow General Soltikoff is to tell me more. Not _much_
    more, I suppose. Few particulars of the life and death of a man
    degraded to the ranks are ever likely to be known. But had _he_
    told me what I know now, how different everything would have
    seemed to me to-night!

    “Now it is not late, but early. That is really the light of
    dawn, our Northern dawn, which is stealing in pale and faint.
    I must put out my lamp and lie down, first thanking God for
    all his mercies, and praying him to keep me, and those a
    thousand times dearer than myself, in the hollow of his hand.
    Good-night,--my Clémence, my queen, good-night!”

            “_Thursday Morning._

    “I take my pen in haste to add a few lines which will change
    everything for thee and me, Clémence. No, not _change_, only
    clear away our perplexities, and make the crooked places
    straight before us. My last night’s vigil made me rather a late
    sleeper this morning, and I woke to find my servant standing
    by my side, with a large packet in his hand bearing the
    Imperial seal. You may be sure I lost no time in opening it.
    Two separate parchments fell out--one the patent renewing in my
    favour my father’s title of ‘Prince’ Pojarsky, the other the
    title-deeds of his estate, Nicolofsky.[58]

    “I cannot to-day write commonplace words about this; _you_
    will read between the lines, and share the emotions that fill
    my heart. Surely God has dealt well with me--infinitely better
    than I deserve. It only remains now for estate, title, and all
    else that I have and am, to be laid at your feet by your happy,
    grateful, and devoted

            IVAN.”

CHAPTER XXXII.

TWO RETURNS, ONE OF THEM NOT EXPECTED.

  “I keep my master’s noble name
  For warring, not for feasting.”

Although every real obstacle to his marriage was now removed, it was
several months before Ivan found himself at liberty to return to France
and claim his bride. He had to go to Nicolofsky, to see and set in
order his new estate. It is impossible to describe the joy of his old
friends upon that occasion, and the welcome he received from them all,
especially from his foster-parents. One of his earliest acts was to
emancipate the starost and his family, making them at the same time
a present of their homestead. He bestowed a similar favour upon the
mother of Michael; Michael himself, as a soldier, being free already.
To Pope Nikita and his wife he could give little that they cared for,
except kindness and sympathy. They had not recovered from their deep
sorrow for the melancholy fate of his old playfellow, their beloved and
only daughter. Amongst these friends of his boyhood Ivan became once
more a boy. He would sit for hours talking to “bativshka” and to the
company gathered around his hospitable stove, telling them the eventful
story of the war, as well as his own adventures since they parted.

He could not make this first visit a long one; although he consoled
his “serfs,” or rather his friends, with the promise that at no
distant period he would come again and take up his abode amongst
them. He was obliged to return to the capital in time to accompany
the Emperor to the Congress of Vienna, where the brilliant series
of fêtes and spectacles in which the assembled sovereigns displayed
their magnificence made the presence of such a splendid corps as the
Chevalier Guard particularly suitable. But at length he succeeded
in obtaining the desired furlough, and early in February reached
Versailles once more.

He found Clémence unchanged, except that the months of separation had
added, in his eyes, to her grace and loveliness. Madame de Talmont
looked at least ten years younger since the return of her son; but
Henri himself seemed older, and wore a grave if not a troubled aspect.
Madame de Salgues also was ageing quickly: Henri told Ivan she was
anxious about Emile, who had more than once been in danger for acts of
boyish insolence and bravado, such as tearing white cockades from the
breasts of their wearers, and giving a jovial supper to his companions
on the 21st of January, the anniversary of the execution of Louis XVI.

“A wise government,” said Henri during a quiet walk with Ivan in the
park of Versailles, “would disregard these follies, and a strong
government could very well afford to do it. But I fear the government
of Louis Dix-huit is not either wise or strong. He and his courtiers
seem to forget that the world has turned round more than once since
1789. There is not a little discontent amongst the people, and there is
much, very much amongst the military.”

“Do _you_ intend to embrace a military life, Henri?”

Henri shuddered. “_Never_, if I can help it. My experience of
soldiering was too terrible.”

“I do not think you need anticipate another Moscow campaign,” returned
Ivan.

“Still,” pursued Henri, “if my country were in danger, I trust I
should not be found lacking. My mother is exceedingly anxious to see me
in the army. But my own tastes lead me in a direction quite different.”

“To the bar, perhaps, or the Church?”

“My mother and my aunt think these the only rational alternatives. They
talk grandly of ‘la noblesse de la robe;’ but I confess I do not care
for the career of a lawyer, nor do I think I have the talents necessary
to insure success in it. While as for the Church,--may I speak my whole
mind to you in confidence, Prince Ivan?”

“Certainly you may, my dear friend.”

“I am a sincere and earnest believer in Christianity,” Henri said. “I
have heard the voice of God in the stormy wind and tempest, in the snow
and hail which fulfilled his will. But since I have begun to study that
will as revealed in his own Word, a suspicion I cannot dismiss grows
and strengthens within me,--I fear some of the rites and doctrines of
the Church in which I have been brought up are not in accordance with
it.”

These words awakened for the first time in the mind of Ivan the thought
that any real or important divergence might exist between the different
forms of Christianity. Hitherto the world for him had contained two
classes only--believers and infidels. These he found and expected
to find everywhere--in the “orthodox” Church of his own country,
amongst the Catholics of France and the Lutherans of Prussia. The idea
suggested by Henri was so new to him that he paused for some moments to
consider it before he answered, speaking slowly and with deliberation,
“I am sorry you are troubled with such thoughts, Henri; for doubting
keeps us from doing, and it seems to me that there is a great deal to
be done in the world, and little time enough to do it. On the other
hand, you would not have the doubts if God had not sent them to you.
You are not doubting _him_; you are only doubting in what manner you
can serve him best. So you must face your doubts and answer them, one
way or the other. God will be with you, and lead you to the light. But
in the meantime you need not sit idle.”

“True, most true. I am longing to work for God, who has done so much
for me. Besides, what right have I to sit with folded hands, a burden
upon my aunt? ‘If any man will not work, neither shall he eat.’ But
it is much easier to say what I can’t do than what I can. My mother
thinks so few things possible to one who has the misfortune, as I feel
disposed to call it, of being nobly born.”

“What would you like to do, in your heart of hearts, Henri?”

“If I tell you, will you laugh at me, Prince Ivan?”

“Not I! Why should I? When I was a boy I could plough a straight
furrow, and I was a fair hand with the reaping-hook. You cannot fancy
any occupation lowlier than these.”

“I should like to use, not a plough, but a pencil and pair of
compasses. At Vilna I lodged in the house of an architect, and spent
much of my leisure over his books. I was always fond of mathematics,
which are useful in that line. Prince Ivan, if you want to build a
palace on your new estate, I shall be most happy to design it for you.”

Ivan made him a profound bow, then turned and laid his hand on his
shoulder. “Come to Russia with us,” he said warmly. “Never was there
a better opening for your genius. Think of all Moscow to be rebuilt!
Russia ought to be the El Dorado of architects for twenty years to
come.”

“Are you jesting, Prince Ivan?”

“Never was I more in earnest. The Czar will give you a welcome; and
the rather because he shares your tastes himself. In his brief moments
of leisure he often amuses himself by taking up a pencil and drawing
a design for a public building. So he knows how to appreciate what is
good.”

“But--my mother. Already her heart is torn by the thought of parting
with Clémence.”

“Why need there be any parting? I think we could make her happy at
Nicolofsky or St. Petersburg. I have often thought about this, and what
you have said to me now gives me the courage to propose it.”

“Do you intend to leave the army?” Henri asked in his turn, perhaps
with some desire to change a subject upon which he was conscious of
having said more than he intended.

“I do, as soon as peace is thoroughly settled. Of course, until then it
cannot be thought of. At the Congress things sometimes looked doubtful
enough.”

“That affair of the kingdom of Poland seems to be causing a great deal
of trouble,” said Henri. “More than it is worth, _I_ should say; but
the Czar does not seem to think so.”

“When did _not_ an old wrong cause an infinity of trouble to the man
who tries to repair it? By some strange fatality, it is upon him
the punishment generally comes, not upon the man who did it,” Ivan
answered. “Those ‘designs’ upon Poland, for which many who ought to
know better are now loudly blaming the Czar, simply mean two things--to
Russia an assured peace, guaranteed by a strong, well-defended
frontier; and to Poland the longed-for ‘unity,’ with as much of
the longed-for ‘independence’ as she is fit to have and capable of
using.”[59]

“It seems a strange way of repaying the Poles for having gone away _en
masse_ after Napoleon,” said Henri.

“It is the way of my Czar,” returned Ivan proudly. “Did you ever
hear what passed between him and Kosakoski, the most devoted of
Napoleon’s Polish adherents? ‘Is it true that you followed Napoleon
to Fontainebleau?’ asked the Czar. ‘Yes, sire,’ returned the Pole who
certainly had the courage of his opinions. ‘I was with him till he left
it; and then, if he had asked me to go with him, I would have done
it.’ The Czar was silent for a moment, then he asked him, ‘What is it
you wish for most?’ ‘The restoration of my property,’ said Kosakoski.
The Czar immediately wrote an order to that effect, and gave it to
him. It is well known that his heart, since his boyhood, has yearned
to heal the wounds and to atone for the wrongs of Poland. The Polish
hostage, Czartoriski, was the friend of his youth; and in their long
confidential talks they planned together to build the old waste places
and gather the scattered members of the oppressed nationality. Now
Czartoriski reproaches him with doing far too little; while Russia,
loyal but perplexed, suspects him of doing too much; and Europe accuses
him of caring for nothing but the extension of his own frontier. And
your King, Louis Dix-huit,” continued Ivan with some bitterness, “to
whom he gave a throne, treats him as an enemy.” They had almost reached
their home when this was said, so Henri was spared the necessity of a
rejoinder, nor did he greatly care to make one, Legitimist though he
was.

Many a happy talk had Clémence and Ivan in those days about things
past and future--things seen and unseen. Their engagement was now
openly avowed; the trousseau of the bride was in preparation, and all
was arranged except the wedding-day. Madame de Salgues was becoming
reconciled to an alliance which would give her niece the title of
Princess, and was lavish in her presents of jewellery and costly laces.
Since the Restoration her life had become less secluded; many of the
returned _émigrés_ frequented her house, and found the young Russian
prince, the _futur_ of Mademoiselle Clémence, a very pleasant addition
to their society.

One evening Madame de Salgues gave an entertainment to a few of her
friends. It was a supper, refined and elegant, but unpretending, such
as, in her own words, “used to be _de bon ton_ before the Revolution
and the bourgeoisie spoiled everything, when we did not come together
to eat and to drink, but to converse and to enjoy one another’s
society.”

Upon this occasion her guests thoroughly fulfilled her expectations,
with the exception of the youngest of the party. Stéphanie de Sartines,
like a spoiled child, had importuned her father to allow her to accept
Madame de Salgues’s invitation; but having gained her point, she sat
absorbed and silent, refusing to eat or to speak, and devoting herself
to the contemplation of her idolized friend Clémence, from whom she was
so soon to be separated. Ivan pitied the sad-faced little girl, and
remembering her exploits at their first meeting, sought to console her
with the most tempting of bonbons and preserved fruits; but he could
elicit nothing beyond a melancholy “No, thank you, monsieur.”

“You should say M. le Prince, my daughter,” her father corrected.

“En Russie tout faquin est prince,”[60] observed the audacious Emile to
his neighbour, M. de Cranfort.

The latter, though disposed to regard Ivan in the light of a successful
rival, resented the discourtesy of Emile, and showed it by asking
coldly, “What do you say, sir?”

