"It is only the beginning of our advance, _ma cousine_; do not flatter yourself with false hopes. If Moscow grows too hot for us, we shall march to St. Petersburg and Napoleon shall be crowned Tsar at St. Isaac's." "We shall not agree, my friend. For the rest, do not visit me here--it is better not. If we were to argue constantly, I should soon forget that the same blood flows in our veins and I should learn to hate you as at this moment I hate every Frenchman." Nevertheless the cousins parted friends, though Henri quite agreed that at present it would be better if they did not meet. Vera walked in the outskirts of the city one afternoon, glad of the calls of some duty which justified the risk of venturing into the fresh air, when she observed a notable episode. An old Russian priest, one of the staff of the Cathedral of the Assumption, driven out of his senses by the persecutions and desecrations which he had witnessed in his beloved city and church, marched alone through the streets carrying a large ikon in his arms and shouting aloud denunciations and menaces against the disturbers of the peace of Holy Russia. "Thy Holy Temple," he raved, "have they defiled and made Jerusalem a heap of stones--slay them, oh Lord, and scatter them! Shall Thy enemies triumph for ever?" And again:-- "The time shall come when every man who slayeth one of them shall believe that he doeth God service!" Up the road came half a dozen rowdy French soldiers "on leave of absence". They stood and listened to the priest's raving for a moment, understanding nothing; then one knocked the old man down with a buffet, rolling him in the mud, while the ikon fell to the ground. Instantly there was a rowdy battle for possession of the image, which was quickly pulled in pieces, each piece being carefully scrutinised for precious stones or metal. "Bah! we might have spared ourselves the trouble--it is brass--the whole thing is not worth fifty centimes!" exclaimed one man, looking angrily at the old priest, sitting dazed and bruised in the mud, mumbling and holding his head. "How dare you carry a brass ikon, deluding honest persons into the belief that it is a thing of value?" asked another soldier; he kicked the old man viciously; the priest gave a howl of pain. This was more than Vera could stand. "_Miserables!_" she exclaimed, "are you not ashamed of attacking an old man, and a priest? A curse will fall upon such as you." "Let it fall, _ma mie_; see, _mes enfants_," the fellow continued, "what I have found--a French woman and a pretty one--are you one of the French actresses, _chérie_?" The soldier leered and tried to put his arm about her waist. Vera angrily pushed him away. "Come, come, come!" said the fellow, who was half drunk, "you must not look crossly upon your compatriots--you and I are both good French people, let us be happy together." "Thank God I am a Russian," said Vera. "If you touch me again you shall find that I can sting!"