“I am glad enough now _that_ was false,” Emile answered graciously. “That child would have been the death of Clémence. I hope M. de Sartines, if he does marry, will marry a dragon, able to keep her in order. But really,” he added, “M. de Cranfort is not quite sane. I have heard him say the most extraordinary things; and, do you know, he was for some years at Charenton?” After a short pause, he resumed suddenly--“Prince Ivan, how is the Emperor Alexander?” “In excellent health,” said Ivan cheerfully. “I am truly rejoiced to hear it.” “Very kind of you,” returned Ivan smiling, but with a slight air of surprise at his emphatic manner. “Because,” resumed Emile, in a tone of mystery, “as we are all friends here, I may observe that we have heard rumours--extraordinary rumours.” “Do you mean about his illness at Vienna? It is true he had a fall from his horse, and--” “Oh, _that_ is nothing. That is not what I mean. But the strangest things are said of him here, and in the best circles too, where you know he was adored last year. In the Faubourg St. Germain all sorts of ‘_on dits_’ are rife about him. People say he has become very singular,--a fanatic, a pietist, and I know not what else; that a certain crazy old lady--” “Hush, hush, Emile,” said Madame de Salgues and Madame de Talmont almost at the same moment. Clémence looked anxiously at Ivan, and Henri started up indignantly. “I, at least, will not stay to listen to such folly,” he said. “A truce, for once, to your championship of the Czar,” said Emile. “I suppose Prince Ivan may speak now.” Ivan might have answered angrily, but for certain words which thrilled through his heart, taking all the bitterness out of Emile’s reckless taunts: “Esteeming the reproach of Christ greater riches than the treasures of Egypt”--only _he_ said “the treasures of _Russia_,” and the magnificent crown jewels he had seen in St. Petersburg flashed before his eyes in a dazzling, bewildering maze of light and colour. For a moment he did not speak; then he asked, with a gentleness that surprised every one, “What were you going to say, Emile?” “Nothing--at least not much,” was the rather apologetic answer. “Rumour always exaggerates things, and most especially the rumour of St. Germain. Perhaps it is _not_ true, after all, that Madame de Krudener makes the Emperor Alexander fast and wear sackcloth; or that she has persuaded him he is the white angel of peace, and Napoleon the black demon of war; or that--but, as I say, these may be foolish stories. Still it seems to be undeniable that the consummate artist, who last year played the _rôle_ of magnanimous conqueror with such _éclat_ amongst us, is now assuming, by way of variety, that of medieval saint. Henri Quatre is masquerading in the guise of St. Louis. Seriously,--what has come over him, Prince Pojarsky? Is his mind really affected, or is it all some deep-laid political scheme?”