"There are dark clouds on the horizon," said Paul on one occasion; "our little Corporal threatens to fasten his fingers about the throat of your big Emperor; we shall soon be en route for Moscow. Be sure that I shall seek out your fiancé; it shall be my first act upon reaching Moscow. Is your fiancé soldier or bourgeois?"
"A soldier and a splendid fencer!" said Vera, looking out of the window and far away.
"Good," said Paul; "I would rather fight a man than kill a sheep."
"I think you will never come to Moscow, and I pray God you may not," said Vera; "that would be a disaster indeed."
"I promise you it should be a disaster for your fiancé," said Paul; but it is probable that she heard nothing of what he said; her mind was entirely absorbed by this new and overwhelming idea: that Napoleon threatened Moscow—the holy city of her own race. "It is not a real danger?" she asked.
"What, this that your fiancé must run? Indeed, it is a very real danger."
"No, no—this war you speak of—this horrible quarrel of the two nations."
"They say that Napoleon has almost made up his mind; already the conscription is in full swing; Russia may yield, of course; if she does not, Moscow will be a French city by this time next year."
"Mon Dieu!" exclaimed Vera, hiding her eyes in her two hands. "The French must wade through a sea of Russian blood before Moscow is reached—it is horrible, Monsieur, this thought of yours."
"I did not invent it, Mademoiselle Vera; all the world will tell you that politics are to-day looking very darkly."