to the window where Clémence was standing looking out on the little garden. She had wearied of the discussion absorbing all the others, about the time and manner of the new king's triumphal entry into his capital. Ivan in his heart thanked the quick, eager voices which were making just then a welcome "solitude for two."
"Mademoiselle Clémence," he began.
A thrill of terror swept over the girl's heart, like the instinctive shrinking of the sensitive plant which closes up its petals at the lightest touch. She took refuge, not in silence, but in speech. "Monsieur Ivan," she said quickly, "I have seen your Czar."
"Have you?"
"Yes; and heard Henri talk of him. There is a verse in the Gospel of which he has taught me the meaning—'He that is greatest among you shall be your servant.'"
"How true! You always seem to go to the heart of everything." There was a pause sufficient for Ivan's quick ear to note that the pompous tones of M. de Cranfort were quite filling the room. "Dear Mademoiselle Clémence," he resumed, "one little word from you can make me richer than the Czar himself to-night."
Clémence murmured something inaudible, and seemed to need the hand he tried to take to shade her face, though the room was in darkness now.
Then Ivan's passionate heart flashed out and found its utterance. Since the beginning of the world had no one ever loved as he loved Clémence. It is the old fond illusion: to each young and ardent soul its own experience is a new discovery, undreamt of heretofore by the slow heart of humanity. Each generation sings—
"We were the first that ever burst
Into that silent sea."
But the moment's rapture was all too brief. The vigilant
