CHAPTER XXXI.
LEAVES FROM LETTERS.
“Umile in tanta gloria.”—Petrarch.
The bright spring-tide had ripened into a yet brighter summer, when one day Clémence entered the parlour where the two elder ladies sat at work. Her cheeks were glowing, and she held in her hand several closely-written sheets of paper. “Dear aunt and dear mother,” she said, “I thought you would like me to read for you part of the letter from—St. Petersburg.”
“Yes, dear child,” answered Madame de Talmont tenderly. “I am sorry Henri is not here. He was so anxious about it.”
Henri had gone to Brie, that he might bring to the sorrowing family of his “true comrade,” Mathieu Féron, what comfort he could—at least the mournful comfort of certainty.
Madame de Salgues motioned Clémence to a footstool near her. “We shall be glad to hear of M. Pojarsky,” she said kindly, but as if the kindness was not quite without an effort.
From the first sheet Clémence read scarcely anything. “He says that his journey has been prosperous,” she explained in general terms, “but that he feels a little solitary without—without us all.” It must be owned that this was a very tame and inadequate rendering of the eloquent original, which she kept to herself. At length she began to read: “‘You will remember our last expedition to Paris on the day of the king’s triumphal entry, and Henri’s pleased surprise when he found how completely the Czar kept himself and his Russians out of sight, only mingling incognito with the crowd of spectators, that none might say of the son of St. Louis, “Foreign bayonets have brought him back to his capital.” You said to me then, “Think what a welcome they will give him in St. Petersburg! That will be a triumph to throw this one completely into the shade!” And Henri added, “Would that I could see it! But you must tell us all about it when you write.” I must—so far as I can; but it would be impossible to paint the rapture of enthusiasm, of loyalty, of gratitude with which his return was awaited. Think of it! Russia not only delivered from her enemies, but set upon a pinnacle of glory she had never known before. In less than two short years, the invader driven back from our capital to his own, stripped of the power he had misused, and hurled from the throne he had disgraced. France conquered, rescued, forgiven.’”
“If there is much more about the conquest of France, you may pass it over,” said Madame de Salgues rather tartly. “Of course, M. Pojarsky writes as a Russian.”
“The honour of France is dear—at least to some Russians,” Clémence answered with a heightened colour. She went on: “‘Three long days did the Senate spend in debating what Russia should do to show her gratitude to the Czar Alexander Paulovitch. Other princes had been given high-sounding titles, had been styled in their life-time the Great, the Magnificent, the Invincible, or, still more honourable, the Well-beloved—and for him surely that would have been appropriate. But some who knew the heart of our Czar spoke and said, “Such titles would give the honour to himself alone; let us find one which brings it back to God. That will please him best.” “Blessed of Heaven” was the name chosen at last. Would it not have sounded well in the long and glorious line of our Czars, Alexander Paulovitch, the Blessed of Heaven? Moreover, they planned to erect in St. Petersburg, in the Isaac’s Square, a splendid monument, grander than your column of the Place Vendôme, to celebrate his glory and familiarize to every eye the names of his victories. They sent a deputation proposing these things, and at the same time praying him to accept the Grand Order of St. George, the highest and rarest of our military distinctions; and to allow them to organize—or rather to permit, for the people were but too willing—public receptions, fêtes, illuminations, on the most magnificent scale.