“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.