The very next day Henri de Talmont was removed from the horrible Convent of St. Basil to one of the other hospitals of the town—in which, indeed, every palace, every public building sufficiently large, was now being transformed into a hospital. As he passed through the streets, he observed that large fires were burning in all the thoroughfares; and the Russian physician who took charge of the party of invalids told them this was done to purify the air and to destroy infection.
A delicious sensation of rest stole over the weary frame of Henri when at last he found himself lying on a comfortable pallet, in a clean, well-warmed room. Nourishment sufficient for his need and suitable to his weak condition was given him with a willing hand. He had escaped the deadly hospital fever, but the prostration of his strength was excessive, the vital forces seemed exhausted. For many days he lay in a kind of contented apathy, slumbering continually, and even when not asleep floating in hazy dreams amongst vague remembrances of the past. Once or twice he roused himself sufficiently to make some inquiry after his fellow-sufferers. “Be at rest,” said his nurse. “All are cared for now; just as well as the wounded Russians.” But he used to waken up thoroughly whenever the Emperor came to inspect the hospital where he lay. He would watch with pathetic eagerness for a word, even for a look, from him, and live upon the recollection until his next visit. To most of the other French prisoners the person of their benefactor remained unknown; and as Alexander moved in and out amongst them, listening to their complaints, ministering to their needs, and speaking words of comfort, they took him generally for the aide-de-camp of St. Priest.
One day Henri, feeling rather stronger than usual, observed with interest a handsome, splendidly-equipped young Russian, who had come to visit one of his countrymen in the same ward. The conversation, carried on in their own language, was unintelligible to Henri; but something in the face of the visitor touched a chord of memory. The Russian, seeing the sick Frenchman look at him earnestly, and as he thought imploringly, came to his side and asked kindly in French, “Can I do anything for you?”
“No, sir, no; I thank you. I have everything I want. Stay though,” he added with a slight increase of animation; “I should like to know, if you will be good enough to tell me, how the Grand Duke is to-day.”
Strange to say, the eccentric, passionate Constantine, at other times even wantonly cruel, was now so wrought upon by the example and influence of the brother he adored that he emulated his works of mercy, and had actually caught the hospital fever in his ministrations to the prisoners. Alexander himself seemed to bear a charmed life through every peril; for God fulfilled unto his servant the word upon which he had caused him to hope: “A thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee.”
The Russian answered, “He is much better. Dr. Wylie has pronounced him out of danger. You know Dr. Wylie?”
“Yes; he comes here often. He examined me one day, and said he would like to bleed me, only I was too weak.”
The Russian could not suppress a smile. “You enjoyed a most unusual exemption,” he said. “Dr. Wylie’s lancet is not easily escaped. But I hope, as you have been so fortunate, that you are growing stronger?”
“I scarcely know. I ought to be; for I am not in pain, not hungry, not cold. All that is so strange now, so pleasant. But, pardon me, have I not seen your face before? Where can it have been?”