About a week afterwards another letter arrived, and Henri had now returned to share its tidings. At first Clémence did not read any part of it aloud; she only told its contents more or less fully. Afterwards she read some portions of it to her mother. It ran thus:—
"My Beloved,—It is with a full heart—half glad, half sorrowful that I write to thee to-night. God has been good to me—good beyond my utmost dreams; for has he not given me thee? But in the sweetest cup some longed-for drop of sweetness is still lacking; in the brightest life some brightness is still wanting—some cherished wish ungranted. God wills it so, and his will is best. Since my childhood a strong untold longing has lain hidden in the depths of my heart. Now I know it can never be fulfilled—never on this side of the grave. The old hope, the hope of my boyhood and youth, is gone from me. I cannot help these few tears which are falling on the page as I write. But do not heed them; they are not tears of bitterness—for I have been comforted. I am going to tell you how.
"To-day the Imperial reception of which I told you was held for the wounded officers. It was crowded. Amongst those who were present I saw Count Rostopchine, to whom I shall always feel grateful, because he was the first man who gave me work to do, and bade me go and do it. He looks ill and haggard. It is said he sees nothing day or night except the flames of Moscow. The world gives him the credit of the conflagration; and I cannot say that in this instance the world is mistaken, although hitherto it has been the fashion here to assume that it was done by the French. The count has made himself very unpopular by his severities towards those who were suspected of favouring the invaders, and it is not thought that he will continue in office. He has nobly refused to accept any compensation for his own enormous losses in the doomed city.
