A well-known establishment in a suburb of Paris, in the early part of last century, was the fencing-school of old Pierre Dupré,maître d'armesand retired Major in the French army. Old Pierre was growing somewhat old for the personal exercise of his art, but he could still superintend the practice of his pupils, who fenced with his assistants, and give such advice as they could receive from no other swordsman in all Paris.
Of assistants he had four, one a fine young fellow named Karl Havet, the second an equally excellent exponent of the beautiful art he taught, one Georges Maux. The other two helpers were, strange to say, females, strapping fine girls, both, and splendid swordswomen, old Pierre's daughters.
How it befel that his girls had become such adepts in their father's profession, and why, are matters easily explained.
It had been the greatest grief to the old man and a bitter grievance against destiny when, at the birth of his first child, he learned that he was the father of a girl. When the second and last child made its appearance and proved, like its sister, to be of the wrong sex, he was in despair. He had longed for a son to train in the use of arms which he should wield in his country's honour.
"Bring them up as boys," some one suggested, "they are fine girls both of them, and would make splendid boys."
From the moment that this idea took root in his mind, old Pierre found consolation. He adopted the suggestionin toto. The girls, while still young children, were dressed as boys, taught as boys, treated as boys, and perhaps almost, though not quite, loved as boys. From the earliest day upon which their little hands could hold and manipulate a rapier, he taught them to fence, and now—at the age of nineteen and twenty—the girls—Louise and Marie—could hold their own with almost any swordsman in Paris.
Though no longer dressed in male attire, old Pierre's daughters still wore garments as nearly allied to the fashion of those worn by men as was consistent with propriety. The girls looked as like men as handsome girls could look; they associated entirely with men, talked and thought like men, were men to all practical purposes, excepting in one particular: their women's hearts remained to them. One, Marie, was engaged to marry young Karl Havet, to whom she was devotedly attached, much to the chagrin of her father, who regretted Marie's "weakness" as a sad falling away from the state of grace to which his daughter had attained. To have been brought up as a man and to have reached the point of perfection, or near it, in the most manly of all exercises, and then to exhibit the weakness of a silly woman by falling in love—"Bah!" said old Pierre, in speaking of it to his friends, "it is sad—it is cruel—it is incredible!"
Nevertheless, the evil existed and must be recognised and put up with. The pair were engaged and within a month they would marry.
As for the second daughter, Louise, her father's favourite, his pride and joy—for not only was she a little taller, a little stronger, a little more skilful with the rapier than her sister, but also possessed the crowning glory, in his eyes, of a deep contralto speaking-voice, which added a point to her score of manly virtues—Louise, too, though Pierre guessed it not, had fallen a victim to the universal weakness of womankind; she, too, had lost her heart to a man. Louise did not tell her father this; she did not even tell Marie, her sister; it is probable that she did not whisper it even to her own heart of hearts, and yet she knew well that it was so: she was in love.
After all, it was no wonder that she should have become attracted by one or other of the many handsome and manly youths who came either to learn to fence or to practise the art, already learned, by engaging in a set-to with one of Pierre's accomplished daughters. Louise was acquainted with half a hundred of the most attractive young officers in Paris. Nearly every one of Napoleon's marshals had visited Pierre's establishment, nay, even the Emperor himself had been there and had laughed and applauded the skill of the twodemoiselles d'armes. He had spoken to Louise and praised her to her face which was nearer the sky than his own by four inches at least.
Yet never, until a certain afternoon in this very year of 1812, had Louise been conscious of the quickening of her pulses in response to the instincts of womanhood; for though assuredly there were many of the gilded youths of her acquaintance who had wasted upon her the eloquence of the eye, of the whispering lips, of the tightened hand—all these things had left Louise as they found her, calm and unmoved, and wondering, maybe, at the foolishness of men who could waste time upon such silly matters as love-making and love-talking.
The fatal afternoon was that upon which young Baron Henri d'Estreville first visited the fencing establishment in order to see for himself the skill of the two girls with whose fame as swordswomen all Paris was ringing.
The Baron was himself a first-class swordsman, but in fencing a bout with Louise he distinctly had the worst of it, a fact which he was himself the first to admit.
This was a good-looking youth, merry and debonair, an officer in a Lancer regiment and the first cousin of one with whom we are already acquainted, Vera Demidof. He spoke with Louise both before and after the fencing match, and for some reason or another he took her fancy as no other man had done. D'Estreville was no exception to the rule of young men of his age. Louise was a woman, young and handsome, and of course the Baron employed against her all the artillery he possessed. Louise had thought this sort of thing only silly in others; but the whispered words, the meaning looks, the pressure of the hand appeared very charming when these measures were employed by her new friend.
The Baron said he would come again.
"You beat me handsomely to-day," he laughed, "but next time I intend to turn the tables; ah, Mademoiselle, it was not the rapier that overthrew me to-day, but the light of your eye, the beauty of your face——"
To his bosom friend and constant companion, Paul de Tourelle, the Baron said, "You must come down to Pierre Dupré's fencing establishment and see those girls of his fence. Also you should see Louise's eyes and complexion—by all that's bewitching, they are splendid! You shall admit it! As for her fencing——"
Young Paul de Tourelle laughed. "Yes, you shall take me to see them," he said; "I am anxious to know whether their skill is really so great as it is said to be by their admirers. As for her eyes and the rest of it, that sort of thing is not likely to have much effect upon me just now, for reasons well known to you."
"Poor Paul! nevertheless come and see; when a man is so hard hit as you seem to be this time, to gaze upon something equally attractive may do him good, just as a change of air is beneficial to a sick man."
"Equally attractive! beware what you say, my friend; such words savour of disrespect towards—some one; there is no one equally attractive, and cannot be; you speak of impossibilities."
"I retract the words," said the Baron, laughing; "we will say that here is a personality displaying remarkable attractions, falling short, however, of the highest. Joking apart, she is a splendid woman, strong as a man, handsome as one of the Graces, and she fences—well—even the great exponent Paul de Tourelle must look to his laurels if he measures swords with her."
"Âme de mon Épée!is it so?" exclaimed Paul, flushing; Paul was acknowledged to be one of the finest, if not the very first swordsman in France. "That is a thing which I cannot afford to have said of any man, still less of any woman. I will come and see, my friend, and if she is willing we will try a bout."
"She will be willing; fencing is the breath of life to her; but seriously, if you fear that your reputation might suffer by defeat, you must do your best, Paul; she is a supreme mistress of the art."
"Fear not; I will remember to be careful!" laughed the other.