“Don’t you know the story? Before the war broke out the Czar sent
Prince Tufaquin as ambassador to the court of the Emperor, who, during
their first interview, called him nothing but ‘Monsieur.’ One of
the bystanders afterwards told him of the title borne by the envoy.
‘J’ignorais qu’en Russie _tout faquin_ est prince,’ was his answer.”

“General Buonaparte was a parvenu,” said M. de Cranfort; “therefore it
was not altogether his fault if he mistook rudeness for wit.”

Emile “knew when he was beaten,” perhaps because he was not an
Englishman; so he turned from M. de Cranfort to Stéphanie, whom he
heard deploring that Prince Ivan was going to take Clémence away from
them into Russia, where she would be frozen to death in the long cold
winter, or eaten by the bears. He bent over her with a comic air of
gallantry, and prayed her to be comforted. “_I_ am infinitely more
devoted to you than Mademoiselle Clémence could ever be,” he said;
“and, mademoiselle, _I_ am not going to Russia.”

But he was scarcely more fortunate here. “Of course you are not,”
returned the young lady sharply, her dark eyes flashing. “I heard
a gentleman tell my father that the Czar is inviting all manner of
clever, capable people to go to Russia; but for any one who is--who is,
well, just _ordinary_, you know, he has no particular welcome.”

In the meantime Stéphanie’s allusion to Russian bears had occasioned
remark. Ivan told some stories about them which were rather amusing
than terrible; for bears, like nobler animals who run away when
they are attacked, sometimes make themselves ridiculous. Amidst the
laughter which followed, Madame de Salgues’s valet made a whispered
communication--“Madame, there is an old soldier without, who wishes to
speak with the young gentleman.”

“With what young gentleman?”

“The young gentleman of the house, he says, madame.”

“Then ask M. de Talmont to go to him at once, and see what he wants,”
said Madame de Salgues with a nervous air. The capital and its environs
swarmed with old soldiers of Napoleon, who were needy and discontented,
longing for any kind of political change, and in the meantime, if
report said true, not always despising robbery and violence as less
desirable but still legitimate means of repairing their ruined fortunes.

Henri went into the hall, closing the door behind him. He saw in the
lamp-light a tall, gaunt figure, wrapped in an old greatcoat, which
covered a shabby uniform, but did not conceal the cross and two medals
glittering on the breast of the faded tunic.

“I beg your pardon, monsieur,” said the soldier in a voice Henri seemed
to recognize. “It was not you I wished to see, but the young gentleman
who belongs to the Ecole Polytechnique.”

“Surely I know you--surely I have seen you somewhere,” said Henri,
looking attentively at the bronzed, weather-beaten features of the old
man.

The veteran shook his head. “You have the advantage of me, monsieur,”
he said.

But after another brief scrutiny a light flashed over the mind of
Henri, reflecting itself in his face. He advanced cordially and took
the soldier’s bony hand in his. “Pierre Rougeard of the Old Guard,” he
said, “I am heartily glad to see you. I thought you were with the dead.”

It was natural that the young conscript should remember the old
Guardsman who had befriended him in his hour of need far better than
the Guardsman could remember the conscript. Henri was greatly changed,
while scarcely anything on this side of the grave could change the
hard, weather-beaten features of Rougeard. He was obliged to recall the
past to his recollection. “Never,” said he, “did banquet seem so sweet
to me as that repast of horse-flesh to which you bade me welcome by
your bivouac fire on the Smolensko road. But we gave you up for lost
that terrible day before we crossed the Beresina.”

“I was made prisoner,” Rougeard answered. “But I fell into good hands,
and was kindly treated. At the Peace of Paris I came home with the
rest--though it is home no longer without the Emperor,” he added with a
sigh.

“You must have much to tell,” Henri rejoined; and as the valet passed
through the hall, he said to him, “Alphonse, this is an old friend of
mine who showed me much kindness while I was in Russia. Take the best
care you can of him. By-and-by,” he said to Rougeard, “we will finish
our conversation.”

He returned to the salon, and related what had passed to Madame de
Salgues. That lady, with the characteristic love of a Frenchwoman for
a little scene, must needs have the old Guardsman brought in, that he
might drink the health of Henri, and receive the acknowledgments of his
friends for the kindness he had shown him.

So Henri fetched Rougeard, who listened to a little speech from Madame
de Salgues, had his hand shaken by Madame de Talmont and Clémence, and
emptied a brimming goblet of champagne poured out for him by Emile.

As he gave back the goblet, he bent forward and whispered a word or
two, which made the lad--unused as he was to self-control--utter an
involuntary cry of amazement, and drop the glass upon the ground.

Of course every one started and looked at him; and Madame de Salgues
asked in alarm, “What is the matter?”

“Nothing,” said Emile in confusion, stooping to collect the fragments
of the broken glass.

“Nothing indeed,” repeated the terrible Stéphanie. “You need not be
alarmed, madame; I heard every word he said, and it was only this,
‘_The little corporal has come back_.’ M. Emile, who is the little
corporal?”

Well might she ask the question, for “all faces gathered blackness.”
The party of friends, just before so glad and gay, looked as if a shell
had suddenly burst amongst them. M. de Sartines was the first to find a
voice. “Garde,” he said, turning solemnly to Rougeard, “since you have
spoken these words you are bound to explain them. I daresay it is mere
rumour,” he added, addressing the ladies.

For a moment Rougeard stood irresolute. He had come to impart his
tidings to Emile, whom he knew already as an ardent Buonapartist,
ready to venture his life in the good cause; but to proclaim them in
the midst of a circle of Royalists had been far from his intention.
However, he soon recovered his composure. To-morrow all Paris would
know the truth; what did it matter about a few hours? With a simple
dignity which was not unbecoming, he answered M. de Sartines, “I have
the honour, monsieur, to belong to the Old Guard, therefore I have
heard to-day what you will all hear to-morrow. The Emperor has set his
foot once more upon the soil of France. He has landed near Fréjus, in
the Gulf of St. Juan.”

“Then by this time he is a prisoner, if he is not shot, or hanged upon
the nearest tree,” said De Cranfort; while Emile sprang to his feet,
and shouted, “Vive Napoléon!”

“If my grandson cannot behave at my table like a gentleman, I will
thank him to leave it,” said Madame de Salgues with a sternness that
amazed every one, and was not without its effect upon Emile, who was
accustomed to nothing from her but extreme indulgence.

Ivan, though his own thoughts were sufficiently sorrowful, felt a
compassion for the boy, and a dread, not altogether groundless, of what
he might be tempted to do if provoked. Turning to his hostess, near
whom he sat, he said to her, unheard by the others, “Madame, I pray of
you do not be hard with him. Do not let him leave us in this way. His
exclamation was natural. I should certainly have done the same had I
heard the Czar was coming.”

Cranfort caught the last words, and said with petulance, “It is all his
fault.”

“Whose fault?” asked a quiet, elderly abbé, invited because Madame
de Salgues thought no party perfect without a slight, a very slight
ecclesiastical flavour.

“The fault of the Czar, M. l’Abbé,” returned Cranfort, raising his
voice, for the abbé sat at the other side of the table. “If the
Corsican adventurer succeeds in erecting his standard once more, and
torrents of blood are spilt, it will be the result of the imprudent
generosity of the Emperor Alexander. No one can pretend that he was not
warned. M. de Talleyrand and every man of sense knew that Elba was no
place for Buonaparte. It was keeping a lighted candle at the door of
the powder-magazine.”

“It did not require the wit of Talleyrand to find _that_ out,” said
M. de Sartines. “The Emperor Alexander may have had political motives
of his own sufficient to explain his conduct. Most probably he had. If
not, his championship of the Buonapartes does honour possibly to his
heart, but little enough to his understanding.”

Ivan was about to speak, but Henri, with a quick motion of his hand,
arrested him. “Not one word, Prince Ivan,” he said in a voice low
and tremulous with suppressed emotion. “Not one word from your lips
to-night! It is I--I whose life he saved--who must defend him. And
from what? Is it from the charge of sparing the fallen? of being too
generous, too merciful, too trusting? There are very few who need
exculpation from such charges. And I, who but for that mercy of his
would now be lying in a nameless grave at Vilna, will not sit by
and hear them.--Messieurs, I am a man of peace; I hate strife and
bloodshed; and I thought that never again should this right hand of
mine touch sword or pistol. Yet I am ready, either now or hereafter,
with sword or pistol, or both, for any gentleman, or any number of
gentlemen, who may desire to meet me in this quarrel.”

“Quel tapage!” muttered Emile. “One man may raise a fine commotion
where another may not breathe a word!”

Madame de Talmont was terrified by a vehemence so foreign to the
character of her son. She interposed, explaining that no harm had been
intended, and entreating him to recollect himself. M. de Sartines also
hastened to apologize. “I was not aware, monsieur,” he said, “that you
were under personal obligations to the Czar. Still I cannot hold myself
excused, for I should not have used so much freedom in the presence of
M. le Prince. I hope he will be good enough to pardon me.”

“No need of that, monsieur,” returned Ivan. “The more freely the
conduct of my sovereign is discussed by every loyal Frenchman the more
will be his honour. The Czar,” he added proudly, “has saved Europe
once. If need be, he will do so again.”

Shortly afterwards the guests departed. Henri drew Ivan aside. “You
will be obliged to leave us?” he said in a low voice.

“Yes,” Ivan answered gravely. “After what we have just heard, I must go
immediately to my Czar.”

Henri’s voice dropped still lower, and laying his hand on the shoulder
of his friend, he said a few earnest words. Ivan answered in the same
tone; then, with a countenance wonderfully brightened, he left the room.

When he was gone, Henri said earnestly, turning to his mother and his
aunt, “Clémence and Ivan belong to each other already in the sight of
God; why should they not do so also in the sight of man? Months, if not
more, may elapse before Ivan can return--a long and dangerous campaign,
perhaps two, may intervene--how much better a hasty marriage than the
wearing suspense and anxiety of a protracted engagement?”

“What difference can it make?” asked Madame de Salgues. “Clémence must
of course remain here until things are settled.”

“A very great difference,” Madame de Talmont answered. “As a wife,
he can send for her and she can go to him should anything untoward
happen--which God forbid,” she added with a trembling lip. “God
alone knows what comfort there is in having the right to tend, or to
mourn.--Henri, I entirely agree with you.”

“It occurs to me that there is some one else whose consent will have to
be obtained,” Madame de Salgues observed.

Henri smiled. “I believe Ivan is this very moment engaged in obtaining
it,” he said.

“That being the case,” said Madame de Salgues, “and after the opinion
your mother has just expressed, it only remains for us to arrange
details.”

The next morning Clémence and Ivan were married quietly in the parish
church of Versailles. It is possible that the young Russian gave a
passing sigh of regret to the touching and beautiful ceremonies of
his own ritual, which he was obliged to forego. Gladly would “Ivan
the servant of God” have been “crowned with Clémence the handmaid of
God,” as it is the use and wont to do with brides and bridegrooms in
the Greco-Russian Church. But what did it signify? He was more than
content--he was unspeakably thankful for all that was given him by God
and by man.

There was a simple _déjeûner_, the only guests outside the family
circle being M. de Sartines and Stéphanie, who was greatly consoled
by her dignity of bridesmaid. There were brave, loving farewells; and
then Ivan rode away to rejoin his comrades and to do his duty in the
conflicts that might yet lie before him and them.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

HIS KING SPEAKS TO THE CZAR.

  “Yea, thou wilt answer for me, righteous Lord!
  Thine all the sorrow, mine the great reward:
  Thine the sharp thorns, and mine the golden crown;
  Mine the life won, and thine the life laid down.”

