"Who did you say the first husband was—?"
"A German of the name of Von Wendel—he used to beat her with a stick, it is said—so naturally such a nature adored him. I did not meet her until she had got rid of him and he had disappeared. She would sacrifice any one who stood in her way."
"Your friend, the present husband, looks pretty épuisé—one feels sorry for the poor man."
Then, as ever, at the mention of the débacle of Stanislass,
Verisschenzko's eyes filled with a fierce light.
"She has crushed the hope of Poland—for that, indeed, one day she must pay."
"But I thought you Russians did not greatly love the Poles?"
Denzil remarked.
"Enlightened Russians can see beyond their old prejudices—and
Stanislass was a lifetime friend. One day a new dawn will come for our
Northern world."
His eyes grew dreamy for an instant, and then resumed their watch of Harietta. Denzil looked at him and did not speak for a while. He had always been drawn to Stépan, from a couple of terms at Oxford before the Russian was sent down for a mad freak, and did not return. He was such a mixture of idealism and brutal commonsense, a brain so alert and the warm heart of a generous child—capable of every frenzy and of every sacrifice. They had planned great things for their afterlives before the one joined his regiment, and learned discipline, and the other wandered over many lands—and as they sat there in the Café de Paris, the thoughts of both wandered back to old days gapping the encounters for sport in Russia and in India between.
"They were glorious times, Denzil, weren't they?" Verisschenzko said presently, aware by that wonderfully delicately attuned faculty of his of what his friend was thinking. "We had thought to conquer the sun, moon and stars—and who knows, perhaps we will yet!"
"Who knows? I feel my real life is only just beginning. How old are we,
Stépan? Twenty-nine years old!"