lighted up until it grew absolutely radiant with satisfaction. "I told him," whispered Henri, "that if he saw you here wearing a coloured dress he might rejoice."
"O Henri!" cried the horror-stricken Clémence, her face overspread with blushes. "How wicked of you! What will he think?"
"Nothing about you, sister mine. He knows you were not in the plot; so be at rest. Now, let us come away; our work is done."
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;[1] 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
- ↑ Domergues, a Frenchman bitterly prejudiced against everything Russian, pronounces this allowance really "munificent" under the circumstances, and says the prisoners were able to live upon it in the greatest comfort.