When the Baron visited the establishment of old Pierre on the following day he found the fair Louise somewhat inclined to avoid him, or at any rate less disposed to play thebon camaradethan on the previous occasion. This attitude was the direct result of a conversation between old Pierre and his daughter Marie.
"I am no longer the black sheep,mon père," said Marie, laughing. "This day Louise has also shown that she is a woman."
"What mean you?" asked the old man, looking up startled from his occupation.
"Hitherto Louise has been with our visitors as a man among men; this day, in the presence of Monsieur le Baron, she has behaved as a woman in the presence of the man who is her soul's affinity."
"I'll not believe it of her," said old Pierre angrily; "becauseyouhave been a fool, Marie, and proved yourself no wiser than other silly women, you would have me believe that Louise can be equally foolish. I will speak to Louise; she shall belie your accusation."
Louise did belie it, but with blushing and much confusion. Possibly her father's words were the first intimation to her heart that it was no longer fancy-free.
The conversation left her very thoughtful, however, and very silent; and when the Baron arrived with De Tourelle and other friends on the following day, he found her—as has been said—somewhat inclined to give him the cold shoulder.
At D'Estreville's second visit to old Pierre Dupré's he was accompanied by Paul de Tourelle and by Vera Demidof, now a beautiful girl of nineteen. The Baron was proud of his pretty cousin, between whom and his friend Paul a considerable friendship had lately sprung up.
In so far as De Tourelle was concerned, his sentiments towards Vera differed, as he had found to his surprise, from those he had ever experienced before this time towards any member of the fair sex. Up to the day upon which he had first made acquaintance with Vera Demidof, Paul had looked upon women as toys created for the delectation and amusement of mankind; he was always glad to play with them, to have his pleasure in their society, but not to take them seriously. He had always found young women in his own class charmed to meet him upon his own ground; to excurse with him as far as he was pleased to go into the pleasant glades of love-making, but to take him no more seriously than he chose to be taken.
With Vera it was otherwise. From the first he was aware that here was a creature of a different make, a more attractive toy than any he had yet set himself to play with, and, withal, one which, somehow, was extremely difficult to handle. Paul found that he was unable to have his way with this little Russian; she was unlike the French girls he was accustomed to; she took life more seriously, moved more cautiously, maintained an attitude of "stand-offishness" which at first puzzled him very much and perhaps exasperated him, but which he presently began to admire and respect.
"You'll have to be careful, my friend," Henri d'Estreville had told Paul, early in his acquaintance with Vera, before De Tourelle realised that his heart was in danger; "Vera is not like our French girls; not only is she far more serious-minded, but also she is a fiancée, after a fashion."
"A fiancée?" exclaimed Paul, laughing boisterously—"Mademoiselle Demidof fiancée? To whom? You rave, man!"
"No, it is true; she is betrothed; observe that I added 'after a fashion'. She was betrothed to some Russian bear as a child."
"Bah! as a child! and the bear a child also? She has never mentioned to me this young bear of hers. You speak foolishly, Henri,mon cher; such things are not done."
"Ask her for yourself," Henri laughed. "For the matter of that, fall in love with my cousin, if you like. I would rather she mated with a good Frenchman than with a—what do you call them—a Moujik of Russia."
Paul did not, however, ask Vera as to her betrothal. He treated the matter with sufficient contempt to forget all about it. As to the second half of Henri's advice, however, he followed it to the letter, and fell so completely in love with Vera Demidof that he was himself astonished, for he had always boasted that to fall in love was not in his line, and was, indeed, a mistake he would never commit, since it was his pride to be a soldier of the French Army, and he possessed ambitions which he could not afford to thwart by indulgence in such foolishness as love.
Moreover, Paul not only fell in love but confessed the fact to Vera at the earliest opportunity.
Vera Demidof had listened during the last year or two to some half a dozen similar confessions from the gilded youth of Paris. She was, indeed, the object of much admiration in the gay city. But whereas Vera had listened and simply thanked each aspirant for his flattering declaration, regretting that she was unable to respond in the manner he would prefer, she gave Paul de Tourelle a piece of information which she had withheld from the rest.
"I must not listen to such things," she said, "for I am already a fiancée."
Paul suddenly remembered that he had been informed a month or two before that this was so.
"Betrothed as a child to a Russian child whom you may never see again," said Paul; "I have heard the story. For God's sake, Mademoiselle, do not allow so foolish a matter to stand between us."
"Monsieur takes too much for granted," said Vera coldly. "There is much that stands between Monsieur and myself besides my betrothal."
"You cannot pretend that you desire to regard that betrothal as binding, Mademoiselle; the idea is preposterous."
"I pretend nothing, Monsieur. I say that, being betrothed, I must not permit myself to listen to protestations such as you have just made."
Beyond this point Paul was unable, at his first attack, to push his advance. On subsequent occasions he showed more discretion, and took nothing for granted. He did not retire from his position as suitor, but betook himself to graduate for her love, a matter which he had at first supposed was to be had for the asking.
By this time the two were great friends. Vera made no secret of her partiality for De Tourelle, whom she liked very much better than any other youth of his standing; but on the rare occasions when Paul hinted that friendship was pleasant but lacked finality, Vera would shake her head and remind him that she was a fiancée.
"There are dark clouds on the horizon," said Paul on one occasion; "our little Corporal threatens to fasten his fingers about the throat of your big Emperor; we shall soon been routefor Moscow. Be sure that I shall seek out your fiancé; it shall be my first act upon reaching Moscow. Is your fiancé soldier or bourgeois?"
"A soldier and a splendid fencer!" said Vera, looking out of the window and far away.
"Good," said Paul; "I would rather fight a man than kill a sheep."
"I think you will never come to Moscow, and I pray God you may not," said Vera; "that would be a disaster indeed."
"I promise you it should be a disaster for your fiancé," said Paul; but it is probable that she heard nothing of what he said; her mind was entirely absorbed by this new and overwhelming idea: that Napoleon threatened Moscow—the holy city of her own race. "It is not a real danger?" she asked.
"What, this that your fiancé must run? Indeed, it is a very real danger."
"No, no—this war you speak of—this horrible quarrel of the two nations."
"They say that Napoleon has almost made up his mind; already the conscription is in full swing; Russia may yield, of course; if she does not, Moscow will be a French city by this time next year."
"Mon Dieu!" exclaimed Vera, hiding her eyes in her two hands. "The French must wade through a sea of Russian blood before Moscow is reached—it is horrible, Monsieur, this thought of yours."
"I did not invent it, Mademoiselle Vera; all the world will tell you that politics are to-day looking very darkly."
