It was a childish outburst, perhaps, but it moved Loris Solovieff to a queer response.
“I understand,” he said softly in French.
He spoke English admirably, but in emotional moments he lapsed into the language that is more familiar than their mother-tongue to all Russians of his rank.
“It is so with us all. She loves Russia,—our poor Russia, agonizing in the throes of a new birth; while we—we love her, the woman. She will play with us, use us, fool us, even betray us, if by so doing she can serve her country; and we—accept the situation—are content to serve her, to die for her. Is that not so, Monsieur?”
“That is so,” I said, marvelling at the way in which he had epitomized my own ideas, which, it seemed, were his also. Yet Von Eckhardt had asserted that she—Anne Pendennis—loved this man; and it was difficult to think of any woman resisting him.
“Then we are comrades?” he cried, extending his hand, which I gripped cordially. “Though we were half inclined to be jealous of each other, eh? But that is useless! One might as well be jealous of the sea. And we can both serve her, if she will permit so much. For the present she is in a place of comparative safety. I shall not tell you where it is, but at least it is many leagues from Russia; and she has promised to remain there,—but who knows? If the whim seizes her, or if she imagines her presence is needed here, she will return.”
“Yes, I guess she will,” I conceded. (How well he understood her.)
“She is utterly without fear, utterly reckless of danger,” he continued. “If she should be lured back to Russia, as her enemies on both sides will endeavor to lure her, she will be in deadly peril, from which even those who would give their lives for her may not be able to save her.”
“At least you can tell me if her father has joined her?” I asked.
“Her father? No, I cannot tell you that; simply because I do not know. But, as I have said, so long as she remains in the retreat that has been found for her she will be safe. As for this—” he took up the blossom and rubbed it to a morsel of pulp, between his thumb and finger, “you will be wise to conceal your knowledge of it, Mr. Wynn; that is, if you value your life. And now I must leave you. We shall meet again ere long, I trust. I am summoned to Peterhof; and I may be there for some time. If you wish to communicate with me—”