Madame de Talmont’s estimate of the young Russian prince had not been very favourable, though she naturally and properly expressed herself as kindly as she could in speaking to his son. But Clémence had always beheld the half-mythical Victoire robed from head to foot in shining garments, woven in the loom of her own youthful romance. To see the son of Victoire in the flesh seemed to be part of “the stuff that dreams are made of” brought suddenly into the realities of waking life. Breaking silence for the first time, she asked,-- “Have you any portrait of your mother, monsieur?” “I have never even seen one,” Ivan answered. “My father’s ruin robbed me of everything. The poor mujiks who sheltered me most kindly and most bravely--indeed at the peril of their own lives--were unable to keep for me, out of all my father’s wealth, even the smallest heirloom.” “We have a likeness of our cousin Victoire, a pencil-sketch from the hand of my father,” Clémence rejoined. “We must show it to you, monsieur.” Then Madame de Talmont made some inquiries about his early history; and he answered modestly and with feeling. He dwelt with much gratitude upon the kindness of his dear old friend Petrovitch, saying in conclusion, “He taught me what a good father might be like.” At last it was necessary to say farewell. The ladies withdrew, promising a speedy renewal of their intercourse. “Would that I had a house of my own, even the humblest,” said Madame de Talmont to Clémence, as they returned home; “the son of Victoire should not lie ill another day in a public hospital. Thy father loved her well, Clémence.” Perhaps there was a shade on the brow of the widow as she said this; but it was a tender shade--a long-past sorrow touched and softened into the calm of resignation. When they reached the house of Madame de Salgues, they went at once to the parlour, where that lady always sat; for, kindly and tolerant though she was, she would not readily have forgiven them if a surprising piece of news had been kept from her a moment longer than was necessary. They found her, however, already engaged in hearing quite as much as was good for her, perhaps rather more. A lad, dressed in the uniform of the Ecole Polytechnique, seemed to have brought a breath of modern air into the quaint parlour, furnished as “petits appartements” used to be in the days of Louis Quinze. Emile de Salgues was seated before a table laden with every good thing in the shape of food that the house contained. When the ladies entered he was dividing his attention between two occupations equally fascinating. He was exploring the depths of a Périgord pie, and driving his grandmother almost to distraction by a graphic account of the exploits and perils of the Polytechnic scholars during the defence of Paris.