It is amongst the minor yet very real troubles of life that
promptitude, courage, and self-denial so often appear to be wasted. The
call to action reaches our ear: we spring up responsive, buckle on our
armour, and hasten to the front,--only to hear the bugles sounding the
retreat, and to find that the conflict has been adjourned _sine die_.
So it happened to Ivan. He was stopped on his way to Vienna by tidings
that the Chevalier Guard was now in Poland with the main body of the
Russian army. To Poland accordingly he went; but only to linger in
enforced idleness day after day, even week after week, first at Wiasma,
and then at Prague. He could not dismiss the thought,--Might he not
just as well have spent all this time with his bride at Versailles? He
certainly might, except for the important consideration that it can
never be just as well for a man to neglect his duty as to do it.

Meanwhile the accounts from France added to his perplexity and
uneasiness. Napoleon, received everywhere with open arms by the
military, swept through the land like an unresisted torrent, and on the
19th of March entered the capital once more. Louis XVIII. abandoned it
at his approach without striking a blow--a pusillanimity which made
old Royalists like De Sartines and De Cranfort hang their heads with
shame. It was natural that Ivan should feel the deepest anxiety about
the household at Versailles, and for the sake of those so dear to him
he could not be otherwise than thankful that a battle had been avoided,
although on more public grounds it grieved him to the heart that
Napoleon had succeeded so easily in establishing himself once more in
Paris.

During his stay in Prague, Ivan was cheered by a letter from Clémence,
bearing the impress of her own true, tender, and courageous spirit.
Henri wrote also, giving a more detailed account of public events;
and Emile contributed a version of his own, which was by no means
unwelcome. The student of the Polytechnique wrote as though the
entire glory of bringing back the Emperor belonged to him and his
schoolfellows; and he exhorted Prince Ivan not to be in the least
uneasy about the family at Versailles, assuring him that they would
enjoy _his_ powerful friendship and protection, with a naïve simplicity
that gave his correspondent a hearty laugh. “But after all,” thought
Ivan, “some atonement is due to the vanity of Emile, which used to
suffer so often from the keen though polished thrusts of his Legitimist
friends.”

All this time a burden of pain and apprehension lay heavy on the heart
of Ivan. It was probable that by the return of Buonaparte from Elba,
the great work of the Czar would be undone; it was already certain
that his expectations were frustrated and his predictions falsified.
He intended to do good, and the good had become the occasion of
evil. Every mouth was opened now to reproach him with the untoward
results of his chivalrous kindness to the vanquished. “You see, sire,”
said Francis of Austria, “what has occurred in consequence of your
protection of the Liberals and the Buonapartists.” “We are far,” said
Talleyrand, “from accusing that greatness of soul which treated a
conquered Power almost like a conqueror; but at least we cannot accuse
ourselves of the imprudent generosity we admired but could not prevent,
though we have now become the victims of it.” Doubtless Talleyrand only
expressed the sentiments of all the Royalists of France; yet it was as
well for him that he did not at that time fall in with the Emperor of
Russia’s Chevalier Guard. But infinitely worse to Alexander than all
these reproaches was the imminent prospect of another great war, to
water the soil of Europe with blood and tears, and renew the horrors
it had been the dearest wish of his heart to terminate. Ivan was not
surprised when a report reached him that the Czar was ill at Vienna. He
knew--he was not likely ever to forget--that each remembrance of the
useless slaughter at Austerlitz touched the chords of a lasting sorrow.
He had heard of the terrible months of depression that followed the
murder of the Emperor Paul, when the attendants of the new sovereign
trembled for his reason or his life; nay, he himself had witnessed a
partial recurrence of the same depression at the time of the death of
Moreau. The sad face of his Czar, as he had seen it then, haunted him
day and night, and from the very depths of his heart the cry went up to
heaven, “O God, uphold and comfort thy servant, who putteth his trust
in thee!”

At last the long-wished-for marching orders came, and the early days
of June saw the head-quarters of the Russian army established in
Heidelberg, under the personal command of the Czar.

To the great joy of Ivan he looked well, and what surprised him still
more, instead of the expected depression, there was such brightness
in his countenance, such cheerfulness in his whole demeanour, that
he thought some specially good tidings must have arrived. Meeting
his friend Tolstoi, he asked him if such were the case. But Tolstoi
reported, on the authority of his uncle the Grand Marshal, that there
were no good tidings, but rather the reverse. Matters, he said, looked
very serious. It was to be feared the whole strength of the Allies
would be required to overthrow Napoleon, and a plan of united action
was being arranged amongst them. The Czar was only anxious to do
what was best for the general welfare, and it was probable he would
be called upon to make the first attack; but time and place were as
yet uncertain. “If I were the Czar,” Tolstoi added indignantly, “I
would see every Bourbon of them all drowned in the Seine before I
would stir a finger to save them. You have heard of the practices
of M. Talleyrand--how the old fox induced King Louis to enter into
a secret treaty against us with the other Powers before the return
of Buonaparte, who found the precious document on a table in the
Tuileries, where it had been left behind by accident, and sent it to
the Czar, just to show him what sort of friends he had.”

“No, I did not hear that,” said Ivan, keenly interested. “Well, what
did the Czar do?”

“Put it into the fire. ‘It is not _I_ who am to be thought of,’ he
said, ‘but the peace of the world.’ I think, Prince Ivan, something
else will be thought of if we take Paris again and M. de Talleyrand
sees fit to stay there.”

Ivan had abundance of leisure at this time, some of which he spent in
wandering about the beautiful environs of Heidelberg, looking at the
picturesque old town from the “Angel’s Meadow,” or watching the sun
go down behind the shadowy purple hills. He sometimes prolonged these
rambles until late in the evening, enjoying the solitude, for thought
was busy within him, and had endless materials upon which to work.

On one of these occasions he strayed into a hilly path, secluded from
general observation, and found that it led to a cottage, in the window
of which a light was placed. He drew nearer, intending to ask his way;
for he was surprised to find himself in a place probably not more than
a mile from the town, and yet so entirely new to him. As he approached,
he was struck by the singular air of neatness which distinguished a
dwelling that in size and appearance was little more than a labourer’s
cabin. Presently he became aware that two or three other persons were
toiling up the pathway. An old man, with a consumptive-looking girl
leaning upon his arm, attracted his attention, and after a courteous
salutation, he inquired of him in French, “Who lives yonder?”

“That is the dwelling of the French lady who speaks so beautifully
about our Lord Jesus Christ,” returned the old man in the same
language. “There is to be a prayer-meeting to-night, and Adèle and
I are going. Will you come too, monsieur? It will do you no harm to
remember your Creator in the days of your youth.”

“I trust I do remember him,” said Ivan frankly; “but I shall be glad to
come in. I suppose you are all Catholics here?”

“The good French lady is a Catholic, but the young minister who
expounds the Scriptures and prays at the meetings is an ‘Evangelical,’
as they call it, from Switzerland. But they both love the Lord Jesus
Christ, and talk as if they had seen him face to face.”

“Ay, indeed they do,” the girl said timidly. “They make you feel him so
near.”

The old man looked at her affectionately. “The visits of Madame, and
the little meetings in her cottage, have indeed been new life to thee,
my child,” he said.--“You cannot think, monsieur, what a change there
is in her--how much stronger and better she is since these happy
thoughts have come to us.”

“It is true,” the girl assented. “Last year I thought I was dying; and
oh, monsieur, the grave seemed so dark, so awful! Now the fear of death
is quite gone, thank God. Still I think He means to let me stay here a
little longer, and I am glad--if it is his will.”

“Come, dear,” said her grandfather; “the door is open.--Come,
monsieur.”

Ivan hesitated. “Shall I be welcome?” he asked.

“Oh yes, monsieur. There is a gentleman, the son-in-law of Madame, I
believe, who is always there, and another, a tall and handsome officer,
who is seldom absent. He seems to be a devout soldier, like Cornelius
of old. The rest are only friends--people like ourselves.”

Ivan went in, took a seat on a bench beside his new friends, crossed
himself, and bowed his head for a moment in prayer, then looked about
him. It was now late, and the little room was lighted, somewhat dimly,
with candles of an ordinary kind. Fortunately he was placed where he
could clearly see the very striking face and figure of the lady whom
Adèle pointed out to him with the one whispered word--“Madame.” Her
hair was silver, her face worn and haggard, with the look “of one that
had travailed sore.” Less than fifty she could not have been--Ivan
thought her much more; but hers had been one of those intense and
passionate lives which are measured “not by months and years,” but by
fears and hopes, by joys and sorrows, perhaps by raptures and despairs.
There was fire in her dark eyes, and upon her pale and wasted features
an expression at once of dreamy mysticism and of ecstatic ardour. In
youth she had been very beautiful, but no mere physical beauty could
survive the storms that had swept over her. Yet some better thing had
come to her in place of her faded loveliness; so at least they said who
saw her when she spoke of that which was God’s special gift and message
to her soul--“the love of Christ which passeth knowledge.” It was this
secret whispered in her ear that, in spite of many errors and some
serious faults, made Julie de Krudener a power for good in her day and
generation. She had this treasure in an earthen vessel--in one that was
flawed and well-nigh broken; but she had it, and gave of it to others.

Though Ivan could read little of this in her face, yet he was greatly
struck by its expression. “She ought to be a sibyl or a prophetess,”
he thought. The persons on either side of her scarcely attracted his
attention at all; they were her son-in-law, the Baron de Berckheim, and
a young Swiss pastor, whom Adèle called M. Empaytaz.

Just as the clock in an adjoining apartment began to strike, the door
opened once more, and an officer of tall and commanding aspect entered
the room. He went quietly to what was evidently his accustomed place,
close to one of the lights, laid a Bible which he had brought with
him on the table, and sat down. Ivan found it as much as he could do
to suppress a cry of amazement--for it was the Czar. But he held his
peace, and neither by look nor sign betrayed what he felt.

A prayer was offered, in which Ivan was far too bewildered to join; he
scarcely even observed that it was unlike any prayer he had ever heard
before, being extempore. Then the young pastor opened his Bible, read a
passage, and began to expound it. But Ivan heard little; for he could
not withdraw his eyes from the Czar, who was listening intently to
every word, and who found and read every passage of Scripture referred
to, making constant use of the little eye-glass he always carried in
his sleeve.[61]

After some time, however, it occurred to Ivan that what interested the
Czar so deeply ought to interest him too. Surely some mysterious power
must dwell in the words which could thus enchain a soul already filled
with weighty cares, tremendous responsibilities, soaring projects. Of
what was the pastor speaking?

A sentence reached his ear that caught and held his thoughts, making
him also an absorbed and eager listener. It would not be true to say
that he forgot thenceforward the presence of the Czar--_that_ would
have been impossible--but he felt it only as an influence which added
a conclusive weight of evidence and a potent undefinable charm to all
that was said.

The pastor’s theme was the forgiveness of sins, a subject now full of
interest for Ivan. He had long outgrown the stage of spiritual life
in which he said that he felt no “abyss” within him. Prayer, study of
the Scriptures, and intercourse with Clémence had by this time taught
him much of the hidden evil of his own heart. Of his sins he could say
now in uttermost sincerity, “The remembrance of them is grievous unto
me; the burden of them is intolerable.” How he was to be relieved of
that burden had never been very clear to him. He knew that pardon had
come to mankind through Christ, and that it was connected in some way
with his death upon the cross; but how it was to reach his own need, to
avail for his own sin, he scarcely knew. He supposed that he ought to
read his Bible and to pray, to repent truly, to obey God in all things,
and to put his whole trust in him; and this was what for some time past
he had been earnestly endeavouring to do.

But this new teacher, to whose voice his Czar was listening with such
reverence, spoke of the death of Christ as an atonement not merely for
the sins of the world, but for the special transgressions of each and
every believer in him. “I can say,” he added, “to each one present
here, ‘_Thy_ sin was laid upon him.’ Whoso believes in him, accepts
the grace he offers, is forgiven and justified through him. Such has,
even now, everlasting life, and cannot come into condemnation, but has
passed from death unto life.”

