‘De Castel sat down by the side of the lady and said to her: “There’s not the slightest doubt of it,” and they both turned their eyes to Tomassov. Roused thoroughly from his enchantment he began to wonder; and a feeling of shyness came over him. He sat smiling faintly at them—the very picture of attractive innocence.

‘The lady, without taking her eyes off his blushing face, said with a gravity quite unusual to her,

‘ “I should like to know that your generosity is perfect—without a flaw. Love at its highest should be the cult of perfection.”

‘Tomassov opened his eyes wide with admiration at this as though her lips had been dropping real pearls. The sentiment, however, was not uttered for the primitive Russian youth but for the exquisitely superior man of the world, de Castel.

‘Tomassov could not see the effect it produced because the Frenchman lowered his head and sat there contemplating his exquisitely polished boots. The woman suggested in a sympathetic tone:

‘ “You have scruples?”

‘The Frenchman without looking up murmured: “It could be turned into a nice point of honour.”

‘She said vivaciously: “That’s surely artificial. I am all for natural feelings. I believe in nothing else. But perhaps your conscience …”

‘He interrupted her. “Not at all. My conscience is not childish. The fate of these people is of no military importance to us. What can it matter? The fortune of France is invincible. If I didn’t believe I wouldn’t care to live.”

‘ “Well then …” she uttered meaningly, and rose from her couch. The French officer stood up too. Tomassov hastened to follow their example. He suffered from a disconcerting state of mental darkness. While he was raising her white hand to his lips he heard the French officer say with a strange intonation:

‘ “If he has the soul of a warrior” (at that time, you know, people really talked in that way) “if he has the soul of a warrior he ought to fall at your feet in gratitude.”

‘Tomassov felt himself plunged into even denser darkness than before. He followed the French officer out of the room and out of the house. For he imagined that this was expected of him.

‘It was getting dusk, the weather was very bad and the street quite deserted. The Frenchman lingered in it strangely. And Tomassov lingered too, without impatience. He was never in a hurry to get away from the house in which she lived. And besides something wonderful had happened to him. The hand he had reverently raised by the tips of its fingers had been pressed strongly to his lips. He had received a secret favour. He was almost frightened. The world had reeled. It had hardly steadied itself yet.

‘The lingering Frenchman stopped short at the corner.

‘ “I don’t care much to be seen with you in the lighted thoroughfares, Monsieur Tomassov,” he said in an unusual grim tone.

‘ “Why?” asked the young man too startled to be offended.

‘ “From prudence,” answered the other curtly. “So we’ll have to part here; but before we part I’ll disclose to you something of which you will see at once the importance.”

‘This, please note, was an evening in late March of the year 1812. For a long time already there had been talk of growing coolness between Russia and France. The word war was being whispered in drawing- rooms louder and louder and at last was heard in official circles. Thereupon the Parisian police discovered