They found a quiet way through streets which were little frequented at any time, and that day were absolutely empty. Hitherto Henri had been very silent about the story of his life since they parted; about all at least except the last year, which he had spent very comfortably at Vilna, recruiting his health, and enjoying the society of numerous friends amongst the Polish nobility and gentry, who soon discovered in the young conscript the scion of an old and good family. The allowance generously given by the Czar to all the French prisoners sufficed for his moderate wants;[55] and he had wisely devoted his leisure to study. Thus much he had told to his mother and sister; but the horrors of the Moscow campaign had been studiously avoided. Now, however, as they walked slowly along, Henri told his sister as much as he could tell any one of the “weltering abysses of trouble” through which he had passed. He told of the weary hungerings in the snow; of the Berezina agony; of the dazed, half-delirious wanderings over the frozen Polish plain; of the bitter, blank despair that settled down upon him at last. He told of the ghastly Vilna hospital, the lowest depth of all; and of the love, divine and human, which met him there and rescued him from the pit of horror. “My feet were set in a large place,” he said; “and I thanked God and believed in him as I had never done before.” He added, after a pause, “And Ivan is the reflection of his Czar. Even unconsciously and in the veriest trifles he copies him. Now, Clémence you know another reason why I am not unwilling to trust the dearest of sisters to his keeping.” When the blush that passed over the face of Clémence had subsided a little, she said softly, “No doubt you pray every day for the Czar. So shall I.” “I do; but it is hard to know what to ask for him. Already God has given him everything we are wont to ask for rulers of the earth--dominion, power, glory, wealth, victory over his foes.” “Let us ask God to give him his very best gifts, Henri.” “Ay, if only we knew what they are.” “We do know, brother,--love, joy, peace, long-suffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, temperance.” Henri started, as though the thought were new to him. “Those would be strange jewels for the diadem on a monarch’s brow,” he said. “Yet, after all, the world--here in Paris as well as where I have been in Poland--can bear witness to ‘long-suffering, gentleness, goodness.’ Of ‘love, joy, peace,’ of course I cannot speak, for they are gems whose light is turned God-wards.” “Then let our prayer be for those. The face we have seen to-day does not look joyful, Henri.”