During the long night that followed, bringing sleep to neither, mother and daughter had abundant leisure for the scattered, incoherent, “discursive talk” beneath which overwhelming emotions usually conceal, because they cannot adequately express, themselves. Morning had almost come when Madame de Talmont asked, suddenly raising her head from a hot, tear-stained pillow, “Clémence, what about a ransom? We have that to think of now.” “I _have_ been thinking of it, mother,” Clémence answered gently. “But peace will be made--_must_ be made shortly. May we not conclude that something will be arranged in it about the prisoners?” “If peace were to be made with any one save Napoleon, I should say yes. Some men would think of their followers, and try to make terms for them, were they themselves on the way to the scaffold. But this Corsican adventurer has as little idea of knightly honour as of Christian grace; while who can tell yet what is to come after him? No, Clémence; you may depend upon it those poor captives have no friends save God and their own kinsfolk.--What can we do? Not even a jewel of any value is left us now.” “But, mother, we have still our little pittance in the Rentes. Now that La Tante supplies all our real needs, we can sell what is there.” “Ah, that is not enough, I fear, since the Rentes have fallen so low. Yet it is all we have.--Clémence, I do not like Russians; in fact, as a general thing, I have quite a prejudice against them.” “Oh, mother, why?” asked Clémence, in tones rather more earnest than the case demanded. “They could not help killing our people; they were defending their native country,” she added. “Not for that, of course; but there are reasons which you do not know. I was about to say, however, that young Russian has interested and attracted me in spite of myself. He seems quite a ‘preux chevalier;’ and,” she added more softly, “although he said nothing of it, I doubt not he showed kindness to our dear one when he met him in the hospital at Vilna. Besides, there is something in his face which I cannot describe, but which haunts and troubles while it touches me. It seems to remind me of some other face known long ago. We must go and see him again to-morrow, and bring him some little token of our gratitude. What do you think he would like, Clémence?” But they did _not_ see Ivan on the morrow; for Madame de Talmont was too ill to rise from her bed, and Clémence, even if she had been willing to leave her, could not go to the hospital alone. When, after an interval of three or four days, they made their appearance once more, the courteous Russian surgeon gave them quite a warm welcome. “M. Pojarsky has been watching for you, mesdames,” he said. “You will do him more good than any of our medicines.” “Pojarsky!” Madame de Talmont repeated, as one in a dream--“_Pojarsky!_”