“Voyst venno voskress” (He is risen indeed), Ivan answered mechanically, after the beautiful custom of the Eastern Church.
“My husband,” she said softly, laying her hand on his arm, “dost thou believe it?”
He looked up: her face too was pale, and bore the traces of many tears. “I know it to be true,” he said.
“Do you believe it, my Ivan? Do you believe, in your heart of hearts, that Christ has burst the bonds of death, not for himself alone, but for all whom we love?”
“Yes; I believe in the resurrection of the just,” said Ivan with trembling lips.
“Then why sorrow for our Czar as those that have no hope?”
“Do not speak to me, Clémence. I cannot bear it yet. My heart is breaking. Not so much because God has taken him from us, as because of all the darkness—all the seeming failure.”
A still, calm smile passed over the quiet face of Clémence, kindling it with a radiance more than that of the morning. Ivan looked at her wondering. “What is it?” he asked, taking her hand and drawing her to a seat beside him.
“Christ is risen,” she said again. “That word folds up within it all comfort, Ivan.”
“I see no comfort now.”