This was true enough. Vera questioned her father presently upon the subject, and learned many things which caused her the greatest anxiety, for Vera was a patriotic Russian, and was well aware that war with France must end disastrously for her beloved country. She was French enough to feel that to be arrayed against the terrible Napoleon was to court certain defeat, so tremendous was the Emperor's reputation among his own people.
With regard to private affairs, when Vera had explained to Paul that she was already a fiancée and must therefore refuse to listen to protestations of love, she had spoken the truth.
Only lately Alexander Maximof had written to her. Maximof had heard wonderful reports from Paris of Vera's beauty and charm, and had congratulated himself that he had had the good sense to keep the contract of betrothal intact. It had only now occurred to him, however, that he had either neglected or forgotten to inform Vera that he had not destroyed the document, as agreed upon at their last interview, three years ago. Hence his letter to Paris at this time.
"I forgot to inform you," Maximof wrote, "that upon inquiry at the notary's office, I learned to my surprise that our contract of betrothal could not be destroyed excepting in presence of and by sworn consent of both parties. This may of course merely amount to a formality to be gone through at your next visit to Russia, which visit is likely to take place sooner than you had intended, if political prophets speak truly; for the horizon is dark indeed, and in case of a rupture between the Tsar and the Emperor, your father would doubtless leave Paris together with the Ambassador Kurakin. May I add, that I look forward with particular interest to our next meeting. We have never met as adults, and if all we hear with regard to the beautiful Vera Demidof be true, I may yet have cause to rejoice that our parents were longer-sighted than I at least had supposed. I may say, further, that my heart is disengaged. I have eschewed the follies of cadetdom...."
Vera laughed when she received this letter. The fact that her betrothal was still uncancelled did not at that time weigh upon her in the least. As, however, her friendship with Paul de Tourelle increased, it began to occur to her that circumstances might possibly arise which would cause her to regret that Alexander Maximof had not torn up their silly contract, as he had agreed to do. Paul de Tourelle had not greatly appealed to Vera's fancy at first acquaintance; she had disapproved of his self-assurance, his confident manner; but Paul had improved of late in these respects, and she had come to see beneath the veneer of mannerism a manliness and strength which she admired.
Vera went to old Pierre Dupré's fencing establishment with her cousin, Henri d'Estreville. She was anxious to see these two young women of whom Paris talked, though she felt that the exhibition of their skill would probably displease her. In this respect she soon found that she was mistaken. Old Dupré's pride in his daughters amused her, and the girls themselves, especially Louise, greatly attracted her.
Paul de Tourelle undertook to fence a bout with Marie, the eldest girl, an undertaking which he found considerably less of a walk over than he had expected. He held his own, certainly, but was obliged to put forth more effort into his work than he had expected to be called upon to display. At the call of time he was a point or two to the good, but he ended, surprised and a little mortified that he should have been compelled to extend himself in order to obtain this result.
During the bout with her sister Louise sat beside Vera and conversed with her, while the Baron, who glanced constantly in her direction, stood with Dupré and his assistants at the edge of the arena. Louise displayed no shyness; indeed she plied Vera with questions some of which Vera found rather embarrassing. Many of them referred to the Baron, whose name Louise mentioned with a certain hesitation. He was a soldier? and had fought in the wars with the Emperor? He must be a favourite with men—and, oh yes, this undoubtedly, with the ladies!
And Mademoiselle herself, she moved in the great world—ah, it must be pleasant to have the entrée there! Mademoiselle was doubtless fiancée? Vera admitted, laughing, that this was so and yet not so, a reply which puzzled her companion not a little.
Louise reflected. "Ah, Mademoiselle," she said, "perhaps I have solved the conundrum—Mademoiselle is betrothed to her cousin, Monsieur le Baron; but betrothals to cousins, as all the world knows, are not to be accounted as serious contracts; they are made for the convenience of both, but are not intended to be regarded seriously?" Louise gazed so intently in Vera's eyes as she put forward this suggestion that Vera was too surprised to laugh as she had at first felt inclined to do.
"My cousin?" she said; "Mon Dieu, no; the Baron is not of the kind to take the trouble to be fiancé for considerations of convenience."
"The Baron is not then betrothed to Mademoiselle?" murmured Louise, and presently she began to speak of the fencing, no longer interested—as it appeared to Vera—in the conundrum with regard to Mademoiselle's betrothal.
Which very naïve conversation went to convince Vera that howsoever gifted the fair Louise might be in the manly attribute of fencing, there was still much of the woman remaining in her composition. She watched Louise somewhat carefully after this, anxious to learn more as to her interest in Henri's affairs, when it was easy to perceive that though obviously avoiding the Baron, doubtless for reasons of her own, the girl's eyes constantly turned in the direction of her cousin.
"Poor little Louise!" thought Vera. "Henri of all people!"
Afterwards she sought an opportunity to add a word of warning.
"My cousin D'Estreville, to whom you suspected me of being engaged," she said, laughing, "is not one I would trust with my heart. He is the same to all women, implying much but meaning nothing. He ispar excellencea soldier. Women are—for him—toys to be played with in time of peace. Henri is not one to bind himself; he takes his amusement where he finds it."
"All men that I have seen are like that," said Louise unexpectedly; "yet I believe that it comes to each man once in his life to take a woman seriously."
"Come, Louise," old Pierre called out at this point, "Monsieur has kindly consented to exhibit to us a second time his wonderful skill with the foils; you will find Louise a fair exponent, Monsieur, though she has never yet measured swords with one of your exceptional gifts."
"If she is as clever as her sister," said Paul gallantly, "she must be skilful indeed. I offer you my compliments upon your daughters, Monsieur Dupré, they are indeed a credit to their teacher."
"Ah, Monsieur, if they were but of the sex!" cried old Pierre; "but there—it is not their fault—I have bewailed it all their lives, but it is not their fault."
Paul, in his bout with Louise, was at first amused to find that he was getting the worst of it. Presently, as she added point to point, his amusement turned to disgust and presently he grew a little angry. When Paul reached this stage, in a fencing bout, he generally became invincible; and during the latter portion of the set-to his score rapidly improved. Nevertheless, when time was called it was found that Louise had won upon a point. Old Dupré clapped his hands in unfeigned delight, apologising immediately after for his rudeness.
"I also crave permission to applaud," said Paul; "Mademoiselle is magnificent. Several times she took me unawares in a manner that I thought impossible of any swordsman in Paris. If Mademoiselle is not tired, I should be grateful to try conclusions once more when she is rested; while she rests there are one or two points in our bout which I should like to think over."