Ivan listened, wondering. Could this indeed be true? Might it be
possible for him to leave that room, not as he had entered it, hoping,
praying, longing to be one day forgiven and accepted of God, but in
actual present possession of that priceless boon? This “glad evangel”
would have seemed to him far too glad to be anything more than a
beautiful dream, had not the radiant countenance of the Czar given
the clearest evidence that _he_ believed it. When the lecture was
concluded--and to Ivan it seemed far too short--he hastened home to
search his well-worn Testament, and to find out, if he could, from its
pages whether these things were so.

After some hours of reading and prayer he reached the conclusion that
it was he himself who had hitherto been blind and stupid. He marvelled
that he had not earlier discovered what now seemed to shine upon him
from every page of the Book he loved--the glorious truth of present
forgiveness and acceptance through faith in Christ. And thus that night
one who had hitherto only “believed” dimly and afar off “on the name
of the Son of God” came to “know that he had eternal life,” and to
“believe” consciously and fully “on the name of the Son of God.”[62]

A strange new joy burst upon his soul, flooding it with sunshine. He
knelt down and thanked God for teaching him this truth. He could say
now “_my_ God” and “_my_ Saviour.” He knew now what was meant by those
words of the apostle, “Therefore being justified by faith, we have
peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ.”

At length he rose from his knees, went to the window of his apartment
and looked out. The town clock had just struck the second hour after
midnight. The scene without was calm and still, sleeping in the soft
summer moonlight. It seemed to Ivan a beautiful world, over which God
was watching, and which he had so loved as to send his Son to die for
it. “To die for _me_!” he said in his heart. “What can I do to show my
love and gratitude to him?”

As he stood looking out, a solitary figure passed down the silent empty
street. Ivan saw it was the Czar, who was only then returning from
the cottage on the hill. His attendants were well accustomed to their
master’s habit of taking long and lonely walks, and his absence, even
for many hours, would occasion neither question nor remark. If, instead
of communing with nature, he chose to spend the midnight hours in
prayer and study of the Scriptures, none need know it.

But Ivan suddenly remembered that a grand review of the whole Imperial
Guard was to take place that morning at six o’clock, so he dismissed
the idea of writing at once to tell Clémence the wonders he had
witnessed, and wisely threw himself upon his pallet to snatch a few
hours of necessary slumber.

When he came to the parade-ground in the morning he felt like one
bewildered. There, in the midst of his brilliant staff, their uniforms
glistening with gold and jewels, and the costly trappings of their
magnificent horses glancing in the sunlight, stood the Czar, at once
the centre and the heart of all that martial pomp and pride. As Ivan,
in his place in the Chevalier Guard, advanced, retreated, wheeled to
the right or the left, in instant obedience to the word of command
that issued from those imperial lips, he wondered silently which was
the dream--this splendid pageant, or the scene last night in the lowly
cottage; but when he looked again upon the calm and joyous face of the
Czar he knew that both were real.

It was not until long afterwards that he heard the story of how God
had spoken to the heart of the Czar. Madame de Krudener for some time
past had been acquainted with the Empress Elizabeth, and other persons
belonging to the Russian Court. What she heard from every one of the
noble character of Alexander awakened in her mind an intense desire to
be of use to him. “I have great things to say to him,” she wrote to a
friend; “for I have felt much upon his account. My business is to be
without fear and without reproach, his to be at the feet of Christ.”
Such impulses are sent from above.

It was late in the night of the 4th of June. Alexander sat in his
quarters at Heilbronn, depressed and weary, trying to read a book of
devotion, but unable to profit by what he read. He had heard of the
conversations of Madame de Krudener with his wife, and the thought
passed through his mind, “I wish she would come and talk to me.” At
that moment his confidential attendant, Volkonski, entered the room,
and told him, with much ill-humour, that there was a lady in the
ante-chamber who insisted upon seeing him, notwithstanding the lateness
of the hour.

“I cannot get rid of her, sire,” said the irritated aide-de-camp.

Alexander inquired her name.

“_Madame de Krudener._”

“Ask her to come in,” said the Emperor. He afterwards told a friend
that he felt as though he were dreaming, so strange did the coincidence
appear to him.

Madame de Krudener entered. Certainly she did not fear the face of man.
She prophesied no smooth things to the monarch of all the Russias.
Perhaps she scarcely knew how far God had led him already; for she
told him, with uncompromising boldness, that never yet had he come to
the foot of the cross with the prayer of the publican on his lips,
and that until he did so there could be neither pardon nor peace for
him. Much more she added, perhaps not altogether wisely; but since she
held up Christ and his cross before him, there was power in her words
to reach and to bless a heart which had been prepared of the Lord to
receive them. Seeing him affected even to tears, she apologized for her
boldness, and would have paused, but he entreated her to go on. This
proved the first of numerous interviews.

Many a quiet talk over the Bible, prolonged into the hours of the
early morning, took place in the labourer’s cottage at Heidelberg,
where Madame de Krudener had established herself in order to be near
the Emperor. The young Swiss pastor, Empaytaz, who shared in these
conversations, has left a brief record of them. One day he summoned
courage to ask the Emperor plainly, “Sire, have you now peace with God?
Are you assured of the pardon of your sins?”

Alexander was not a man who could hear or answer such a question
without emotion. For a time he was silent, apparently questioning his
own heart. Then “it seemed as if a dark veil was lifted from his face,”
and he looked up and answered, “Yes, I am happy--I am very happy. I
have peace, even the peace of God. I am a great sinner; but since
Madame”--glancing towards Madame de Krudener, who was present--“has
shown me that Jesus came to seek and to save that which was lost, I
know and believe that my sins are pardoned. The Word of God says that
he who believes in the Son of God--in God the Saviour--is passed from
death unto life, and shall not come into condemnation. I believe;
yes, I have faith.” Two words were at this time often on his lips--“I
am very happy,” and “I am a great sinner.” They supplied the double
key-note of his inner life. His joy in the forgiving Christ kept pace
with his sorrow for the sins that had grieved him; the one grew and
deepened in the same proportion as the other.

Years afterwards he said to a friend--tracing his conversion, it is
interesting to observe, not merely to his conversations with Madame
de Krudener, but to the whole course of God’s dealings with him from
the time of the burning of Moscow--“Since then I have known God as the
Holy Scriptures have revealed him. Then I learned to understand, and I
understand now, his will and his law; and the resolution to consecrate
to him only, and to his glory, my life and my reign has ripened and
strengthened within me. Since then I have become another man; to
the deliverance of Europe from her ruin I owe my own salvation and
deliverance. It is only since Christianity has become important above
all things else to me, since faith in the Redeemer has been manifested
in me, that his peace--for which I thank God--has entered into my soul.
Ah, but I did not arrive there at once: the path by which I was led
stretched across many a conflict and many a doubt.”

It was no wonder that now he found it less difficult than ever to
pardon his enemies. It seemed to him something which he could not
help doing, because he had been himself forgiven. “Why should I do
otherwise?” he said, when Madame de Krudener expressed her surprise at
some act of forgiveness extraordinary even _for him_; “have I not the
gospel in my heart? I know only _that_; and I think that if any one
were to compel me to go a mile with him, I should willingly go with him
twain.” So glad was his heart in those early days of faith and love.

God had given this man the seventh part of the habitable globe to rule
over. He had given him the splendour of a throne, the wealth of an
imperial treasury, the command of mighty armaments. He had given him
even more--victory over all his foes, success in all his undertakings;
at this time nothing that he sought to accomplish was denied him.
Yet the man’s deep heart was still unsatisfied. “All these things
were too little” for him. One thing he desired of the Lord, that he
sought after--“to behold the beauty of the Lord, and to inquire in his
temple.” That also God gave him. The brightest glory, the “crowning
mercy” of Alexander’s life, was no earthly triumph, no victory in war
or diplomacy; it was that God answered him in the joy of his heart,
and enabled him to say, with the poorest and humblest of his believing
children, “My Father, my Saviour.” The secret of the Lord was with him,
and He showed him His covenant.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

AFTER WATERLOO.

  “Forbid it, Lord, that I should boast,
    Save in the cross of Christ, my God;
  All the vain things that charm me most,
    I sacrifice them to his blood.”

“A great battle! Napoleon is annihilated! Wellington and the English
have done it!” Such was the cry with which Tolstoi rushed breathless
into the guard-room where Ivan and others were sitting. The tidings
were not wholly unexpected, and yet they came with startling swiftness
and suddenness. Only a few days before had Napoleon disclosed his
real design, and poured his troops into Belgium. So rapidly had this
movement been effected, that while Wellington was actually engaged in
writing to the Czar to arrange a plan for an offensive campaign, the
French had advanced upon the British and Prussian cantonments, and
the firing had begun. Wellington’s letter was dated the 15th of June,
and by the evening of the 18th--one of the most momentous days in the
world’s history--Napoleon was a ruined and despairing fugitive.

It was only natural if, after the first outburst of exulting joy at the
overthrow of the common enemy, the Russians remembered Moscow and the
glories of the German campaigns, and said sadly each to the other, “Ah,
why were not we there?”

“I do not grudge the English their laurels,” said the captain of
the Chevalier Guard. “They are a gallant race, and have been true
throughout to the cause of Europe and of freedom. But why were not
_we_ at hand, instead of Blucher and those Prussians, to stand by them
breast to breast?”

“We can only say, captain, it was the will of God,” answered Ivan. “He
sent the English and the Prussians to Belgium, and kept us here. He
knows--and all the world knows too--that the Czar was as ready for the
work as Wellington or Blucher, and would have done it quite as well.”

The Czar himself recognized in this event the hand of God, and was
satisfied. He had learned a lesson perhaps more difficult than that
of being ready to do any work required of him--he was “ready _not_
to do.” Without an afterthought of jealousy he saw the work he had
begun completed by another, to whom was given the crowning glory of
dealing the fatal blow to the enemy _he_ had first grappled with and
overthrown. The heart-felt joy with which he gave thanks for the
victory of Waterloo was deepened by the thought that the blood of his
Russians, shed so freely before in the cause of Europe, had now been
mercifully spared.

Three weeks afterwards the allied sovereigns entered Paris once more,
and Louis Dix-huit returned in their wake. A second time had the way to
his capital been made safe for him by his “dear friends the enemies,”
as he sarcastically and ungratefully styled his deliverers.

The Chevalier Guard attended their imperial master, and Ivan had the
intense joy of a reunion with his young bride. His return was far
more speedy than they had either of them dared to hope, and their
hearts were filled with thankfulness. Madame de Salgues had removed
from Versailles into the city, where she had taken a small house in a
fashionable quarter, and Ivan obtained permission to reside with his
friends.

Many things had happened during his absence; he had much to hear as
well as to tell. The “Hundred Days” had left their impress upon all
the household. Madame de Salgues told him she had come to Paris as
much from a determination to defy “General Buonaparte” as from a sense
of the insecurity of a town like Versailles in such troublous times.
Henri, strange to say, had reaped advantage from the general confusion.
When the power of Napoleon was re-established, Madame de Talmont
deplored that the army, as a career for her son, was of course out of
the question; and Henri thought this a favourable moment for broaching
the ideas he had already uttered in confidence to Ivan. They were
received much better than he had ventured to expect; and he was now,
with his mother’s consent, studying under a celebrated architect. “One
must sometimes sacrifice one’s feelings,” she said, “though _never_
one’s principles. And, after all, what to do? The army is no longer a
place for a man of honour; the bar you do not like; and to the Church
there is at least one objection,--I do not wish the noble name of
Talmont to die with you.”

