Madame de Talmont and Clémence passed between long rows of pallets, distributing their little gifts, which were most thankfully received, especially the oranges, of which the Russians were excessively fond. They tried to show their gratitude by looks and signs; and one poor fellow, remembering a word which is the same in most languages and full of blessing in all, brought tears to the sad eyes of Clémence by looking up and murmuring, "Christohs;" as though he would have said, "We are one in Him."
They came at last to the ward where the wounded officers lay. Their little store was long since exhausted; and even had it been otherwise, they would have thought the common soldiers greater objects of compassion. So they passed on rather quickly, and without paying much heed to the pale but interested faces which were raised from many a pillow to gaze at the gentle, sweet-looking ladies, the very sight of whom seemed to do the poor sufferers good.
At length one face arrested the eye of Madame de Talmont, and she could not but pause for another look. It was a young and handsome face, with a burning spot on either cheek, and a contraction of the brows that told the story of feverish pain. Yet, in spite of weariness and suffering, the eyes were absolutely beaming with joy, and a happy, satisfied smile played over the parted lips.
She stood for a moment by the side of the invalid. "My young friend," she said kindly, "you seem to be in pain; and yet you look happy."
"Yes, madame, I am indeed happy," answered Ivan Pojarsky, who had just been receiving a visit from his friend Tolstoi. "How can I help it? Yesterday the Czar entered Paris in triumph."
He spoke French as correctly and with almost as pure an accent as Madame de Talmont herself. She was touched and interested by his words. "But," she asked, "do you not feel