"Oh—ah!" cried old Pierre delighted. "Monsieur refers I think to thefeint flanconnade—thefeint flanconnade Dupréwe call it; it is a trick of my invention, Monsieur; twice I observed she scored by it! yes, it is subtle, Monsieur, and found by my daughters and by our pupils to be most exceptionally successful. It is a compliment that Monsieur takes notice of these little things."
"It is owing to these 'little things' that I find myself vanquished by Mademoiselle," Paul laughed good-naturedly. "I will consider these points for five minutes with Mademoiselle's permission."
During the interval old Dupré conversed with Vera Demidof, explaining to her how hard it had been for a parent longing for boys to find himself saddled with girls; how his daughters had, however, done their very best to atone for the "mischance" by growing up—as he had thought—superior to the weaknesses of their sex; and how he had been rudely brought up by the horrible discovery that Marie had fallen in love with his assistant and desired to marry him forthwith.
"Imagine my grief, Mademoiselle," old Pierre mourned; "so promising a swordswoman, so great a help and comfort to me, and pouff! she is married and her usefulness is gone! All that is man in her is gone also!"
Vera could not help laughing.
"You still have Louise!" she said, doing her best to say something comforting.
"Bah! she has seen her sister's deterioration and she will follow her example; it is infectious, like measles! already I perceive——"
What old Pierre was about to say remained uncertain, for at this moment Henri d'Estreville joined the group.
"There is war in the air, Dupré, have you heard?" he said. "The conscription papers are out. Young Havet had better be quick and get his wedding over or he may find himself in Moscow before he realises that he is a soldier."
"Ah—would to Heaven they had taken him before this foolery began!" said old Pierre. "Now I know not what is best; the evil is done; I do not approve of Marie's foolishness, yet I would not have her heart broken—for imagine, Monsieur le Baron, so false has become her estimate of the proportions that she would rather marry this young man than see him enrolled among the heroes of his country. Surely the object of love is the happiness and the well-being of the beloved? Compare then: to be a soldier of the Grande Armée, or to sit at home to lose manhood in the endearments of a foolish woman! Yet, knowing of the conscription, she would marry him to-morrow."
Old Pierre was almost in tears, so deeply did he feel the bitterness of the blow. That his daughters were women, was bad enough. That they should at length show a desire to behave as women was a grievance indeed!
"Be comforted, Monsieur," said Henri, smiling, "Havet is not yet chosen; if he should be so presently, allow me to suggest the very simplest solution of the difficulty. Let Mademoiselle Marie enlist also, thus no hearts shall be broken, and the Emperor gains a soldier better, I'll be bound, worth the having than half the six hundred thousand he intends to raise, if report speaks truly."
"Monsieur le Baron is pleased to jest," said Pierre; "yet it is true that Marie would make a good soldier; it is but three years, Monsieur, since my daughters exchanged the convenient garb of our sex for the foolish habiliments of that to which unfortunately they belong."
"So I have heard," said the Baron, "otherwise I should not have presumed, Monsieur, to make the suggestion which was not, be assured, altogether a jest."
"Was it not, Monsieur?" exclaimed Pierre, looking thoughtful. "Why then I will mention it to Marie; there is no knowing how the suggestion may strike her; assuredly she would pass as well for a man as the majority of the silly, half-grown youths that the conscription will catch.Splendeur des Cieux, Monsieur, it is a good idea. The glory of having, after all, a child of my own to serve with the colours! It is an ambition which I resigned with tears at the birth of my little Louise!"
"See, your little Louise, who is quite as big as our friend Paul," the Baron laughed, "is about to play her second bout with my redoubtable De Tourelle. Try again yourfeint flanconnade Dupré, Mademoiselle Louise; only be prepared this time for a subtle riposte! When Monsieur de Tourelle has devoted five minutes to the consideration of his play, be sure the time has not been wasted!"
Louise blushed and lowered her eyes when spoken to by the Baron, a circumstance which more than one pair of eyes observed.
"Louise has several subtle tricks with which Monsieur may not yet be acquainted," said old Pierre, flushed now and excited with the prospect of a second exhibition of his daughter's splendid skill. "Though I am the first to admit that she has found more than her match, for once, in Monsieur de Tourelle."
Paul's five minutes had not been wasted, as he quickly showed. For though Louise made a great bid for victory and was, indeed, never more than a point or two behind, De Tourelle was a trifle the better, and ending with a beautifully executed "time in octave" finished the leader by two points.
"I shall consider seriously your suggestion, Monsieur," said old Pierre at parting with Henri d'Estreville; "the more I think of it the more I perceive that if only Marie would think well of the matter there is much to commend it."
"But you would lose two capable assistants, Monsieur le Major, as well as the comfort of a daughter's presence," said Henri, somewhat ashamed of having set the old man yelping upon so foolish a scent.
"Bah! all the world will be at the war, there will be few to take fencing lessons for the while. Louise and the other younker will suffice for all the pupils we shall get in war-time! Monsieur le Baron will himself be absent among the rest, I doubt not?"
"Mon Dieu, let us hope so!" Henri laughed. "Where else?Eh bien, au revoir, Monsieur, andau revoir, maybe, to Mademoiselle Marie in Moscow." Henri departed, laughing merrily. Louise had turned away with her flushed face a shade or two the paler for Henri's last speech, therefore she did not catch the amorous look which the Baron thought fit to send in her direction as he quitted the arena.
During the next few weeks Paris and all France pursued but one topic of conversation. The Emperor's anger with Russia: would it end in war? Napoleon's threat—he had made it several times—that he would march into Moscow, was it spoken in seriousness or in bombast? For this was an undertaking before which even the heart of Napoleon might quail.
Apparently the Emperor Alexander of Russia felt little fear that the menacing attitude of his great rival must be regarded seriously, for he budged not an inch from the position he had taken up in the several matters at issue between them.
Alexander had several legitimate grievances against the French Dictator. In the matter of his sister, the Grand Duchess Anna Pavlovna, he considered that he had been slighted; for Napoleon had displayed too obvious a readiness to end the negotiations for his marriage with the Russian Princess, and this savoured of a lack of respect towards her Imperial brother's Throne and person.
In the matter of Oldenburg, too, Napoleon had grievously offended. The Grand Duchy of Oldenburg, though not precisely a portion of the Russian Empire, dwelt under the protection of the Tsar; his own sister Catherine was married to the reigning Duke, yet France had lately annexed the little State, whose sovereign, with his Imperial wife, had been forced to take shelter in St. Petersburg. In addition to these semi-personal matters, there was an open sore in Poland; and again, the arbitrary demands of the Dictator that trade with England should be boycotted by the Continent generally, stuck obstinately in the gullet of the sturdy Russian Tsar, whose merchants knew where lay the best market for their hemp, their hides, their tallow and wheat.
