“I see.” Michael relapsed into silence, and stood gazing thoughtfully upon the city spread out beneath their feet, and growing every moment clearer in the dawning light. At last he said, turning once again to Ivan, “Barrinka, it is true I gave my hand for the Czar. But I never thought he would care--or even hear of it. He did though; he spoke to me with his own lips. He thanked me, and said I had been found faithful. Not _one_ hand, but two, would have been well lost for that. But will his King speak to the Czar and thank him?” “Yes,” Ivan answered, “he will, thought I cannot tell how. God has many ways of speaking to his servants.” In due time the day broke, and the sun arose over Paris. Then came relief and refreshment for the troops, and surgical help and care for the wounded. Then came also the tidings, flashing from rank to rank, “The capitulation is signed. The city has surrendered _without conditions_. At half-past three o’clock this morning, the keys of Paris were placed in the hands of Alexander.” CHAPTER XXVI. AT VERSAILLES. “A poor man helped by thee shall make thee rich; A sick man served by thee shall make thee whole: Thou shalt be blessed thyself in every sense Of blessing which thou renderest.” The two years so eventful to others had not passed without change over the mother and sister Henri de Talmont left sorrowing behind him in the cottage at Brie. That he had joined the corps of recruits instead of making his escape soon became known to them. Both were stricken to the heart; and because this was so, the grief of both was still and silent. Clémence told her mother Henri’s parting words, upon which a mournful light was thrown by what followed. But these brought little comfort, and no tidings since had reached them from the wanderer. As may have been inferred, the letter intrusted to Seppel was never posted; and Henri did not write again. At length came news of the appalling disasters in Russia. Neither Madame de Talmont nor Clémence indulged the faintest hope that Henri could have survived them. They mourned for the one who “was not,” in an utter desolation, beyond words and beyond tears. Sometimes they murmured sadly to each other, “If only we knew the truth.” For it was one of the bitterest drops in their full cup of bitterness that they could not tell in what form death had come to their beloved, while they knew but too well how hideous and revolting were some of the forms assumed by the king of terrors. Horrible details reached them, piercing the thick veil of falsehood with which Napoleon sought to hide the disasters of his army; and imagination--that magician so powerful for good and evil--exercised a fearful ingenuity in torturing their aching hearts to the uttermost.