"Never so near as when he befriended you on the battlefield." Sasha's fingers closed tightly over his companion's arm. He had never thought it necessary to inform Vera that Paul had very nearly killed him before befriending him, nor did Vera ever learn that it was he who had dealt the blow which went so near to widowing her heart for ever.
Vera was much observed at this time. She was more beautiful than ever. Sorrow and suffering had added something to her loveliness. Her story was known to most of those present and rendered her an interesting personality, for the Russian dearly loves a romantic tale. This afternoon there were many lips that told of the baby-betrothal of these two, of Vera's Parisian experiences, of her patriotism, of her finding and nursing the Russian lover, her childhood's fiancé, and of his triumph over all rivals, French and otherwise.
Even the Tsar, when at last he made his triumphal entry into the hall and had received the laurel tribute prepared for him and listened to the splendid soulful rendering of the National Anthem, presently noticed the beautiful girl in constant attendance upon young Count Maximof, whom he knew.
"Who is she?" he asked—"she is beautifully dressed—one would say she was French—but her face is Russian, of our loveliest type."
"It is the daughter of Demidof, your Majesty's envoy at present at the Court of Sweden," the Tsar was informed.
"What, the beautiful Russian maiden who was said to have inflamed the hearts of half the youth of Paris?" the Tsar laughed. "Has she then decided, at last, in favour of a Russian admirer?"
"Not only so, Sire, but of one who was betrothed to her in childhood—perhaps your Majesty remembers the story. It was said that they had agreed to annihilate the contract entered into, perhaps, in a moment of conviviality by their respective fathers; but the end of the story is most romantic; the lady sought and found her lover upon the battlefield outside Moscow at the village of Pavlova; there she nursed him back to life, and—at his request, for he believed himself to be dying—actually married him as he lay gasping in a peasants hut."
"Chort Vosmee!" laughed the Tsar, "that is a good story; what, and they have not disagreed, since he recovered? That kind of marriage might prove a more serious matter than the foolish betrothal contract!"
"They seem good friends, Sire, if one may judge from appearances!" said the other.
Afterwards Vera, to her astonishment and delight, though perhaps also somewhat to her consternation, was informed by his aide-de-camp that the Tsar would dance with her.