There was stir and excitement at the Embassies. Kurakin, the Ambassador in Paris, and Demidof, Vera's father, his principal secretary, were busy from morning to night, interviewing, explaining, bargaining, smoothing and glossing the sturdy obstinacy of their own sovereign, which, while they pretended professionally to deplore it, they secretly admired and applauded.
Tchernishef, the Ambassador Extraordinary of the Tsar, arrived and was received in private audience by Napoleon. He brought with him the offer of certain concessions with regard to Oldenburg in exchange for counter-concessions in Poland. But the Dictator was obdurate; he would have surrender, not traffic.
"Not a mill, not a village of Poland will I give your master," said he; "tell him so; it is my last word."
It was Alexander's last word also, and seeing that his great opponent intended war, the Tsar began to make his preparations for defence.
The ambassadors in Paris and their secretaries and attachés packed up their traps and held themselves ready for departure.
To Vera the whole matter was a source of unmitigated grief. In common with every patriotic Russian of the day, her soul revolted against the wanton injustice of Napoleon, and swelled in a suddenly awakened passion of patriotic love and enthusiasm for her own country. Napoleon and his Grand Army were of course invincible; Russia must suffer defeat, ruin maybe; the lives of her sons must go out in rivers of innocent blood.
"It is cruel and horrible," Vera cried, speaking of all this with her cousins the D'Estrevilles; "horrible because utterly useless and unjust. Does your Emperor think he will reach Moscow?"
"Our Emperor goes just as far as his word, Vera," said Henri. "Do not deceive yourself. If Napoleon has said that he will march to Moscow, to Moscow he will march, and neither man nor devil shall prevent him."
"You leave God out of the question," Vera raved; "but He, too, must be reckoned with, even by a Napoleon. Be sure, Henri, that this wicked campaign will not be permitted to prosper. You shall see."
"Au revoir, ma belle," laughed Henri. "We shall meet in Moscow."
"I would rather never see you again, cousin, than meet you there," cried Vera; "and that is truth!"
"What, and the same of Paul de Tourelle?" said Henri, still laughing; "fie, Vera, you show yourself in new colours to-day!"
Vera flushed crimson and turned away. She took no notice of the allusion to Paul, but a moment later she answered the latter part of Henri's banter.
"If I show myself in new colours it is the more shame for me. These are the colours I should always have worn; to-day, at least, if never before, I am all a Russian; I am none the less so because I happen to have French cousins. Henceforth, I shall be ashamed to own that there are folks of my flesh and blood who are content to serve this tyrant."
"I think none the worse of you for your patriotism," said Henri good-naturedly, seeing that the girl was much distressed. "But neither should you think ill of us who are also patriots from the other side of the hedge. Political aspects depend upon the point of view. You are excited. You will see all this differently when you think matters over in cold blood."
If Vera had been less miserable she would scarcely have spoken to Henri as she did, but Henri was a good-natured person and made allowances. He guessed the mingled emotions stirring in Vera's heart at this moment, for Vera had always been a good Russian, taking the part of her countrymen in the many bantering arguments in which the family frequently indulged at the expense of Russian bears, autocrats, barbarous moujiks, knouts, serfs and kindred matters. In such arguments Vera had often, to the delight of Henri and her other cousins, almost lost herself in indignant defence of her countrymen. Now, he knew, great fires of patriotic fervour must be ablaze within her, since the picture before her mind's eye was not that of an equal war in which either side might gain the advantage, but of a helpless, or semi-helpless, State, over which stood the gigantic figure of conquering Napoleon, a drawn sword in his hand, ready to shed the life-blood of her beloved nation. And in addition to this trouble, and aggravating it twofold, Henri fully believed, there was Paul.
Henri had quite made up his mind, much to his own gratification, for he was fond of his cousin and Paul was his chief friend, that these two were in love with one another. He had endeavoured, though vainly, to assure Paul that this was so.
"Any fool can see it," he had said; "cheer up, man; Vera is a ripe fruit, ready to fall into your mouth when you open it to ask her."
"I have asked her several times," said Paul; "you know that. She used to say she is engaged to some Russian."
"Oh, that old fable!" Henri laughed. "Well, has she dropped it lately?"
"She has not mentioned it, certainly, of late, but——"
"Very well then. It was a very good excuse while she wanted one. My argument is that she requires an excuse no longer. Ask her again before the Ambassadors leave Paris."
Paul accepted this advice. He generally resented advice, and hated to be preached at and interfered with, but he was always ready to take more from his friend than from any one else.
"I have come to say farewell, Mademoiselle," he said, calling at the half-dismantled embassy. "It is time you allowed me to know how I stand with you. That I love you with all my heart you are well aware."
"Monsieur—alas! It is not the moment to discuss such things. Let us try to part in friendship. If matters had been otherwise, I know not but that in time I might possibly have answered differently; as it is——" Vera paused.
"You are referring, doubtless, to your contract of affiance. Mademoiselle Vera, let me assure you that such a contract——"
"Bah! This is not a moment for deceptions, Monsieur; be sure that contract or no contract, I shall marry no one against my will."
"So far good, Mademoiselle Vera. To what, then, do you refer? With one hand you seem to give me hope; with the other you take it away again. What is between us, Mademoiselle? I am rich, I love you as I have never loved woman. Is not this enough for you? What stands between us?"
"Perhaps everything and perhaps nothing," said Vera with a great sigh. "You say you love me; God forgive me, for I know well that I ought to reject your love, yet I hesitate to reject it."
"Why then," exclaimed Paul joyously—he was about to take her to his arms, but Vera waved him away. "Why, what do you mean, Vera?" he continued impatiently. "Why must God forgive you because I love you? I am not a leper; you will easily be forgiven! Explain—you madden me."
"Can you not understand, Monsieur? See, I allow you to say 'I love you'—yet you are the enemy of my country; what will be said of me if it is known that I have done this shameful thing? To have submitted to be loved by one who is about to invade the land of my fathers——"
"Well—but—Mademoiselle, for God's sake let us understand one another," cried Paul, "Here stand I, professing to love you. Am I not to be loved again because I am a soldier of Napoleon? As soon I might say that I must not love a subject of Alexander. Your patriotism is delightful; I love you the better for it, but your conclusion is ridiculous."
