His reverie was interrupted by the voice of the isvostchik. “This is the square of the Admiralty, and there is the great Czar Peter,” said he, as he pointed out the celebrated equestrian statue where the father of modern Russia perpetually climbs the rock and treads the serpent beneath his horse’s hoofs.
They drove to an inn, where Ivan merely delayed to make those changes in his dress which etiquette imperatively demanded, and then, leaving his companions to await his return, took his despatches to the Winter Palace. There he was fortunate enough to find the Emperor, who had just returned from Kamenoi-Ostrov.
In less than two hours Ivan came back to the inn. Michael had gone out with the isvostchik, but Adrian was waiting for him, and met him with an air of some anxiety. “Is it well?” he asked briefly.
“Well?—oh yes, very well,” Ivan answered. He spoke in an abstracted voice, but there was a new light in his eyes, and his face was flushed and excited.
“I cannot make you out,” said Adrian, looking at him with surprise and curiosity. “If it were possible, I should say that you look at once ten years older and ten years younger than you did two hours ago.”
“Two hours! It ought to be ten years, if all—O Adrian!” he broke out suddenly, and with uncontrollable emotion, “the half was not told me! He is grand—beautiful! There is only one thing more I want now—to die for him.”
The sorrows of the last two months had done somewhat to deepen the slight nature of Adrian. He was no longer disposed to scoff at everything. “I guessed ‘le séduisant,’ as Czernichef calls him, would fascinate you,” he said. “But, now you have returned, I will own that I wished you better news to bring him than that of the destruction of the Kremlin. Evil tidings do not always insure their bearer a good reception.”
“I think he was prepared,” Ivan answered. “At all events he betrayed no emotion; only saying very calmly, ‘It is the will of God!’ I think he grew pale, but even of that I cannot speak certainly, as at the beginning of our interview I scarcely dared to raise my eyes to his face. But all changed when he spoke of Moscow, and questioned me about the things I had witnessed there during the Occupation. I could see that much was new to him, and even startling, and that my account of the conflagration moved him deeply. Then all fear passed from me, save the fear of giving pain to him. His intense gaze seemed to draw the whole truth from my lips, even in spite of my will; but it was hard to tell of the burnings and plunderings, and of the starved, homeless, despairing people. Once or twice my voice dropped so low that he had to ask me to repeat my words; for you know he is somewhat deaf. But when I told him of the wounded men whom we found in the cellars and tried to keep alive, his face lighted up, and he thanked me—yes, thanked me” Ivan repeated, raising his head proudly; though almost immediately he allowed it to sink again, while a vivid flush passed over his features.
“Tell me the rest,” said Adrian eagerly.
Ivan struggled with some feeling which he would not, perhaps could not express. “It is almost too sacred,” he said at last. “But I will tell you; only, never speak to me of it again. Even now I look back upon what I said with amazement. Evidently Count Rostopchine has been generous, and has spoken highly of my services in his letter. His Majesty observed that heroism and fidelity appear to be hereditary in my family; and asked me whether I was not the representative of the great Prince Pojarsky, the deliverer of Moscow. I answered, ‘Sire, I am his descendant; I know not whether I am his representative.’ He inquired my meaning, and thus it came to pass that I talked to him about my father.”