Three or four days later, a solemn council met in the parlour of Madame de Salgues to consider the proposal for the hand of Clémence formally made the previous evening by Ivan to Madame de Talmont. The council consisted only of three persons--Madame de Salgues, Madame de Talmont, and Henri--the two most immediately concerned being, as a matter of course, excluded. The Czar was expected in Versailles that day; and Ivan, knowing that his only chance of a word from him was to be found in placing himself once more amongst his wounded comrades, had gone to the hospital. Clémence was in her own chamber, on her knees, her hot face pressed down upon the coverlet of her bed. Yet she was scarcely praying. The hopes, the fears, the wishes that stirred timidly in the depths of her heart were too vague to clothe themselves in words. Not even into the ear of her mother could she have found voice to breathe them; especially since the rigid conventionalities amidst which she had been brought up forbade her to acknowledge that she had hopes or fears or wishes at all. But kneeling there, she felt herself in the presence of One who knew all, who understood each subtle turn and winding of the heart that did not half understand itself; and without too curiously examining her burden, she tried to lay it, just as it was, at his feet. “Our Father who art in heaven,” she pleaded, “do what is right and best for me, and for--for _us all_. And thy will be done.” Meanwhile the voices in the room beneath her scarcely paused for an instant. They were calm, well-bred voices, which never interrupted each other, never grew too loud or hasty. But they were the voices of speakers very much in earnest, and with very definite views and opinions. It was with Madame de Talmont that the decision really rested; but she felt it right and fitting to consult the two others, though perhaps she only did it, as persons of a quiet but determined character are apt to do, with her own mind fully made up. “You are aware, my dear aunt,” she said, “that the unhappy marriage of our poor Cousin Victoire has created in my mind a strong prejudice against Russians. But this feeling, though it may have its weight with me, ought not to be decisive.” Henri moved uneasily, and seemed about to speak, but restrained himself, and Madame de Salgues inquired, “Does this young man resemble his father?” “In his figure, yes; and somewhat in his features also; but he is far more like his mother. Victoire was charming; and I am bound to acknowledge that everything I have observed in her son since he came here creates the most favourable impression.” “He certainly seems to be a perfect gentleman,” Madame de Salgues admitted. “Un parfait honnête homme,” was what she said.