"What would you have, Paul? I do not know my own mind. I like you; it is possible that one day I may be able to say that I love you. I am young; I am not yet sure what is love and what is 'like'. Is it not enough?"
"No, a thousand times no! I must possess you—hold you—caress you—release you only when the last moment arrives, under promise that when we meet in Moscow——"
This was an unfortunate remark on Paul's part. Vera fired up instantly, receding a step or two from him, for Paul had approached and held her tenderly by the elbows, ready to take her to his arms if permitted to do so.
"When we meet in Moscow?" she cried. "God send that may never be, never, never! Sooner I would never see you again than meet you, as you suggest, in Moscow. Do you think I do not realise what you mean by meeting in Moscow? I tell you, Paul, God forbid that I meet you there!"
Paul recoiled a little, abashed. "I apologise, Mademoiselle," he said; "of course I should not have permitted myself to use so foolish an expression. When the war is over, I should have said."
"When the war is over, love may begin or may not," Vera replied. "This is not the time to speak of love. I will not shame myself a second time. Go, Paul—I am a traitor to have said what I said—forget it—farewell!"
"I swear I will never forget it," said Paul. "You are cruel, Vera; I do not understand your attitude; you are not like a woman!"
"I am a Russian; my heart bleeds for my country which lies under the shadow of Napoleon and his Grand Army, of which you are a member. It is hateful of me to have spoken of love with a French soldier. Go, Paul, I entreat you." She held out her hand, Paul bent over and kissed it. Then he left the room without a word.
At the Palais d'armes of old Pierre Dupré there was excitement. Both Karl Havet, Marie's fiancé, and young Maux, the second assistant, had received their conscription notices; both had been drawn; unless physically unfit or unsound, both men must serve in Napoleon's new and greatest army.
Maux was in excellent spirits. Being a splendidly built young fellow, lithe and strong as a leopard, there was no doubt whatever as to his fitness.
"I shall come back a sergeant, Monsieur," he said; "you shall see; it may even be that I shall gain a commission in the field—such things have happened before now!"
Old Pierre nodded approvingly. "You are going forth in the proper spirit, my son," he said; then he glanced sadly at Karl Havet, who sat with Marie conversing dejectedly over his conscription notice, and sighed. "Would it were the same there!" he added.
Louise fired up and spoke.
"You are not fair to them, father," she said. "You have no sympathy for the natural feelings. They were to be married in a month; they love one another; it is hard for them. If you were generous you would furnish a substitute for Karl."
"Mon Dieu, Louise, is it you that talk thus,you?" exclaimed the old man; "then indeed I do not recognise my own child. A substitute, when the Emperor has called him to arms? Shame!"
"It will break Marie's heart, be sure of that; she has been a good daughter to you, father; it is due to her that you should assist her in this emergency. Karl has no money to pay for a substitute—you have plenty. Let him stay a while at least with his wife. Be sure this will not be the last war; so long as the Emperor lives and Europe is not yet a province of France, there will be wars and wars. It is not right that they should be separated."
"Bah—you speak foolishly, like a woman; you disappoint me, Louise, you that have ever shown a spirit above that of a woman. As for separation, if Marie is so foolish as to depend upon the presence of a lover for her happiness, why should they be separated? Let her go also!"
"Father, what do you mean?" said Louise, gazing blankly at the old man; "do you rave?"
"On the contrary, never was I more serious. Marie is as good a man as the best; she lacks but the pantaloons—eh bien! There are many fools under conscription orders who will be glad of a substitute. Let her go to the war with her Karl, since they dread separation; she will be the happier and the richer too, for she will touch the money of some coward or fool who is ready to pay for his own dishonour—voilà tout!"
"And you, father, could your mind rest in peace if your child were exposed thus to the risks of war?"
Old Pierre started from his seat with an exclamation of impatience.
"Sapristi, Louise my child, you grow more foolish each minute! Do you not know that it is the one grievance of my life that I have no sons to fight for France? If I had a son and he went forth to battle, think you I should sit at home to weep in anguish of anxiety until he returned safely to the fireside? God forbid; I should thank Him daily, each minute, that I, too, had been found worthy to provide one soldier for France. Why then should I feel differently if I possessed a daughter who, thanks to her own fine spirit and to the training I have given her, had risen superior to the weakness of her sex and gone forth as a man to do a man's work in the world? I should thank God all the more—yes, and I should love my child the more, more by a hundred times."
Louise was silent. Now that her father explained his view of the matter she recognised that it was, after all, perfectly consistent with his character that he should think thus. That any one else should think the same way, however, was quite a different matter. Marie, for instance, would probably consider the idea a ridiculous one; her fiancé, Karl, was certain to laugh the suggestion to scorn, and yet Louise, to her surprise, found that she herself had listened to her father's words without the impatient amazement which so wild a proposal might have aroused in her. To her mind, trained as she had been, the idea of a woman assuming the dress of a man and enlisting as a man in the army of her country was neither absolutely new nor absolutely impossible. Louise knew, almost by heart, the story of Mademoiselle de Maupin, who had done this very thing a century ago; her career was a favourite theme of old Pierre's, who had drummed it into the ears of his daughters since they were children. Certainly if any woman could imitate Mademoiselle de Maupin with success, it was Marie. But Marie was in love and about to be married; she possessed no longer the manly spirit which would render such a thing possible, and Karl would certainly reject the idea.
"Suggest to them your scheme, father," she said; "but I warn you that they will not receive it seriously."
Marie flushed a little when the strange idea was mentioned to her; then she laughed and asked Karl what he thought of it.
"It is madness," said Karl, glancing indignantly at old Pierre. "That a man who loves a woman, whether as father or lover, should be willing to submit her to the shame and the thousand risks involved in such a scheme, is madness and worse. Thank God, I am not so selfish, Marie. Rather a million times, I will go alone."
Old Pierre shrugged his shoulders. "As you like," he said. "It is my misfortune. What other reply should I expect from a man who goes out unwillingly to serve his country?"
"As for that," said Karl boldly, "if I possessed money I should certainly procure a substitute; having none, I must go; it is hard, Marie, but—que faire? it is necessity that drives us apart."
Marie burst into tears and the unfortunate lovers left the room together.
"Bah!" said old Pierre, not untouched by his daughter's sorrow. "It is a misfortune—it is a disaster; see, Louise, how this foolish weakness called 'love' spoils not only a splendid woman, but a good man also. Karl is not a coward, and yet——"
"No—Karl is no coward, and Marie still less," said Louise, perfectly miserable. "Father, let a substitute be found—it is hard for them! You do not grudge the money, that I know!"
