“Pavlo,” or, rather, Paul, Prince de Salvières, oldest son and heir of the charming couple of that ilk, had out of adoration for his mother elected to enter the Russian army, and more particularly the _Gardes-à-Cheval_--a crack corps--nor had his father objected to this. “You are not needed in France, my boy,” he had said to the lad, “at least not as long as what one of the Republic’s amiable ministers called ‘draughty names’ (_des noms à courants d’air_) are systematically discouraged in both the army and navy. Should the day of the _Revanche_ ever dawn, it will be another affair, but for us, unfortunately, there is nothing to do now in our own beloved land. It is,” he had added, although little given to sentiment, especially when expressed aloud, “the only real sorrow of my life to see that from day to day our rôle, political, diplomatic, or military, is rendered more and more impossible. However, our hour may come sooner than we expect. Let us, at any rate, pray that it may be so.” A strong Legitimist by inheritance, tradition, and personal faith and feeling, the Duc de Salvières recognized that he owed his allegiance to Philippe d’Orléans after having given it unstintingly to his father, the Comte de Paris--the elect of Henry V.--and the inconceivable delay of a final return to monarchy grieved him profoundly. That the Duc d’Orléans should have been incarcerated in a fortress because he had enlisted as a private to serve France had amazed and revolted Salvières, and the fact that the young Duc de Montpensier, brother and heir of the virtual King, should on that account and on no other have been refused the same privilege, and in consequence had entered the service of Spain, had once and for all heartened him. Thus did Pavlo himself become _plus Royaliste que le Roy_, perhaps, and, moreover, brought up mostly in Russia, he felt the greatest pride in wearing the Czar’s uniform. To-day there was even the tiniest hint of a swagger in his extraordinarily martial attitude as he met his parents. His handsome young face, his bonny blue eyes and tightly curled short hair--that his mother was wont to call his “copper cap”--were a pleasure to behold, and Piotr, with one of his clown-like bounds, rushed into his arms, shouting, “Aunt Tatiana says you often talk great nonsense, Cousin Pavlo, but I don’t believe it; you are too great a soldier for that.” There was a general laugh--Pavlo, red as the _liséré_ of his cap, joining in gaily enough, though with a rapid, circular glance to see if any of his loitering comrades had overheard this singular compliment. “Piotr’s frankness _is_ sometimes embarrassing!” exclaimed Tatiana, leaning on her tall-handled, fluffy parasol. “Indeed, he is becoming so very grown-up that your father and I are thinking of giving him the benefit of travel for his further enlightenment.”