At length one face arrested the eye of Madame de Talmont, and she could not but pause for another look. It was a young and handsome face, with a burning spot on either cheek, and a contraction of the brows that told the story of feverish pain. Yet, in spite of weariness and suffering, the eyes were absolutely beaming with joy, and a happy, satisfied smile played over the parted lips. She stood for a moment by the side of the invalid. “My young friend,” she said kindly, “you seem to be in pain; and yet you look happy.” “Yes, madame, I am indeed happy,” answered Ivan Pojarsky, who had just been receiving a visit from his friend Tolstoi. “How can I help it? Yesterday the Czar entered Paris in triumph.” He spoke French as correctly and with almost as pure an accent as Madame de Talmont herself. She was touched and interested by his words. “But,” she asked, “do you not feel it hard to be lying here, helpless and suffering, while your Emperor and your companions in arms enjoy their triumph?” “Oh no, madame,” he said with animation; “I cannot think of that. Nor could you, if you belonged to my Czar. If you had seen the flames of Moscow; had heard the thunder when the mines exploded that laid half our Kremlin in ruins; had witnessed the faith and courage that upheld him _then_, had watched the long and weary conflict he has waged from that hour until now--patient, wise, self-sacrificing, undaunted[50],--you would rejoice for him in the very depths of your heart that the goal is won at last, that he stands a conqueror in the midst of Paris, and possesses the gate of his enemies!” In his eagerness he half raised himself, his eyes sparkled, and his whole face flushed with excitement. “Gently, gently, my poor young friend,” said Madame de Talmont in a tone of almost motherly tenderness. “I fear you will hurt yourself.” “Oh no, madame;”--but even as he spoke his colour changed rapidly, and his lip quivered with the pain he tried to hide. Meanwhile, many thoughts were passing through the mind of the silent but observant Clémence. There was a little stand beside the bed, upon which were a phial containing medicine, a small book, and a clean white cambric handkerchief. She saw, with interest and pleasure, that the book was a copy of the New Testament in French. Then her eye rested upon the folded cambric, and presently a cry of amazement broke from her lips. Every one started and looked towards her. Madame de Talmont was terror-stricken. So quiet and self-contained had Clémence ever been, that even in childhood a cry from her lips was a thing almost unknown. And now, with a face as white as that of any of the stricken sufferers around them, she was placing the handkerchief in the hand of her mother. “Look,” she faltered--“look, mother!”