Something in her tone made Ivan raise himself to look at her. “Madame,” he asked quickly, “did you know my father?”
“That is a question I shall be better able to answer if you on your part will tell me—was your mother a Frenchwoman?”
“Yes, madame,” said Ivan, looking greatly agitated.
“Have you ever heard her name?”
“Not her family name, madame. Her Christian name I know—Victoire.”
Madame de Talmont wrestled in silence with some emotion, and conquered it. Then taking Ivan’s hand in hers, she said kindly, even with tenderness, “My dear boy, you must accept us as your cousins.”
“My cousins!” Ivan repeated. “Ah, madame, how gladly! But I must entreat of you to explain to me my good fortune. It quite bewilders me.”
“I can explain very easily. Your mother, Victoire de Talmont, was my husband’s much-loved cousin—nay, his sister rather, for he was early left an orphan, and her father was as a father to him. Her only brother, Louis de Talmont, was as his brother, until that hateful revolutionary madness seized upon him, bringing misery and disunion into the household. It was her brother’s influence made Victoire give her hand to his friend, the fascinating young Russian, Prince Pojarsky. I cannot deny that this was a great sorrow to my husband, for Prince Pojarsky had embraced the same opinions as Louis de Talmont.”
“And did you know him, madame?” Ivan asked eagerly. “Have you ever seen him?”
“I did not know him well. All this happened before my own marriage. But I have seen him more than once—a fine, brilliant young man, magnificent in dress and bearing, and very handsome. You are like him; yet I think I see in you a stronger resemblance to the features of Victoire.”