“A truce, for once, to your championship of the Czar,” said Emile. “I suppose Prince Ivan may speak now.”
Ivan might have answered angrily, but for certain words which thrilled through his heart, taking all the bitterness out of Emile’s reckless taunts: “Esteeming the reproach of Christ greater riches than the treasures of Egypt”—only he said “the treasures of Russia,” and the magnificent crown jewels he had seen in St. Petersburg flashed before his eyes in a dazzling, bewildering maze of light and colour. For a moment he did not speak; then he asked, with a gentleness that surprised every one, “What were you going to say, Emile?”
“Nothing—at least not much,” was the rather apologetic answer. “Rumour always exaggerates things, and most especially the rumour of St. Germain. Perhaps it is not true, after all, that Madame de Krudener makes the Emperor Alexander fast and wear sackcloth; or that she has persuaded him he is the white angel of peace, and Napoleon the black demon of war; or that—but, as I say, these may be foolish stories. Still it seems to be undeniable that the consummate artist, who last year played the rôle of magnanimous conqueror with such éclat amongst us, is now assuming, by way of variety, that of medieval saint. Henri Quatre is masquerading in the guise of St. Louis. Seriously,—what has come over him, Prince Pojarsky? Is his mind really affected, or is it all some deep-laid political scheme?”
“Certainly, Emile, I am amazed at your audacity,” Madame de Salgues interposed again. “Prince Ivan has the patience of a saint.”
“From your lips, madame,” said Ivan bowing, “I accept the name as a compliment; though others, it seems, use it for a reproach.—Emile, I am not careful to answer you in this matter. You have but to watch the course of events, and you will see that there is not a man in Europe of sounder understanding than my Czar. Of what he has already accomplished I need not remind you; and I had rather not, considering whom he has overcome. If his religious principles expose him to reproach, it is only ‘the reproach of the foolish.’ They are not new to him, though of late they have deepened and strengthened. All those stories you allude to about his intercourse with Madame de Krudener are fabrications. The grain of truth they contain is the fact that God has been pleased to send him a message by the lips of a woman;—and why should he not?”
To this there was no answer, and the little party broke up. But Ivan drew Emile aside. “I want a word with you,” he said. “Do you know in what temper the minds of men are now?”
“Do you mean the minds of Royalists?” asked Emile bitterly. “That I do. I believe that if they had the power they would put every Imperialist of us all to the sword; or if not, it would only be to reserve us for the dungeon and the scaffold. The Bourbons gnash their teeth upon us. The Duchess of Angoulême says openly, ‘Mercy cannot be distinguished from weakness.’”
“Ah, my friend, can you wonder? When that stern, sorrow-stricken woman had a girl’s tender heart, it was turned to stone by the cruel murder of both her parents and of her young innocent brother. But others who have not the same wrongs to avenge are quite as eager for vengeance.”
“They are a bad set, those Bourbons,” said Emile.
“Certainly I shall not plead for them. They have not used us or our Emperor well. But consider that in the eyes of a German every Frenchman is as odious as a Buonapartist can be in those of a Royalist. The Prussians talk openly of dismembering France; and, Emile, who is to hinder them? Not Louis—he is powerless; not Austria—she will share the spoils; not England—she is just, and even generous, but do you expect her to go to war single-handed in the cause of her enemies?”