“Oh, mother, why?” asked Clémence, in tones rather more earnest than the case demanded. “They could not help killing our people; they were defending their native country,” she added.
“Not for that, of course; but there are reasons which you do not know. I was about to say, however, that young Russian has interested and attracted me in spite of myself. He seems quite a ‘preux chevalier;’ and,” she added more softly, “although he said nothing of it, I doubt not he showed kindness to our dear one when he met him in the hospital at Vilna. Besides, there is something in his face which I cannot describe, but which haunts and troubles while it touches me. It seems to remind me of some other face known long ago. We must go and see him again to-morrow, and bring him some little token of our gratitude. What do you think he would like, Clémence?”
But they did not see Ivan on the morrow; for Madame de Talmont was too ill to rise from her bed, and Clémence, even if she had been willing to leave her, could not go to the hospital alone. When, after an interval of three or four days, they made their appearance once more, the courteous Russian surgeon gave them quite a warm welcome.
“M. Pojarsky has been watching for you, mesdames,” he said. “You will do him more good than any of our medicines.”
“Pojarsky!” Madame de Talmont repeated, as one in a dream—“Pojarsky!”
Clémence was amazed to find her mother’s ready and graceful courtesy fail her completely for once. By way of supplying her unaccountable omission she ventured upon an inquiry for the invalid.
“He has been very feverish, and has suffered a good deal since,” the surgeon admitted. “But he is much better to-day. Will you come to him at once, mesdames?”
“Willingly, monsieur, if you will be kind enough to distribute these oranges amongst those who need them most,” said Clémence, placing a large bag in the hands of the surgeon; for her mother’s continued silence forced her to take the initiative. “Mother,” she whispered, as they passed into the ward where Ivan lay—“dear mother, what ails you?”
“That name awakens old associations—not happy ones,” Madame de Talmont answered.
Ivan received his friends with a bright, glad smile of welcome. Since their last visit he had beguiled his hours of loneliness and pain by endeavouring to recall every word, every look of Henri’s, as a drop to be added to the cup of comfort he was bearing to the lips of Henri’s mother and sister. Very pleasant had the recognition been to him. Well could he imagine how the solitary invalid far away in the hospital at Vilna must have longed for those sweet faces, for the gentle touch of those kind hands. What would he give for such a mother, such a sister, to tend and care for him! But then his thoughts would revert once more, with a thrill of thankful joy, to the triumph of the Czar. How could he wish for anything else in the world when Alexander was in Paris, and the flames of Moscow were avenged?