The Czar : $b A tale of the time of the first NapoleonAlcock, Deborah
History
The Czar : $b A tale of the time of the first Napoleon
Alcock, Deborah
Historical fiction; Russia -- History -- Alexander I, 1801-1825 -- Fiction
Madame de Salgues stirred uneasily in her chair. “My dear young
friend,” she exclaimed in a slightly irritable tone, “do you not see
that is as much as to say that if a man takes a purse of gold from the
hands of a robber, he is at liberty to give it to whom he pleases? Not
so;--he must restore it to its owner, else he himself is a robber also.”
Ivan had a dim perception of the fact that France did not belong to
the Bourbons in at all the same sense that a purse of gold belongs to
its owner, but it was scarcely clear enough to express in words; and
had it been otherwise, courtesy would have admonished him to decline
an argument with his hostess. So he dexterously changed the subject;
and Madame de Salgues afterwards observed to her niece, “That young man
is certainly very well bred, and a perfect gentleman. But I fear his
principles are rather unsettled. I hope he will not influence Emile.”
Madame de Talmont could not suppress a quiet smile at the idea of the
scapegrace Emile suffering contamination from Ivan. As days passed
on, the young Russian proved a very pleasant addition to the little
household, and brightly and swiftly the period of his convalescence
glided by. When the weather improved, he often sat in a summer-house in
Madame de Salgues’ little garden; and here the ladies would bring their
embroidery and bear him company, or comrades from the city would come
to visit him.
He had one visit from Michael, who was fêted and made much of by the De
Talmonts for Henri’s sake. He said afterwards to Ivan, “Who would have
thought French people could be so good and gentle? May the Virgin bless
the young lady’s sweet face! If she would just get one of our priests
to baptize her into the true orthodox faith, I should like well enough
to see _you_ lead her up the church, a little farther than the font,
Barrinka. I think she is almost good enough.”
“Hold thy peace, Michael!” cried Ivan, half pleased, half angry, and
blushing deeply. “How little you understand! _I_ am not good enough to
kiss her feet, or to take up the glove she has dropped and give it back
to her.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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