"Ah, in this case the admiration is truly mutual," Vera replied gravely, though with a twinkle in her eye. "Do you know, Sasha, mon ami, that though, speaking generally, I hate all French soldiers, at this time, I am so greatly indebted to this one and love him so well——"
"Love him?" Sasha echoed miserably. "Oh! then this is the one."
"Yes, this is the one; our friendship is great, but perhaps one day it will be greater; he has this day avowed to me——" Vera paused. Sasha continued her sentence—"His passion, I suppose. You have not accepted him, Vera—a Frenchman? Did you not tell me you would only marry a Russian?"
"Did I? I had forgotten. Well, we shall see. What was I saying?—Oh, this dear, adorable soldier. He has avowed to me, mon ami, that he hopes one day to become a near relation."
"Vera!" gasped Sasha, "are you mocking me?"
"On the contrary, I am confiding to you a great secret which I forbid you to disclose to any living soul. This dear Frenchman, who has this day done me a great service of which I will tell you presently and for which I should like to show my gratitude in a fervent kiss——"
"Vera!" Sasha gasped.
"Do not interrupt me, mon ami; this dear Frenchman is, in fact, not a Frenchman nor a Russian; he is not, indeed, a man of any nationality whatever—but a woman masquerading as a man, and all for love of my cousin Henri d'Estreville. Think of it!"
Vera exploded in a fit of merry laughter, to which the expression in Sasha's face soon added an extra note of mirth. The laughing did her good, for indeed there had been little of late to promote mirth in this unhappy city of Moscow.
Afterwards there were explanations and apologies, and if Sasha Maximof contrived to gather another grain of encouragement for his hopes, this was not more, perhaps, than was intended.