over them, and it is only right to let them have this little
morsel of consolation. And then our honor is safe; we were not beaten
fighting; without the cold and the snow, those poor Cossacks would have
had a hard time of it. But patience; the skeletons of our regiments
will soon be filled, and then let them beware."

I wound up the clock; he rose and came to look at it, for he was a
great amateur in clock-making. He pinched my ear in a merry mood; and
then, as I was going away, he cried as he buttoned up his overcoat,
which he had opened before beginning breakfast:

"Tell Father Goulden to rest easy; the dance will begin again in the
spring; the Kalmucks will not always have winter fighting for them.
Tell him that."

"Yes, Monsieur the Commandant," I answered, shutting the door.

His burly figure and air of good humor comforted me a little; but in
all the other houses I went to, at the Horwiches, the Frantz-Tonis, the
Durlaches, everywhere I heard only lamentations. The women especially
were in misery; the men said nothing, but walked about with heads
hanging down, and without even looking to see what I was doing.

Toward ten o'clock there only remained two persons for me to see:
Monsieur de la Vablerie-Chamberlan, one of the ancient nobility, who
lived at the end of the main street, with Madame Chamberlan-d'Ecof and
Mademoiselle Jeanne, their daughter. They were _emigres_, and had
returned about three or four years before. They saw no one in the
city, and only three or four old priests in the environs. Monsieur de
la Vablerie-Chamberlan loved only the chase. He had six dogs at the
end of the yard, and a two-horse carriage; Father Robert, of the Rue
des Capucins, served them as coachman, groom, footman, and huntsman.
Monsieur de la Vablerie-Chamberlan always wore a hunting vest, a
leathern cap, and boots and spurs. All the town called him the hunter,
but they said nothing of Madame nor of Mademoiselle de Chamberlan.

I was very sad when I pushed open the heavy door, which closed with a
pulley whose creaking echoed through the vestibule. What was then my
surprise to hear, in the midst of general mourning, the tones of a song
and harpsichord! Monsieur de la Vablerie was singing, and Mademoiselle
Jeanne accompanying him. I knew not, in those days, that the
misfortune of one was often the joy of others, and I said to myself
with my hand on the latch: "They have not heard the news from Russia."

But whil