Emile was now a resident under the roof of his grandmother; he had
ceased to wear the uniform of the Ecole Polytechnique. With a few other
students who made their imperialism very obtrusive during the Hundred
Days, he had the honour of sharing in the downfall of his hero by
being expelled at the return of the Bourbons. This ended not only his
military and scientific education, but, at least for the present, his
hopes of obtaining a commission.

A day or two after his arrival, Ivan inquired for M. de Sartines and
his daughter, whom he had not yet seen.

“No doubt they will be here to-morrow,” Madame de Salgues answered.
“They know you are with us. Besides, we are their near neighbours now,
and they seldom leave us three days without a visit.”

“Wish they would leave us three weeks!” said Emile. “That little girl
is a perfect nuisance.”

“My dear boy, how very ungallant you are!” Madame de Salgues observed.
“Still,” she added, “I must own that Mademoiselle Stéphanie is not by
any means improved.”

“Not altogether _her_ fault, poor child!” put in Clémence.

“Oh, _you_ always speak for her, ma cousine, because she is like your
shadow,” said Emile. “Three mornings in the week, at least, Prince
Ivan, she comes here. ‘Papa,’ she says,” and the lad imitated the
little girl’s tones--“‘papa will allow me to go to the Tuileries
gardens, or the Champs Elysées, or the Louvre, if Mademoiselle Clémence
will be so kind as to accompany me.’ She has not even the grace to say,
‘Madame la Princesse.’ But now _you_ have come, we shall have an end of
all that.”

“Then I am to understand,” said Ivan, greatly amused, “that the
deterioration in Mademoiselle Stéphanie’s character is owing to her
intercourse with Clémence?”

“Of course,” returned Emile laughing.

“There are those about her,” said Madame de Talmont more gravely, “who
encourage and applaud her pert speeches; and that, to a child, is
absolute cruelty.”

“Who _did_ encourage them during the Hundred Days, you mean to say,”
Emile resumed. “While the Emperor was in power, you were all of you
glad to hear, even from the lips of a child, whom no one could punish
or seriously blame, the impertinences the grown-up Legitimists were
longing to utter, but dared not.”

“Some of us,” said Madame de Salgues with dignity, “never condescended
to conceal our opinions. You will do me the justice to remember, Emile,
that I gave to every one, as my chief reason for coming into Paris, my
desire to show the usurper I was not afraid of him.”

“As if the Emperor--” Emile began indignantly, but fortunately checked
himself in time, and turned off his annoyance with a laugh. “You
forget, my dear grandmother,” he said, “that there was another reason
yet more potent. The truth is, Prince Ivan, we came into town to avoid
that poor M. de Cranfort. Since the auspicious morning when my cousin
became Madame la Princesse, the unfortunate gentleman has not been
quite in possession of his senses. It is reported that he carries two
loaded pistols about with him, and threatens to shoot first Clémence
and then himself.”

Every one present laughed heartily, assuring Ivan there was not a word
of truth in the story.

“As much, I suppose,” said Ivan in a low voice to Emile, “as in another
story you told me once--about M. de Sartines.”

“I am glad enough now _that_ was false,” Emile answered graciously.
“That child would have been the death of Clémence. I hope M. de
Sartines, if he does marry, will marry a dragon, able to keep her in
order. But really,” he added, “M. de Cranfort is not quite sane. I
have heard him say the most extraordinary things; and, do you know,
he was for some years at Charenton?” After a short pause, he resumed
suddenly--“Prince Ivan, how is the Emperor Alexander?”

“In excellent health,” said Ivan cheerfully.

“I am truly rejoiced to hear it.”

“Very kind of you,” returned Ivan smiling, but with a slight air of
surprise at his emphatic manner.

“Because,” resumed Emile, in a tone of mystery, “as we are all friends
here, I may observe that we have heard rumours--extraordinary rumours.”

“Do you mean about his illness at Vienna? It is true he had a fall from
his horse, and--”

“Oh, _that_ is nothing. That is not what I mean. But the strangest
things are said of him here, and in the best circles too, where you
know he was adored last year. In the Faubourg St. Germain all sorts
of ‘_on dits_’ are rife about him. People say he has become very
singular,--a fanatic, a pietist, and I know not what else; that a
certain crazy old lady--”

“Hush, hush, Emile,” said Madame de Salgues and Madame de Talmont
almost at the same moment. Clémence looked anxiously at Ivan, and Henri
started up indignantly. “I, at least, will not stay to listen to such
folly,” he said.

“A truce, for once, to your championship of the Czar,” said Emile. “I
suppose Prince Ivan may speak now.”

Ivan might have answered angrily, but for certain words which thrilled
through his heart, taking all the bitterness out of Emile’s reckless
taunts: “Esteeming the reproach of Christ greater riches than the
treasures of Egypt”--only _he_ said “the treasures of _Russia_,” and
the magnificent crown jewels he had seen in St. Petersburg flashed
before his eyes in a dazzling, bewildering maze of light and colour.
For a moment he did not speak; then he asked, with a gentleness that
surprised every one, “What were you going to say, Emile?”

“Nothing--at least not much,” was the rather apologetic answer.
“Rumour always exaggerates things, and most especially the rumour
of St. Germain. Perhaps it is _not_ true, after all, that Madame de
Krudener makes the Emperor Alexander fast and wear sackcloth; or that
she has persuaded him he is the white angel of peace, and Napoleon
the black demon of war; or that--but, as I say, these may be foolish
stories. Still it seems to be undeniable that the consummate artist,
who last year played the _rôle_ of magnanimous conqueror with such
_éclat_ amongst us, is now assuming, by way of variety, that of
medieval saint. Henri Quatre is masquerading in the guise of St. Louis.
Seriously,--what has come over him, Prince Pojarsky? Is his mind really
affected, or is it all some deep-laid political scheme?”

“Certainly, Emile, I am amazed at your audacity,” Madame de Salgues
interposed again. “Prince Ivan has the patience of a saint.”

“From _your_ lips, madame,” said Ivan bowing, “I accept the name as a
compliment; though others, it seems, use it for a reproach.--Emile, I
am not careful to answer you in this matter. You have but to watch the
course of events, and you will see that there is not a man in Europe of
sounder understanding than my Czar. Of what he has already accomplished
I need not remind you; and I had rather not, considering _whom_ he has
overcome. If his religious principles expose him to reproach, it is
only ‘the reproach of the foolish.’ They are not new to him, though of
late they have deepened and strengthened. All those stories you allude
to about his intercourse with Madame de Krudener are fabrications. The
grain of truth they contain is the fact that God has been pleased to
send him a message by the lips of a woman;--and why should he not?”

To this there was no answer, and the little party broke up. But Ivan
drew Emile aside. “I want a word with you,” he said. “Do you know in
what temper the minds of men are now?”

“Do you mean the minds of Royalists?” asked Emile bitterly. “That I do.
I believe that if they had the power they would put every Imperialist
of us all to the sword; or if not, it would only be to reserve us for
the dungeon and the scaffold. The Bourbons gnash their teeth upon us.
The Duchess of Angoulême says openly, ‘Mercy cannot be distinguished
from weakness.’”

“Ah, my friend, can you wonder? When that stern, sorrow-stricken woman
had a girl’s tender heart, it was turned to stone by the cruel murder
of both her parents and of her young innocent brother. But others who
have not the same wrongs to avenge are quite as eager for vengeance.”

“They are a bad set, those Bourbons,” said Emile.

“Certainly _I_ shall not plead for them. They have not used us or our
Emperor well. But consider that in the eyes of a German every Frenchman
is as odious as a Buonapartist can be in those of a Royalist. The
Prussians talk openly of dismembering France; and, Emile, who is to
hinder them? Not Louis--he is powerless; not Austria--she will share
the spoils; not England--she is just, and even generous, but do you
expect her to go to war single-handed in the cause of her enemies?”

“_One_ man would have hindered them,” said Emile--“he who is a captive
now. France will soon wish the Emperor back again.”

“I respect your faith in your hero, though I do not share it. But, my
dear Emile, you cannot deny that, however it has come to pass, the most
stupendous genius of modern times has proved, practically, the most
stupendous failure.”

“Is success always the test of greatness?”

“By no means. But Napoleon has always acted as though it were; has
aimed at it, lived for it, sacrificed everything to it, and finally
lost it. As he has now left--been forced to leave--his country to the
deadly enemies his ambition has raised up against her, what will the
end be, Emile?”

“Who can tell? As for me, I feel ready to hang myself.”

“Pray for the life and health of my Czar. You will see him stand
between the avengers and their prey; between prostrate France and
victorious Germany; and even, so far as becomes a foreigner, between
prostrate Imperialists and victorious Royalists.”

“That it should come to this! That France--our proud, glorious
France--should have to thank a Czar of Russia!”

“Where is the shame of thanking him, if God has given him the power to
befriend her?”

“_God?_” Emile repeated scornfully. “That’s your way of talking, you
Russians. Don’t you see now that it ends in folly and fanaticism?”

Ivan laid his hand on the shoulder of Emile. “My dear boy,” he said,
“do you know why I am talking with you thus? Not to make you believe
in my Czar. _His_ glory is in good keeping; and if you prefer Napoleon
for a hero, I have no more to say. The cause I want to plead with you
is not his, but your own. You call him fanatic and dreamer because of
his faith in God and in Christ. I want to show you that it is this very
faith which makes him generous, merciful, just.”

“I do not see the good of faith,” Emile broke in passionately. “I don’t
mean _religious_ faith, but faith of any kind. We had faith--oh, such
intense, glorious, undoubting faith--in the Emperor and in his star.
And we loved him so! You cannot understand it, Prince Ivan, but it is
true. Do you remember Henri’s friend, the Old ‘Garde’ Rougeard, who
came to tell me of the Emperor’s return? He fell at Waterloo; a comrade
of his, who crept back wounded to die amongst his children, told me
about it. When all was lost, the remnant of the Old Guard was called
upon to surrender. ‘La Garde meurt, mais ne se rend pas,’ was the proud
reply; and those brave men died where they stood.[63] Poor Rougeard
took the colours from the falling ensign, and with his dying hand
wrapped them round his breast. ‘Vive l’Empereur!’ was his last word.”

“And the Emperor lived, _after_ such followers as these,” said Ivan
with tears in his eyes. Emile saw the tears, and they did him more good
than a hundred admonitions. Ivan presently resumed: “Suppose, Emile,
that when your Emperor dies some one were to try to persuade the world
that he had never existed,--that his whole personality, life, and
career was a fiction from first to last?”

“Any one who tried it would be laughed at for his pains.”

“Of course. Every effect must have a cause. Men do not love, trust in,
die for that which is not, and never has been.”

“What are you trying to say?” asked Emile, a little surprised.

“That the existence of Christ is as certain as that of Napoleon.”

“Was. There was once such a Person, I am sure.”

“_He is._ In the year three thousand six hundred--if the world last so
long--who do you think will die for the name of Napoleon Buonaparte?
Who will love him, obey him, follow him as my Czar on his throne to-day
is not ashamed to confess that he loves and follows _his King_? Nay,
even the glory of my Czar will pass away, the jewels that sparkle in
his crown of fame will pale and wane (_that_ will not matter, for he
will have cast it long ere then at his Redeemer’s feet); but the glory
of Christ will last for ever and ever.”

“I know you really believe in the Christian religion. I cannot, but I
respect those who can.”

“I believe in _Christ_, Emile; and I want you to believe in him too. I
want you to search and look, and never rest until you find out--first
that he is, then that he is worthy of all your faith and love.”

“Where do you want me to look?”

“If you will, at the lives of those who profess this faith. See if it
does not produce better and nobler results than any other principle
of action. But I had far rather you looked at the picture of Christ
himself as you will find it in the holy Scriptures.”

