Othmar

by Ouida

'It is just possible that the man of eighty might feel the meaning of the poem more thoroughly than the boy of eighteen.'

'His feelings would not prevent him from looking absurd.'

'I suppose, you at least would never pity him?'

'Most surely not.'

'What would you pity?' he said bitterly.

She smiled. 'I should not pity people who could shut themselves up in damp forests on the Loire water in midwinter. A Russian winter is quite a different thing; the air is like champagne, the frost is like diamonds, the plains are like marble; it is charming to have one's roses and palms in a temperature of 30° Réaumur, and by merely going out of doors plunge en pleine Sibérie. That is why I am a very patriotic Russian. I love the intensity of its contrasts.'

'As Marie Stuart loved Chastelard and Bothwell!' said Othmar with a certain significance.

'Should you think she loved either of them? I should doubt it. They loved her, and being stupid as men only are, they compromised her.'

'I dare say she thought of all men as you do!—as a little higher than the horse, a little lower than the dog! No more!' said Othmar with some impatience.