"I mean your chance of a noble life. But I ought not to have said 'chance.' There is none."
"There is destiny."
"There is will. Your will, and God's will, which means only good to you, if you will accept it."
"There is something in what you say,—especially about secret meetings," he added in a lower tone. "But it is late; I must go to those mathematics. Good night." He turned away, softly whistling the air of a song very popular with the Imperialists, "Veillons au salut de l'Empire." "I shall watch henceforward over the safety of something else, very dear to Prince Pojarsky," thought the conceited but generous boy. "How little he guesses what plans we have talked of—we Buonapartists—at those secret meetings he denounces! Such, for instance, as the assassination of a certain great personage, in his innocent eyes the greatest in the world! But if ever again, in my presence, any one dares to drop a hint on that subject, I swear the words shall be his last!"