“Well, I will try,” said Emile, evidently touched. “At least I can
read. I have more than time enough for reading now. I study mathematics
with Henri; but he is _so_ tiresome that every lesson ends in a
quarrel.--Last term I had the second prize at the Polytechnic, and now
I expected the first. Was it not hard to be turned out?”

“Very; but you have the consolation of suffering in the cause of your
Emperor. If I were you, Emile, I would study hard enough to show the
world I was no loser. And, one word more; I would keep away from
political meetings, _secret_ meetings especially, and eschew plots and
intrigues. They are only snares and pitfalls dug for the feet of those
who cling to a lost cause.”

“Lost!--Oh, Prince Ivan!”

“My friend, Napoleon has played his game and lost his stake. That is
plain to every one. But _you_ have the cards still in your hand. Do not
spoil your chance.”

“Do you mean my chance of success? I thought you despised success.”

“I mean your chance of a noble life. But I ought not to have said
‘chance.’ There is none.”

“There is destiny.”

“There is _will_. Your will, and God’s will, which means only good to
you, if you will accept it.”

“There is something in what you say,--especially about secret
meetings,” he added in a lower tone. “But it is late; I must go to
those mathematics. Good night.” He turned away, softly whistling
the air of a song very popular with the Imperialists, “Veillons au
salut de l’Empire.” “_I_ shall watch henceforward over the safety of
something else, very dear to Prince Pojarsky,” thought the conceited
but generous boy. “How little he guesses what plans we have talked
of--we Buonapartists--at those secret meetings he denounces! Such,
for instance, as the assassination of a certain great personage, in
_his_ innocent eyes the greatest in the world! But if ever again, in
my presence, any one dares to drop a hint on that subject, I swear the
words shall be his last!”

CHAPTER XXXV.

“THE GRAY SISTER OF HEARTS.”

  “Why should we dream youth’s draught of joy,
    If pure, would sparkle less;
  Or that the cup would sooner cloy
    The Saviour deigned to bless?”

Ivan could afford just now to be very generous and very patient,
because he was very happy. There was sunshine not only on his path
but in his heart. Almost at the same time that the best of earthly
blessings had been given him, he was given also the conscious
possession of the love divine; and he received it in thankful, trustful
joy. Christ had come to him, not in sorrow, as he comes to many, but
making the brightest hours of life infinitely brighter by his presence.

He thought he had nothing to do but to tell Clémence the new happiness
he had found, and that she would immediately understand and share
it; that she would no longer be content to wait for acceptance with
God until some future day, but would henceforth enjoy the glad
consciousness of being already accepted in the Beloved. But to her
tender conscience and thoughtful mind difficulties presented themselves
which had never troubled the eager, impulsive Ivan. Her fears of
self-deception, of presumption, of spiritual pride, raised up a host
of shadowy disturbers of the peace within, which Ivan had not skill
enough to combat. He urged her therefore to come with him and hear the
teachers from whom he had learned so much.

Madame de Krudener had come to Paris, and established herself in a
house adjoining the Elysée Bourbon, where she held what would now be
called “drawing-room meetings,” to which all the rank and fashion of
Paris were flocking. It was strange that for once religious meetings
became the rage in the very stronghold of ungodliness, vice, and
frivolity. Many of the visitors had their curiosity piqued by the
extraordinary reports that reached them, and wished to ascertain
the truth for themselves; many more “went to scoff,” and of these a
goodly number “remained to pray.”[64] But the greatest attraction to
these _soirées_ was the hope of seeing the Emperor of Russia--a hope,
however, not often gratified. Far from parading his religion, Alexander
was strongly tempted to conceal it. His sensitive nature dreaded
ridicule; and he was well aware that a profession of personal religion
would expose him to the most polished shafts of that exquisite Parisian
wit, which, keen as the scimitar of Saladin, could divide asunder, with
fine, unerring touch, the most delicate fibres of thought and feeling.
Even in Protestant London--which he always placed in honourable
contrast to Paris for seriousness and morality--he had observed
that religious laymen were looked upon almost with contempt. It was
therefore not without much prayer and conflict that he took his stand
on the side of God in the face of all the world.

He did not often mingle with the throng that filled the drawing-rooms
of Madame de Krudener to overflowing on three or four evenings of every
week; but he frequently came later, when his day’s work was over, for
prayer and quiet study of the Scriptures. These hours of communion
were prolonged until far into the night; yet he always rose at five in
the morning, so that no man was able to reproach him with any lack of
diligence in business, nor was any part of the heavy burden of care
and responsibility that fell to his lot neglected or avoided.

Clémence would gladly have accompanied Ivan to some of Madame de
Krudener’s meetings; and Madame de Talmont, though she had her
objections, might have gone also, but for the determined opposition
of Madame de Salgues. “In my time,” said the lady of the old régime,
“women did not preach; and certainly, if they had done so, ‘gens comme
il faut’ would not have gone to hear them. Why should you need Madame
de Krudener to tell you to repent and believe? I suppose you hear those
Christian duties inculcated every Sunday and holiday when you go to
church.”

“Many people go to hear Madame de Krudener who never enter a church,”
Clémence observed.

“That is possible,” returned Madame de Salgues. “Sick people, who
will not eat wholesome food, sometimes take a fancy for extraordinary
messes, and a wise doctor gives them their way. But you, my dear niece,
are certainly not in that position.”

“Madame de Krudener does not always speak; sometimes it is M. Empaytaz,
a Swiss pastor, who gives the address,” Clémence ventured again.

“Worse and worse, my dear! A _Protestant_!” cried Madame de Salgues in
a tone of horror. “I sometimes wonder what the world is coming to. All
barriers, all distinctions seem to be swept away in these revolutionary
days.”

Henri was sitting in another part of the room, occupied with a book;
and none, save Clémence, noticed the flush of pain that overspread his
face at these words.

Ivan and Clémence agreed that it would not be right for the latter to
set aside the expressed wish of a relative to whom she owed so much.
Therefore, instead of listening to Madame de Krudener or Empaytaz,
she studied the Bible diligently, both alone and with Ivan, and lost
nothing by going to the fountainhead, instead of to streams, not always
of undeniable purity.

Yet her desire to see and hear the remarkable woman whose words were
making so great an impression was very natural, and was destined at
length to be gratified. One morning, while the family were seated at
their eleven o’clock _déjeûner_, they were honoured by a visit from
Stéphanie de Sartines. The little girl was intensely conscious of a new
silk dress--green shot with pink, which shone and glistened with each
of her quick, restless movements--and of a large Tuscan hat adorned
with a wreath of blush roses. She exchanged greetings, in a highly
satisfied tone, with every one in the room, and then, coming to the
side of Clémence, began as usual, “Papa says he will allow me--”

The smile that passed round the group was not unnoticed by the
observant Stéphanie. She looked up quickly, but resumed her little
speech after a moment’s hesitation. “Papa says he will allow me to go
and hear Madame de Krudener preaching to the children, if you will be
kind enough to accompany me, mademoiselle,--I mean Madame la Princesse;
and if M. le Prince will permit you,” she continued, bowing towards
Ivan with the air of a little queen.

“If no one objects more than I do, Madame la Princesse is quite at
your service, mademoiselle,” answered Ivan, with a smile and a bow
as ceremonious as her own.--“I am on duty to-day, as you are aware,
m’amie,” he added in a lower voice to Clémence.

“I thought the old lady kept her ghostly admonitions for those who
needed them--hardened transgressors like M. de Talleyrand, for
example,” said Emile. “Does she lecture children too, for variety?”

“It appears she does. _You_ ought to go and hear her, M. Emile,”
returned Stéphanie gravely. “It would do you good.--But really,
madame,” she added, addressing Clémence again, “you _must_ come. It
will be so--so delightful, so exciting, so _amusing_.”

“My dear child, one does not go to a religious service to be amused,”
observed Madame de Talmont.

“Ah, madame, you cannot imagine how delicious it is! My cousin Coralie
has told me all about it. Madame de Krudener visited Coralie’s pension
and preached to the young ladies, and you never saw anything like it!
They were all moved--they shed torrents of tears--it must have been
grand, beautiful; a great deal better than going to the theatre--even
when Talma is acting, as papa would say. I would give the whole world
to see it for myself, and to know what it is all about. Come--_do
come_, mademoiselle--madame, I mean.--Prince Ivan, I beg of you to send
her with me.”

“You are most welcome to her escort as far as I am concerned,” Ivan
answered. “But, mademoiselle, if you or I were going to meet even
an earthly monarch, I think we should do so with a little more
seriousness.”

“Ah, that reminds me--that is the best thing of all. Coralie says that
the Czar is coming to the meeting to see the children.--What do you
think of _that_, M. Emile?”

“I think he may go wherever he pleases; he is sure to be welcome,”
returned Emile with unusual graciousness.

Ivan gave him a quick glance of surprise and pleasure, then said,
turning to Stéphanie, “May I ask where you heard that, mademoiselle?
For it does not look very probable.”

“Oh, M. de Berckheim told Coralie’s father; for he is a great friend
of his. This is not a little meeting in a school-room, Prince Ivan;
it will be quite a grand affair. Any children who like may come, and
grown-up people too. There will be crowds, no doubt. I daresay we shall
find it hard to get seats. It will be altogether delightful. Besides, I
am longing to see the Czar.”

A few questions about time and place were asked, and the answers showed
that Stéphanie had carefully considered every detail of her plan. “We
can get a fiacre,” she said, “and be there in three-quarters of an
hour.”

Madame de Salgues, who had been silent hitherto, now spoke in a
gracious tone. “If you are to hear this woman at all, Clémence, it
appears to me that you could not do so in a manner less open to
objection. Go, my dear niece, if you wish it.”

“I am at your service, Stéphanie,” Clémence said smiling; and she rose
to leave the room. As she passed the chair of her aunt she kissed her
hand with a grateful look; and the old lady responded kindly, “I hope
you will enjoy yourself, my dear.” She had been greatly touched, though
she had said nothing, by the quietness with which Clémence had given up
what was evidently her own and her husband’s wish, in deference to her
feelings.

“I must own, mon ami,” Clémence said to Ivan, who joined her while she
was making her simple toilet, “I think it is a pity the Czar should go
to a meeting such as Stéphanie expects this to be.”

“Why so, if it please you, my princess?” asked Ivan, rather surprised.

“Because,” she answered, “the children will all be gazing at the great
people instead of listening to what Madame de Krudener is saying to
them. Besides, it is bad for them--is it not?--to think themselves
objects of attention. The less the religion of children is noticed and
talked about the better.”

“Oh, you need not fear. The presence of half-a-dozen gentlemen, in
a large public room, will be scarcely observed by the children; and
who is to tell them that one of them is the Czar? You don’t know,
Clémence,” he added with a change of tone, “how his heart yearns over
the little ones. In England, no sight pleased him so well as the
annual gathering of the charity children under the dome of St. Paul’s
Cathedral. And I have seen him myself in Dresden, when he lodged in the
Bruhl Palace, come out in the evening to watch the children playing in
the gardens, which he would not allow to be closed against them. Three
little princesses--‘daughters of Russia’--are sleeping in the Church
of St. Alexander Nevsky at St. Petersburg, and God never gave him a
son.”

But Stéphanie’s impatient voice was heard in the passage, so, after
a tender little farewell to Clémence, Ivan escorted the ladies to a
fiacre, and saw them depart.

The room where the meeting was held was crowded when they arrived.
However, Coralie saw her cousin and Clémence seeking a place, and
persuaded the governess who had charge of her party to make room for
them. Clémence at first regretted this, for the girls began to chatter
amongst themselves about their dress and other trifles in a way well
calculated to put to flight all serious impressions.

