When they returned to the house they found guests awaiting them, friends of Madame de Salgues, who wished to congratulate her niece upon the return of Henri, and to make his acquaintance. The afternoon was spent in entertaining them, and was already far gone when Ivan joined the party. Madame de Talmont contrived to say a word to him in private, which sent him with a beaming face to answer M. de Cranfort’s multitudinous questions about the Dresden campaign. By-and-by, when the soft May twilight had fallen, he stole to the window where Clémence was standing looking out on the little garden. She had wearied of the discussion absorbing all the others, about the time and manner of the new king’s triumphal entry into his capital. Ivan in his heart thanked the quick, eager voices which were making just then a welcome “solitude for two.” “Mademoiselle Clémence,” he began. A thrill of terror swept over the girl’s heart, like the instinctive shrinking of the sensitive plant which closes up its petals at the lightest touch. She took refuge, not in silence, but in speech. “Monsieur Ivan,” she said quickly, “I have seen your Czar.” “Have you?” “Yes; and heard Henri talk of him. There is a verse in the Gospel of which he has taught me the meaning--‘He that is greatest among you shall be your servant.’” “How true! You always seem to go to the heart of everything.” There was a pause sufficient for Ivan’s quick ear to note that the pompous tones of M. de Cranfort were quite filling the room. “Dear Mademoiselle Clémence,” he resumed, “one little word from you can make me richer than the Czar himself to-night.” Clémence murmured something inaudible, and seemed to need the hand he tried to take to shade her face, though the room was in darkness now. Then Ivan’s passionate heart flashed out and found its utterance. Since the beginning of the world had no one ever loved as he loved Clémence. It is the old fond illusion: to each young and ardent soul its own experience is a new discovery, undreamt of heretofore by the slow heart of humanity. Each generation sings-- “We were the first that ever burst Into that silent sea.” But the moment’s rapture was all too brief. The vigilant eye of Madame de Talmont discerned a state of things which, if suffered to continue, might possibly imperil “les convenances.” She rose softly from her place and drew near, near enough to catch the low-breathed words, “My Clémence.” After one sigh--into which all the memories of her own youth were gathered up--she laid her hand gently on the arm of Clémence. “My dear child,” she said, “dost thou know that the little Fanchon is very ill? La Tante will never be content if she is not well cared for. Go and see.” Fanchon was only a favourite lap-dog, but Clémence lavished a good deal of tenderness that night on the little creature.