“I wish you could _see_ her,” answered Henri brightening. “I do not think any one could deny _now_ that she is surpassingly beautiful--and good. She finds all her recreation, all her delight in works of love and mercy. Wherever she goes, her energy and vivacity open the doors wide before her. And then her sound practical sense and loving spirit make her more than welcome.” “I knew it would be so,” said Clémence. “I knew my little friend Stéphanie would grow into a noble woman.” “You are a fortunate man, Henri,” Ivan added. “How happy we shall be together when you bring your bride and settle amongst us! You must always spend your summers at Nicolofsky. But now it is _my_ turn,” he said lightly, as he rose and stood beside him, laying his hand on his shoulder. “You must tell me the last tidings of my Czar. I am thirsting to hear of him, and not once have you named him yet.” Henri paused a moment; then he said, in a low, quiet voice, “He is well--_very_.” Clémence looked up surprised, but Ivan observed nothing. “Tell me more,” he went on eagerly. “Where was he when you heard last? What has he been doing?--There is one thing I long, yet scarcely hope, to hear. Has he won the desire of his heart? Are the serfs free yet?” “The serfs are _not_ free;--but, dear Ivan, your Czar _has_ won the desire of his heart.” Now first his tone arrested Ivan, who looked at him amazed. “How?” he faltered, with a face growing rapidly white. “Be calm, dear friend. Alexander has but exchanged the crown of Russia for one more glorious.” At that moment little Alexander rushed in weeping. “Father, mother,” he sobbed, “they are all saying the Czar is dead--the dear, good Czar, my godfather. Father, is it true?” Ivan did not answer. No word passed his lips, no cry; he only tottered and sank as one struck by a fatal bullet. From Clémence just then his white death-like face shut out all sorrows, all losses far away. But the strong man wrestled with his agony and overcame. After a few terrible moments, during which life changed its aspect to Ivan Pojarsky, he regained a measure of outward calmness. “Tell me all you know, Henri,” he said at last,--“_all_, from the beginning.” The sorrow-stricken group drew close together. Clémence had placed her hand in that of her husband, and was watching him with anxious eyes. The weeping child stood beside his father’s knee; and the aged priest covered his face to hide the emotion he could not restrain. “I have one fear, too dreadful to utter,” said Ivan with pale lips. “Can you guess, and remove it, Henri?” “I can. No hand touched him, except the hand of God. It will be written in history that the Emperor Alexander died of fever, at Taganrog in the Crimea.” “Will it not be true?” asked Clémence. “Not all the truth. Before the fiery shaft of the fever smote him he was already stricken, I think to death.” “Ever fearless, he was wont to brave the danger of infection as readily as other dangers,” Pope Yefim said.