Ivan hesitated. "Shall I be welcome?" he asked.
"Oh yes, monsieur. There is a gentleman, the son-in-law of Madame, I believe, who is always there, and another, a tall and handsome officer, who is seldom absent. He seems to be a devout soldier, like Cornelius of old. The rest are only friends—people like ourselves."
Ivan went in, took a seat on a bench beside his new friends, crossed himself, and bowed his head for a moment in prayer, then looked about him. It was now late, and the little room was lighted, somewhat dimly, with candles of an ordinary kind. Fortunately he was placed where he could clearly see the very striking face and figure of the lady whom Adèle pointed out to him with the one whispered word—"Madame." Her hair was silver, her face worn and haggard, with the look "of one that had travailed sore." Less than fifty she could not have been—Ivan thought her much more; but hers had been one of those intense and passionate lives which are measured "not by months and years," but by fears and hopes, by joys and sorrows, perhaps by raptures and despairs. There was fire in her dark eyes, and upon her pale and wasted features an expression at once of dreamy mysticism and of ecstatic ardour. In youth she had been very beautiful, but no mere physical beauty could survive the storms that had swept over her. Yet some better thing had come to her in place of her faded loveliness; so at least they said who saw her when she spoke of that which was God's special gift and message to her soul—"the love of Christ which passeth knowledge." It was this secret whispered in her ear that, in spite of many errors and some serious faults, made Julie de Krudener a power for good in her day and generation. She had this treasure in an earthen vessel—in one that was flawed and well-nigh broken; but she had it, and gave of it to others.
Though Ivan could read little of this in her face, yet he was greatly struck by its expression. "She ought to be a sibyl or
