“It is difficult to know what to do with it,” Ivan admitted candidly. “Our enormous military forces threaten to become a perplexity, now that a European peace, which God grant may be enduring, renders them superfluous.” “I should think that army of yours something worse than a perplexity,” said Emile laying aside his pipe, “at least to the Czar.” His tone was so ominous that Ivan looked at him anxiously. “I knew in Paris many of your countrymen, ‘Messieurs les officiers russe’ we used to call them,” Emile resumed after a pause. “You remember, Prince Ivan, what an ardent Imperialist I used to be; and I think still that the exile of St. Helena would make a better ruler for France than any effete Bourbon or Orleans of them all. I should have plunged madly into the wildest intrigues of the secret societies of Paris had not a decanter of poisoned wine stopped me at the beginning.” “Poisoned wine, Emile? Oh yes--I remember.” “But do you remember the lecture you read me with that poisoned wine for a text?--To use assassination as a weapon against political foes is abominable, and all those who do so are cowardly villains! The murder of the Duc de Berri shows to what a length those knights of the dagger and pistol are prepared to go, and ought to frighten all honest people away from their intrigues. I am sorry to say, Prince Ivan, the army that has come back to you from France is deeply tainted with the spirit that has prompted such crimes. Most of your officers are members of secret societies; and the wildest talk is rife amongst them. I have heard it said, by one who ought to know, that it would have been better for the Czar to drown his fine army in the Baltic than to bring it back to his own country.” Ivan grew visibly pale, but suppressed the emotion he felt. “The Czar is quite aware of the existence of these secret societies; he knows, too, that they have extended ramifications even in Russia,” he said. “But have you any idea, Emile, from so much of their talk as may have reached your ears, what it is that these gentlemen really want?” “Scarcely more than they have themselves, I dare say,” Emile answered with a rather bitter laugh. “I suppose they would tell you, if you were admitted to their councils, that they want a constitution for Russia.” “What kind of a constitution?” “Oh, every one differs as to that. I have heard it said that every Russian officer carries a constitution about in his pocket. I suppose, for the most part, they are like those constitutions of revolutionary France, which were excellent on paper, only they would not ‘march.’” “And, of course, every one of these gentlemen expects the Czar to satisfy his own particular aspirations. Suppose he fail to do it?”