"My daughter, I would spend the money ten times to have Karl go willingly; to keep him at home, I will not spend it once; what, pay for the dishonour of one who would marry my child? God forbid!" Old Pierre left the room.
"It is animpasse" he exclaimed at the door. "I am sorry this has happened; but in honour there is only one course."
An hour later Louise still sat where the rest had left her. Soon after her father's departure an idea had occurred to her—an idea which evidently interested and absorbed her so fully that for a whole hour she sat motionless, thinking deeply, with set mouth and flushed face. The opening of the door startled her, and she looked up to see Henri d'Estreville entering the room, a sight which added a still deeper wave of colour to the flush of excitement which already darkened her cheek.
"Mademoiselle Louise," said Henri, "I have come to bid you farewell."
"Yes, farewell," murmured Louise, "I knew you would be going."
"I am happy to know that Mademoiselle has devoted a thought to me; it is right that it should be so, for indeed I have many for you, Mademoiselle."
"You go to the war," Louise murmured, speaking as though in a dream; "so should all brave men go; oh, Monsieur, it is grand to be a man, to take a great part in the affairs of life; to move and live and fight, while others remain at home to weep and think with folded hands. To which army corps is Monsieur attached?"
"To that of Ney," said Henri, puzzled by the mood of Louise. Evidently he had surprised her in a moment of unusual softness. Henri had thought, more than once, that the attitude of Louise towards himself indicated a certain partiality. To-day he was almost certain of it.
"Ah, Ney! glorious, splendid Ney, Bravest of the brave! Then I may picture you, Monsieur, as for ever in the thick of the fighting; I shall think of you, Monsieur, be sure; will you also think of me?"
"Assuredly, Louise."
"And how?"
"As of one who, perhaps, sits and waits until a—a certain young soldier returns to repeat to her, as now from his very heart he tells her, that in absence it was her image——"
"Oh, Monsieur," Louise laughed, "not so! sits and waits! Yes, perhaps; but not in spirit! In spirit, Monsieur, I, too, shall be with Ney, fighting with him and with you the battles of my country; suffering hardships, wounds, death maybe, God knows; think of me thus!"
"Yes, I will think thus of you, Mademoiselle; and when I return——"
"Oh, Monsieur, 'sufficient for the day is the evil'. How know you that you will return, or if you return that you will find me?"
"I shall return, Louise; I have no presentiment that evil lies before me; certainly I shall return, and as for finding you, that is a matter of course."
"What if you do not seek me, Monsieur? or if, when you seek me, you do not find me?"
"To the first I reply that I shall desire you, Louise, as the miner longs for light and air; why should I not find you? I will ask you to wait for my return, Mademoiselle!"
"Yes, I will wait for you, Monsieur, if I am alive."
"Then farewell, Mademoiselle; in that hope I shall live." Henri drew her to him. "Upon your lips," he said, "I seal my promise to return." Louise did not resist.
"It is true that I love you, Monsieur," she said; "I that never thought to love a man!"
"By the Saints," Henri murmured, as he hastened away, "that is an easier conquest than I expected. Moreover, she is splendid. It is certain," he reflected five minutes later, "that I have never been nearer to falling in love than at this moment—be careful, Henri."
"When I return," his thoughts ran presently, "there will be some pleasant hours to spend in tilling this virgin soil—tiens! I wish I was not going so soon!"
Then Henri d'Estreville proceeded with his farewell visits, which included affecting leave-takings with several ladies of his acquaintance.
Louise sat dreaming for half an hour. Then she rose with flushed face.
"Of course," she muttered, "it is the only way, and what better could there be? I will do it at once."
When the household of Pierre Dupré sat down to dinner, Louise was absent. The rest, with the exception of young Maux, were silent and depressed. When Louise came in her eyes shone brightly, her cheeks were flushed, and she smiled with some embarrassment as she laid by her sister's plate a folded paper. Marie took it up and glanced at it. Suddenly she uttered an exclamation.
"What is it—what have you done, Louise?" she cried. "It is a demission, Karl, in your name, in respect of a substitute 'Michel Prevost'. Louise, did my father—oh, where did you raise the money, sister?—Oh, Karl, see, she has saved us—she has saved us!"
"What mean you?" exclaimed old Pierre. "What have you done, Louise? You have paid for a substitute for Karl? By all the gods, child, I will not have it; it is an outrage; I will——"
"Father, let me speak," said Louise; "it is very simple. I have no money; I have paid no one. The conscript room is crowded with busy people—one has but to go up in turn to the sergeant, answer a question or two and pass on. 'Who are you?' 'Michel Prevost.' 'Conscript or substitute?' 'Substitute for Karl Havet.' 'Height?' 'Five feet seven.' 'Health?' 'Perfect'—scribble, scribble; a paper is handed you—'Drill yard at seven to-morrow—pass on!' and it is done."
"What do you mean, Louise?" exclaimed Havet, starting from his seat. "You have not——"
"Do you not understand," cried Marie, laughing hysterically, "it is Louise herself who has——"
"Yes," said Louise, "that is it, Marie; I am Michel Prevost."
"Mon Dieu!" exclaimed old Pierre; "is it so indeed, Louise?"
"It is so, father; I am Private Michel Prevost; you shall have your desire at last; by my own will I am going forth. I shall be in good company, my father, for my regiment is attached to thecorps d'arméeof Marshal Ney himself; hear you that? I shall fight under his colours, the Bravest of the brave. Are you satisfied, father, have I done well? And you, Marie, are you satisfied?"
"Sister, you cannot, you shall not; it is ridiculous—you jest!" cried Marie.
"God forbid. I do not jest! Let no one dare thwart me by revealing my secret"—Louise looked round with smiling face but blazing eye—"You, Karl, or you, Georges, for I swear I will split with my rapier him who so does! I am a soldier of Ney's army, remember that,mes amis!" Louise ended with a loud laugh; she saluted the company military fashion and left the room.
For a moment a silence fell upon all present, then old Pierre's voice was heard repeating the "Nunc Dimittis" in Latin.
Neither argument nor entreaty availed to shake the determination of Louise. Her father was entirely on her side, enthusiastically backing and applauding her resolve. Marie and her fiancé, though at first shocked that Louise should thus sacrifice herself for their sake, soon realised that the sacrifice only played a part in the comedy.
"Do you not see a second reason?" Marie asked Karl one day. "It has occurred to me that she has another motive besides that of serving us. Louise, too, is in love. I suspected it, now I know it. I accidentally saw her parting with the Baron d'Estreville; they kissed,mon ami; imagine Louise kissed by a man; that reveals an extraordinary state of affairs. Well, the Baron has already gone to the war. Louise, poor soul, cannot bear to be parted;eh bien! she will go also; perhaps, she tells herself, she will see him from time to time, at any rate she will be near him."
