“It is safe to speak in English,” said his wife.
“You must have suffered terribly,” said Bertram.
“It is not to be put in words,” said the old man. “I marvel that I have not gone mad.”
They tried to put into words the story of their suffering, and told Bertram enough to let him imagine the rest. They had been turned out of their palace, like all the others, and the Prince had been put into prison before he had a chance of escape. Nadia had escaped. She was in Paris when the Revolution burst out, and very rashly, said her father, made her way back into Russia at a time when thousands were in flight from the Red Terror.
Dressed as a peasant girl, she had come back to Moscow on a troop train crowded with Red soldiers.
“It was for love of us,” said her mother, stretching out her hand and touching the girl’s arm. “God will reward her. We should have died without her.”
“It was my duty, little mother,” said Nadia, bending down and kissing her mother’s forehead. “Not for a second have I regretted coming back.”
“In spite of all our misery!” said the old gentleman.
Nadia turned to Bertram with a smile.
“My father and mother make too much of my coming back. Even without them I should have returned. I am a Russian. This is my country. With the Russian people I suffer, and if need be, die. I am sure all English people would do the same.”