CHAPTER XXXI.
LEAVES FROM LETTERS.
"Umile in tanta gloria."—Petrach.
THE bright spring-tide had ripened into a yet brighter summer, when one day Clémence entered the parlour where the two elder ladies sat at work. Her cheeks were glowing, and she held in her hand several closely-written sheets of paper. "Dear aunt and dear mother," she said, "I thought you would like me to read for you part of the letter from—St. Petersburg."
"Yes, dear child," answered Madame de Talmont tenderly. "I am sorry Henri is not here. He was so anxious about it."
Henri had gone to Brie, that he might bring to the sorrowing family of his "true comrade," Mathieu Féron, what comfort he could—at least the mournful comfort of certainty.
Madame de Salgues motioned Clémence to a footstool near her. "We shall be glad to hear of M. Pojarsky," she said kindly, but as if the kindness was not quite without an effort.
From the first sheet Clémence read scarcely anything. "He says that his journey has been prosperous," she explained in general terms, "but that he feels a little solitary without—without us all." It must be owned that this was a very tame and inadequate rendering of the eloquent original, which she kept to herself. At length she began to read: "'You will remember our last expedition to Paris on the day of the king's triumphal entry, and Henri's pleased surprise when he found