Meanwhile she looked with much interest on the face and figure of the
person about whom Ivan had told her so much. Perhaps on the whole she
was disappointed: the worn and haggard features had in her eyes no
charm save one, the charm of intense earnestness and utter sincerity.
The thought passed through her mind, “That is a woman from whom I might
learn much as a teacher, but I could never trust her as a guide.”
One thing, however, she learned that day--that the Pietists neither
thought lightly of sin themselves, nor induced others to think lightly
of it. The “Gray Sister of Hearts” (so Clémence remembered Ivan’s
calling Madame de Krudener) denounced in scathing accents just those
sins of which the world thinks least--the sins of childhood. Conceit,
selfishness, disobedience, forgetfulness of God, were exposed in terms
that Clémence might have thought exaggerated, had she not remembered
that the poison-seed is the poison-plant in embryo. Never before had
she felt so thoroughly--

  “That the most childish sin a child can do
  Is yet a sin which Jesus never did
  When Jesus was a child, and yet a sin
  For which he came in lowly pain to die.”

By-and-by the speaker’s tone changed, and with a tenderness of look
and manner of which Clémence felt all the charm, she spoke of “the
child-loved Lover of children,” of the Shepherd who gathers the lambs
in his arms and carries them in his bosom, who gave his life for the
sheep and the lambs so willingly, so patiently, so lovingly. “My little
child,” she seemed to say to every one present, “he died for _thee_, he
loves _thee_, he speaks to _thee_ and says, ‘My son, or my daughter,
give me thine heart, and give it to-day.’”

While she listened, the head of Stéphanie had sunk very low, her face
was quite shaded by the broad leaf of her hat, and Clémence saw with
wonder that tears were falling quick and fast upon the cherished silk,
utterly unheeded by its owner. She tried gently to take her hand; but
Stéphanie, with a quick, impetuous movement, drew it away.

When the meeting was at an end, any who wished for private conversation
were invited to remain.

“Shall we go home, dear?” Clémence whispered. Stéphanie shook her
head with a vehement negative. Her slight frame was quivering with
convulsive sobs. After an interval Clémence asked gently, “Why are you
weeping so bitterly? Tell me, dear. Is it for your sin?”

The child looked up quickly. “Not all--not _most_--for that. Most
because I have grieved Him, and He is so good.”

Clémence said no more; she prayed in silence for her little friend. Her
own deep inward life had taught her great reverence for the soul of
another. Even in that of a child there might be mysteries with which no
hand but God’s could deal aright. Stéphanie prayed too, for the first
time in her life.

Meanwhile the “Gray Sister of Hearts” was going quietly amongst the
children who, like Stéphanie, had remained, advising, comforting, and
instructing them, according to the power God had given her. At last
she came to Stéphanie. “My little girl, why do you weep?” she asked,
with that peculiar tenderness which in great measure accounted for the
spiritual magnetism she exercised.

“I am holding out my hand to the Lord Jesus, and he will not take it,”
was the answer.[65]

“That is only because his arms are around you already, dear little
one,” she said. She added many loving words, to which Clémence as
well as Stéphanie listened with deep interest. At length she kissed a
farewell to her little pupil, in whose eyes a happy light had begun to
shine. “I am ready to go now,” said Stéphanie, putting her hand in that
of Clémence.

It was late when they reached home. Madame de Salgues and Madame de
Talmont were beginning to grow uneasy, and Henri had just volunteered
to go in search of the wanderers. They were warmly welcomed; and, as
had been already arranged, Stéphanie remained to spend the rest of the
day with her friends.

While Madame de Talmont asked Clémence many questions about the
meeting, Emile opened a fire of banter upon Stéphanie, about the effect
her dress and appearance had produced upon the assembly, and especially
upon the Czar, “The very least I expected of his Imperial Majesty,”
he said, “was to send an aide-de-camp to inquire who was the charming
young lady in pink and green silk.”

But Stéphanie did not reply with her usual saucy readiness; and Henri,
noticing her agitation, quickly came to her relief, making some
commonplace inquiry about the numbers who were present.

“Ah, I see what is the matter,” said Emile: “the Czar was not there
after all. Very unlike him, to disappoint so many young ladies.”

Stéphanie gave the surprising answer, “I do not know if he was there. I
never thought of him at all.”

Then Clémence drew her gently away to her own room, leaving her there
in quiet until supper was ready. As she went out Madame de Salgues
observed, “I really think that child is improving--at least in
appearance. This evening she looks almost pretty.”

“I have always said that Mademoiselle Stéphanie de Sartines will one
day be a beautiful woman,” Henri answered in a tone of decision.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

TWO HAPPY DAYS.

  “The shadow had passed from his heart and brow,
    And a deep calm filled his breast;
  For the peace of God was his portion now,
    And his weary soul found rest.”

“You must all come, my friends,” said Ivan. “I have set my heart upon
it.” He had been describing the preparations for the grand review
of the Russian army which was to take place a few days later in the
“Plaine des Vertus.”

“Ah, yes; you must all go, certainly,” remarked Madame de Salgues.

“Unless Madame de Salgues is obliging enough to be of the party, no one
will go,” said Ivan. “I know that at least I can speak for Clémence.”

“But what to do, my friend? It will take three days at the very
least--one to go, one to stay, and one to return. And then, think of
the crowds! Who knows even whether we shall find room in any of the
hotels?”

“You need have no anxiety about that, madame. The Emperor has engaged
all the hotels and posting establishments of the district. I have only
to obtain his order, through his secretary, for everything you require,
and I know that I can do so. You must stay for the religious service on
the day following the review; it will be the Emperor’s name-day.”

“I should certainly like to witness _that_,” said Madame de Talmont.

“I am sorry that my duties must deprive me of the pleasure of being
your attendant cavalier,” pursued Ivan. “But Henri and Emile will more
than supply my place; and you may perhaps wish to invite a friend to
join your party.”

“If we engage a carriage,” said Madame de Talmont, “we can accommodate
another lady. Who shall it be, ma tante?”

“It is for Prince Ivan to express his wishes on that point.”

Ivan gracefully referred the choice to the ladies, and Clémence pleaded
for Stéphanie. “She has been so good lately, poor child,” she said.
“And this will be a pleasure she will remember all her life.”

“By all means. Let us have her father too,” suggested Emile. “For I
hear that this wonderful Madame de Krudener is to be there; and as
she is the only person who has ever succeeded in taming mademoiselle,
perhaps a little arrangement with M. de Sartines--”

“Hold thy peace, Emile,” said Madame de Salgues. “I will have no jests
levelled in my presence at religious persons, be they whom they may;
and I suppose this enigmatical old lady is some kind of irregular nun,
or at least a Carmelite. I cannot pretend to say what she is:--but, my
dear grandson, you must permit me to observe that your tone of late
has been very offensive to me. It is entirely that of the Empire, not
that in which you have been educated. Your manners, too, have quite
deteriorated. They are becoming absolutely bourgeoise.”

“Pardon, madame,” returned Emile with a bow. “I am sorry they do not
please you. But you must acknowledge they are not likely to be mended
by the life I am leading,” he added a little bitterly. “Idleness is the
mother of mischief.”

Madame de Salgues relinquished the useless altercation with a sigh;
and Ivan for the second time sought a private interview with Emile,
following him into the little room where he was wont to indulge his
habit of smoking at a safe distance from his grandmother.

Ivan showed him a piece of paper. “I shall not insult you by asking
whether you know anything about this,” he said.

It was the copy of a letter addressed to the Czar by a person who
signed himself “Captain of Regicides,” threatening him with instant
death if he would not immediately proclaim Napoleon II.

“I should like to hear you do it!” cried Emile indignantly, as he
flung the paper on the ground, and set his heel upon it. “I should
like better still to find out the author of that precious document,
and to treat him _so_,” he added, grinding it beneath his foot. “Such
scoundrels bring the good cause into disrepute. But the Emperor
Alexander has too much courage and good sense to regard them.”

“True; yet others may be forced to regard them for him. The threat has
not been an empty one, Emile. They have tried to poison him.”

“_Never!_” cried Emile, starting and changing colour.

“And nearly succeeded,” Ivan continued sadly. “All our joy in the
present, all our happy plans for the future, might to-day have been
turned into mourning. And not ours only--”

“But how was it?” Emile interrupted.

“It occurred to his cook, contrary to his usual practice, to taste the
wine laid ready for his master’s use at dinner. The poor fellow’s life
has been saved with the utmost difficulty.”

“That is abominable!” cried Emile. “If I but knew the miscreant who did
it, I would spare the executioner a bad business. Peste! if we want a
victim, we Imperialists--and perhaps it is not unnatural we should--we
ought to take Gneisenau who proposed a scaffold for the Emperor,
Talleyrand who deceived and betrayed everybody impartially all round,
or old Louis himself who ran away from his throne without striking a
blow. We might spare at least the one chivalrous enemy who always
spared us.”

“It would be better for yourselves,” said Ivan. “And for others too.
Baron Muffling[66] says he is longing to get the Czar out of Paris, as,
if he is assassinated, or even insulted, no power on earth would be
able to avert a general massacre of the inhabitants by the Allies.”

“Which _you_ would take part in, Prince Ivan.”

Ivan was silent for a moment, then he said in a tone of deep feeling,
“Do not ask me. I am a Christian, I hope, but I am a _man_ also. I know
not what I would do. God grant I may not be put to the test.”

There was a pause, then Emile asked, “What does _he_ say?”

“If I tell you, will you scoff?”

“At him? No; that I can promise you.”

“Well, then, he has asked his friends to pray for him.”

“Useless, but harmless,” said Emile with an air of generous toleration.
“Very clever persons have worn amulets; and even the great Napoleon was
not free from a superstition or two.”

“Not as an amulet against steel or poison does my Czar think of prayer.
‘Do not pray,’ he says, ‘that I may be guarded from the evil that man
can do to me; I have no fears on these grounds. I know that I am in the
hands of God.’”

“That is like Napoleon’s confidence in his star,” thought Emile. He had
almost uttered his thought aloud, but he checked himself in time. For
he reflected that this was not blind confidence in a thing, in some
unknown power--chance, fate, or destiny--but rather, what Ivan had
spoken of to him before, trust in a _Person_.

Ivan resumed presently, “What he desires his friends to ask for him is
protection from the evil influences of the world, and specially _from
those of this city_. Emile, you understand something of his meaning,
and of mine?”

Emile turned aside to avoid meeting the eyes of Ivan, for his words had
touched a chord within. Thrown in idleness upon the great, unquiet,
corrupt world of Paris, the position of the youth was truly perilous.
Secret political intrigue was wooing him upon the one hand, while
vice was spreading its snares to allure him upon the other. Ivan had
succeeded in conveying an emphatic warning at the same time against
both.

“I wish I were more like Henri,” Emile said at last. “He is sometimes
tiresome--a little, but he is as steady as a rock, a perfect gentleman,
and a stainless man of honour.”

“God will help you, Emile; then all will be well,” said Ivan as he left
the room.

The manifold excitements of the next few days put aside for the time
all graver thoughts. The unpretending carriage of the De Talmonts
mingled with a continuous stream of other vehicles on their way to
the Plaine des Vertus, and the striking and amusing sights afforded
by the journey were almost sufficient to turn the brain, of Stéphanie
at least. But the grand review itself confused and bewildered the
imaginations of far more experienced spectators. “Do not ask me what
I think of it,” said Madame de Salgues in the evening, when at last a
happy, weary, excited party sat down to rest in their hotel. “I feel
as if for a whole year at least I had not been myself, but some one
else, and had been living amidst glare and glitter, bright colours and
splendid uniforms. Such masses of men moving as one--such glorious
martial music!--such deafening thunder of artillery!--I could not have
dreamed of anything like it.”

Emile whistled softly to himself. “It has made my grandmother quite
poetical,” he said.

“That is not wonderful,” remarked Madame de Talmont. “It was indeed the
poetry of war.”