"Sapristi, it may be as you say," said Karl; "If so I am glad of it. Then we can allow her to go with minds more at rest."
However this may have been, Louise attended the conscript drill for a month with the rest, and assuredly Michel Prevost there acquitted himself as well as any recruit upon the ground. Accustomed to male attire, which she had worn for some seventeen out of the full tally of the years of her life, she betrayed no awkwardness, whether in plain clothes or in uniform. Accustomed no less to every athletic exercise which went towards the training of the young men of her day, she satisfied the drill sergeant as easily as the most active of her companions, not one of whom ever showed the slightest suspicion as to her sex.
At the end of the month the somewhat raw company of young soldiers, of whom Louise was one, marched through Paris and away; a month later on and they had joined the ranks of Napoleon's ill-fated army. This army consisted of 356,000 Frenchmen, and a heterogeneous collection of 322,000 foreign troops, consisting of Belgians, Dutch, Hanoverians, Italians, Spaniards, Austrians, Prussians, Bavarians, Hessians, men of Frankfort, of Wurtemberg and of Mecklenburg, Poles and others. It was called by the Russians "The Army of Twenty Nations".
Napoleon himself was at Kovno, with about 200,000 troops commanded by Marshals Davoust, Oudinot, Ney, Bessières and Murat. But the detachment of which the conscript Michel Prevost was a member did not join the mighty host until the river Niemen had been crossed, and the dogs of war set at the heels of Alexander and his men.
To oppose his great rival the Tsar had, at this moment, but 150,000 troops, under Generals Bagration and Barclay de Tolly, though 200,000 men were elsewhere disposed, to be called up when required. Besides these troops, the Tsar could count upon some 80,000 Cossacks already enrolled and equipped. Beyond and above all these, too, he could rely upon the nation to provide, in the moment of need, an almost unlimited supply of raw material, ready to fight and die with the best in defence of their beloved country.
Meanwhile Vera had returned, with the rest of the Embassy, to St. Petersburg, and here, within a very few days, she received a visit from Countess Maximof, Sasha's mother, a middle-aged dame of typical Russian appearance and manners: kindly, gushing, voluble in a mixture of Russian and French, used indiscriminately as the words happened to occur to her.
"But, my dear, you are charming, exquisite!" she exclaimed, standing before the girl in an attitude of rapt admiration. "We had heard that you had grown up very beautiful, but this! who would have believed it? And my Sasha absent and unable to see you!"
"Is Alexander Petrovitch away then?" asked Vera, embarrassed by the good lady's compliments and wishing the visit over almost before it was begun.
"Alas—he is gone to this cruel war,chérie, where else? All that is best and most precious of our manhood has gone, and Sasha with the rest. Oh, this Napoleon of yours—though indeed he is no more yours than ours—there is no good thing to be said of him; he is Beelzebub, the prince of the devils!"
"I do not defend him," said Vera. "Why should I? I am as good a Russian as the best."
"See how ill-natured people are! It is said that you so love the French people that you no longer have a thought for your own folks; some even said that you would remain in Paris throughout the war!"
"It is false and very stupid also. Of course I love the French people. We have no quarrel with them, Madame, but with one man only; him whom we must all hold accursed for bringing this wicked war upon us!"
"It is true, it is true,dooshá moyá! It is the ogre of Europe who would eat up our children, not the people of France. Kiss me,chérie, you are beautiful like a morning in summer! Alas! how proud Sasha would have been of you, of his sweet fiancée, could he but have seen you!"
"Oh, Madame, Alexander Petrovitch is better employed!" said Vera weakly.
"You will scarcely believe how he looked forward to seeing you,chérie; assuredly he has not forgotten his precious claims to your heart's preference!"
Vera laughed quite unaffectedly.
"Oh, Madame, be sure that, no more than I, would he desire to remember those claims, if we had met! You speak of ancient history which is recalled only with a smile!"
"Dooshá tui moyá," exclaimed the Countess, throwing up her hands, "do you realise what you say? The dear Tsar himself would be disappointed to hear your words."
Vera laughed outright.
"The Tsar! What in the world has the Tsar to do with the matter, Madame?"
"Chérie, you do not understand. I am aDame de la Cour; I am privileged to enjoy many opportunities of conversing with his Majesty. His Majesty is well acquainted with all the circumstances of this romantic betrothal of Sasha and yourself. My dear son is personally known to the Tsar, who has deigned to express himself as much interested in his career. His Majesty was, I may say, charmed to hear of the betrothal; for listen,ma mie; it has reached even those august ears that Mademoiselle Vera Demidof is well known to be one of the beauties of Paris. Ah, Mademoiselle, I can see by your blushes that you are surprised and charmed by this news! Shall I tell you more? The dear Tsar, it is but a month ago, was pleased to pat my Sasha upon the shoulder—'Hold your own, good boy!' said he, and the Tsar laughed most graciously; 'I hear we have a Russian outwork in Paris; see that the Frenchmen are kept out of it!'"
"Madame, I am stupid at guessing conundrums," said Vera, blushing.
"Dooshá moyá, the riddle is a very easy one. The Tsar is well pleased that so sweet a flower as our Russian Rose of Paris should be plucked by none but a Russian. 'Let no French lover come between you!' said his Majesty, in effect. Truly, as I have said, he would be disappointed indeed if you and Sasha should not come together as Destiny intended that you should."
"Oh, Madame, who can tell what are the intentions of Destiny? If the Tsar be pleased to jest in a matter which does not concern him, let him jest. It is quite likely that Alexander Petrovitch, when he sees me, will think the Tsar's jest but a poor one."
"A thousand times no,chérie! He will love you at sight. Already he is prepared to lose his heart; it is a heart worth winning! There are many who would give the world in exchange for it! Yet I whisper to you,dooshinka, this secret—he waits but to learn that you have escaped scatheless from Paris!"
"Mon Dieu!" exclaimed Vera, laughing. "Did he think the Frenchmen would begin the war by murdering poor little me?"
"Fie, fie, little hypocrite!" said the Countess, tapping Vera affectionately with her fan. "Well, well, Sasha shall tell you all these things for himself! I am only a poor old woman, but Sasha will return from the war, one day, and such matters will sound differently from his lips. We shall see what Destiny has to say then!"
"Yes, let us leave it so, Madame," said Vera; "for after all, we have not yet seen one another!"