Meanwhile, many thoughts were passing through the mind of the silent but observant Clémence. There was a little stand beside the bed, upon which were a phial containing medicine, a small book, and a clean white cambric handkerchief. She saw, with interest and pleasure, that the book was a copy of the New Testament in French. Then her eye rested upon the folded cambric, and presently a cry of amazement broke from her lips.
Every one started and looked towards her. Madame de Talmont was terror-stricken. So quiet and self-contained had Clémence ever been, that even in childhood a cry from her lips was a thing almost unknown. And now, with a face as white as that of any of the stricken sufferers around them, she was placing the handkerchief in the hand of her mother. “Look,” she faltered—“look, mother!”
Ivan called an attendant, fortunately within reach. “Will you kindly place seats for these ladies?” he said, for he saw that the agitation of the mother was as great as that of the daughter. Both were gazing spell-bound at the crest, worked curiously and skilfully on a corner of the handkerchief, and having beneath it the initials “H. de T.” No wonder; for it was the fingers of Clémence that had wrought every stitch, and her mother’s eyes had watched the work. In both hearts a horrible dread succeeded to the first rush of uncontrollable and unreasoning emotion. Was this amongst the spoils of the dead?
Ivan watched them with pitying eyes. “Have the goodness to be seated, madame and mademoiselle,” he said. “A little nearer, please; I cannot speak very loud. But I think I have something to tell you.”
They obeyed mechanically; and Madame de Talmont said falteringly, pointing to the initials on the handkerchief, “He was my son.”
“Is,” Ivan corrected.
From that moment to her dying day Madame de Talmont loved the voice that uttered that blessed monosyllable.
“I have good hope, madame, that God has preserved him to you through many dangers,” Ivan went on. “I saw him twice—the last time at Vilna, after the perils and horrors of the retreat were over. He was lying sick in a hospital there. Not with any malady, only worn out with hunger, cold, and weariness. Every care was afforded him, and every kindness shown that circumstances permitted; and so, I trust—”
“But,” Clémence interrupted, “can we be sure there is no mistake? M. le Russe, how did you become possessed of this?” pointing to the handkerchief.
“In a strange way, mademoiselle,” said Ivan, fixing his deep blue eyes on her face. “A young peasant, a friend of my childhood, was made prisoner by the French as they were marching upon Moscow. They branded him in the hand with the letter N, telling him that now he belonged to their Emperor, Napoleon. The brave fellow took out his axe and struck off the hand, saying to them, ‘Take what belongs to your Emperor; as for me, I belong wholly to the Czar.’ Then, mademoiselle, monsieur, your—your brother, I presume, stepped forward before them all, like the gallant and chivalrous gentleman he is, and bound up the poor lad’s wounded arm with his own handkerchief.”