“Yes,” said Henri thoughtfully; “and if _I_ had not been forced to
read the stern and rugged prose, I should have looked at it with other
eyes. But all the time I could not help thinking how many gallant men
like those I had seen die in misery.”

“But did you know what they were doing at the end?” asked Emile. “That
last tremendous charge, that made all the ladies start and change
colour, was what is called a charge in line. It was right well done
too, though it has long been thought no one could manage it except the
English. With such material, and under such leadership, nothing is
impossible. With an army like that,” he added a little sadly, “Napoleon
would conquer the world.”

Just then Ivan came in to pay his friends a short visit, and to see
that they were comfortably accommodated. Many were the compliments
addressed to him and the questions asked of him, especially by Emile.
“The discipline of your army seems admirable,” said he. “I should like
to know how it is managed.”

“Like all other discipline worth the name,” Ivan answered; “by justice
and mercy. The Czar knows how to punish, though he loves to pardon.”

“Of course he must punish sometimes; but one does not hear of it.”

“He knows how to punish in ways you could not hear of. A word, a look,
silence even, he can make a terrible punishment. But this power he
rarely uses. I have heard it said that he ‘can annihilate a man without
touching him;’ but I have never seen him do it, and I hope I never
shall.”

“Nor I either,” said Emile.

“I know of _one_ reproof he administered. One of our colonels failed
to have his regiment ready at the time appointed for reviewing it.
He received a severe reprimand, and was broken-hearted. The Czar saw
it, sought him out afterwards, and comforted him, telling him that
‘it was not for one mistake the faithful services of years could be
forgotten.’”

“If,” said Madame de Talmont, “there was any drawback to our enjoyment
to-day, it was the difficulty we found in recognizing the great
personages we wished to see amidst all the brilliant confusion. We
needed our Chevalier of Malta by our side to point them out to us.”

“He would willingly have been there, madame,” said Ivan bowing.
“But to-morrow you will find it easier to distinguish them. At the
grand religious ceremony all will be present. You will see the royal
personages assembled in the tent where they are to hear the service.”

“Ah,” said Stéphanie, “that will be delightful! I am longing to see the
great English Duke Vellington, who conquered General Buonaparte,--or
the ex-Emperor, as one may say,” she added considerately, with a sly
glance at Emile.

Their expectations were not disappointed. The solemn pageant of the
following day was graced by a glittering galaxy of royal stars, upon
which no eye could rest without emotion. Beside Alexander stood the
wayward, ungainly Constantine, unlike him in all but brotherly love;
and next to him, the young Grand Dukes, Nicholas and Michael. The King
of Prussia was there, with his two sons,--one of them destined to wear
hereafter an imperial diadem; the Emperor of Austria, with some members
of his family; and, most admired of all perhaps, little Stéphanie’s
hero, the Iron Duke.

But the sense of these great earthly presences passed away and was
forgotten in the solemn awe of the scene that followed. “An immense
army of conquerors” all at the same instant fell on their knees in
prayer and thanksgiving. Each regiment, led by its own chaplain, moved
in harmony with the rest. Magnificent vestments, fragrant incense, and
the most exquisite vocal music contributed their charms; until, to
those who witnessed it, it seemed as if this worship scarcely belonged
to earth. After the breathless, spell-bound silence that followed the
last chanted psalm of praise, Clémence faltered tearfully, “I think
it is like that perfect worship in the courts above, where the great
multitude, whom no man can number, fall on their faces before the
Throne.”

“Ah, sister mine!” said Henri with a sigh, “there is no perfect worship
here. And this,--beautiful as it is, is far indeed from perfect. I
doubt even whether it is quite in accordance with what we know of the
will of God. But,” he added softly, “‘the good Lord pardon every one
that prepareth his heart to seek the Lord God of his fathers, though he
be not cleansed according to the purification of the sanctuary.’”

The religious service over, the guests strolled through the camp,
enjoying the sweet summer weather, and the curious and interesting
sights that met their view on every side. Amongst the crowd of visitors
there was no happier party than that of Madame de Talmont. Joy had
ripened the quiet grace of Clémence into a sweet and rare loveliness;
there was a soft and steady light in her dark eyes, and the glow of
perfect health upon her cheek. She was dressed that day with unusual
care; Ivan himself had superintended her toilet for the expedition,
and had chosen the simple exquisitely-fitting robe of silver gray silk
which she wore. And that morning, before the service, he brought her
the loveliest of roses, crimson and cream colour, and fastened them in
her belt, “for the Emperor’s fête,” he said.

In the course of the afternoon his friends met him; he was walking with
a group of officers of distinguished appearance. Coming to the side of
Clémence, he took her hand and led her gently forward. “His Imperial
Majesty wishes to be presented to you,” he said quietly.

If Clémence felt a momentary embarrassment, it was quickly dispelled;
for a very courteous gentleman was bowing over her hand, and a kind
voice was saying pleasant things of “my friend Prince Pojarsky,” and
of the welcome which awaited Madame la Princesse for his sake in St.
Petersburg. What she answered, or what other introductions followed
she scarcely knew, for all that passed seemed like a dream, only far
more easy and natural. “_That_ the Emperor!” said Stéphanie afterwards.
“I should not have been at all afraid to talk to him myself. He was
only a gentleman.”[67]

“_Only_ a gentleman?” Madame de Talmont repeated. “Such gentlemen are
not so plentiful, my little Stéphanie.”

“But that Prince Ivan is doubtless well acquainted with the etiquette
of his own court, I should say he made a blunder,” observed Madame de
Salgues. “A lady, were she the highest of the land, would be presented
to the King of France, not the King to the lady.”

“Yes; and the King would go in to dinner before his guest, were that
guest an Emperor,” said Emile. “Certainly no one can call Louis
Dix-huit ‘only a gentleman.’”

“Prince Ivan may be trusted in matters of etiquette,” said Henri. He
added apart to Clémence, “Do you remember, sister mine, the good things
we two agreed to ask for the man who saved my life?”

“Love, joy, peace, God’s best gifts. And there is that in his face
to-day, Henri, which makes me think God has heard and answered our
prayer.”

They were not mistaken. A few words, spoken that evening to intimate
friends, show how truly Alexander dwelt then in the secret place of the
Most High. “This day has been the most glorious of my life, I shall
never forget it,” he said; but never surely did king or conqueror give
so unique a reason for his joy and triumph: “My heart has been filled
with love for my enemies. I have been able to pray fervently for them
all; and it is with tears and at the foot of the cross that I have
prayed for the welfare of France.”

Such joy as this is like the name in the white stone, “which no man
knoweth save he that receiveth it.” It would lose its beauty and its
reality if passed from lip to lip as a common thing. Nor was it. It was
told at the time in confidence to those who should have held it as a
sacred trust; and the confidence was not violated until, for Alexander,
all earthly joys and sorrows were no more. His _joy_ was his own; but
his _faith_ was a thing to be confessed before all the world. And such
a confession was the real meaning and purport of the celebrated Holy
Alliance,--so greatly discussed, ridiculed, wondered over, blamed.

To Alexander, and to Alexander alone, belongs unquestionably the
responsibility of this act, in which, not without much difficulty, he
obtained the concurrence of his brother sovereigns. There is no doubt
that it was his hand which penned the remarkable document itself, as
well as the private letter which accompanied it when sent for signature
to the English Prince Regent. A few words from this letter may explain
his intention. “The events,” says Alexander, “which have afflicted
the world for more than twenty years have convinced us that the only
means of putting an end to them is to be found in the closest union
between the sovereigns whom Divine Providence has placed at the head
of the nations of Europe. The history of the three last memorable
years is a proof of the happy effect this union has produced for the
safety of mankind. But to assure to this bond the solidity required
by the greatness and purity of the end to which it tends, it ought to
be founded on the sacred principles of the Christian religion. Deeply
penetrated by this important truth, we have signed the act we submit
to-day to the meditation of your Royal Highness. You will see its
object is to strengthen the ties uniting us, in forming the people
of Christendom into one family, and in assuring to them, under the
protection of the All-Powerful, the happiness and safety of peace in
the ties of an indissoluble fraternity.”

The purpose of the Holy Alliance was threefold. It was firstly, as
has been intimated, a solemn confession of faith in Christ, which
Alexander, both as man and as sovereign, made for himself, and desired
his brother sovereigns to make also. It was, moreover, a solemn
declaration of the brotherhood and unity of all Christian nations.
And, lastly and chiefly, it was a bond and pledge of peace. A stable,
enduring, universal peace had been the dream of Alexander from the
days of his youth. He had seen much of the miseries of war; and to
his noble, sensitive, romantic spirit, ever full of longings for the
happiness of humanity, the vision of terminating all these miseries,
and ushering in a glad new period of joy, security, and prosperity,
robed itself in the fairest colours. Once and again did he say, at
different epochs, that he would willingly give his own life for the
peace of the world. It was a poet’s dream, to be wrought out, not in
the stately march of rhythmic words, but in the more enduring language
of golden deeds.

Two good things, which seemed to bring nearer the fulfilment of his
dream, happened almost at the same time. His great antagonist, the
troubler of nations, who had hitherto made peace impossible, was laid
low; while to himself Christ came in conscious, realized presence,
saying to his soul, “I am thy salvation.” Was it strange if he thought
the great work Christ had given him to do was to establish this
longed-for peace upon the foundation of a firm and enduring faith in
Him? “Oh, how happy I am!” said he in one of those moments of private
intercourse with congenial friends in which heart and lips were opened.
“My Saviour is with me. I am a great sinner, but he will make me his
instrument in obtaining peace for the people. Oh, if all people would
understand the ways of Providence, if they would but obey the gospel,
how happy they would be!”

That splendid, impossible “if” was the rock upon which the whole
project--like a gallant bark richly freighted--foundered and was
wrecked. As it has been well said, “In desiring to Christianize the
world, Alexander attempted the impossible. He vainly flattered himself
that he could regulate according to the gospel the transactions of
nations and individuals who had never submitted to the gospel; but it
was the error of a noble heart, and so much the more excusable because,
uniting in himself the civil and religious supremacy within his own
empire, he had no means of ascertaining how far the reign of Christ is
not of this world. Because he misconceived this truth, he sowed his
path with inextricable difficulties, he saw his noble desires abandoned
to ridicule.”[68]

If the leading statesmen of Europe, to each of whom in turn the Holy
Alliance had to be submitted, did not venture to ridicule it openly,
it was not so much because the document came from an imperial hand,
as because they thought it involved them in difficulties of too grave
a character. It was natural that Metternich and Talleyrand should
hesitate to advise their sovereigns to sign such a paper; regarding it,
as they did, as a mere rodomontade, with no more bearing upon practical
business than a tale out of the Arabian Nights. Castlereagh’s letter
to Lord Liverpool presents a vivid picture of these perplexities. He
foresees that, “as Wilberforce is not yet in possession of the Great
Seal,” there may be some difficulty in passing the document through
the ordinary course of office; but he considerately hopes that no
person will blame the Prince Regent for not refusing to sign it, “when
the objection lies rather against the _excessive excellence_ than the
quality and nature of the engagement.”

Doubtless from their point of view the statesmen were right. The Holy
Alliance was an anachronism. The world was not ready for it. It was
like a spring flower which, opening ere the frosts of winter have
departed, is doomed to wither in their chill ungenial breath.

But the flower, though it perishes untimely, has not lived in vain. It
has told its tale and borne its message. It is not only one of Nature’s
unfulfilled promises, it is also one of her unconscious prophecies.
In every age and season there are hints and premonitions and vague
foreshadowings of that which is to follow, promises “which are written
upon the heart of things.” Winter has her prophecies of spring, and
spring of summer. It is the very nature of these to be abortive, or at
least to bear no fruit unto perfection. In one sense they are failures,