“Oh, Sire, they are not given yet. The general is sixty-five, but he has many years ahead of him, if you wish it. By the time he dies—a natural death, if you wish it—your enemies will have disarmed.”
“My enemies!” murmured the Tsar in a low voice. “No, no; my enemies never will disarm. Who, then, will be able to disarm them?” added he, melancholily, shaking his head.
“Progress, Sire! If you wish it.”
The Tsar turned red and looked at the audacious young man, who met the gaze of His Majesty frankly.
“It is kind of you to say that, my young friend. But you speak as a child.”
“As a child of France to the Father of the Russian people.”
It was said in a voice so solemn and, at the same time, so naively touching, that the Tsar started. He gazed again for some time in silence at this boy who, this time, turned away his brimming eyes.
“Progress and pity, Sire.”
“Well,” said the Emperor, “it is promised.”
Rouletabille was not able to restrain a joyous movement hardly in keeping.