Hortense listened with a fixed gaze.  The calm tone of resignation and of such crowning sorrow soothed the smart of her first wound; the tears rose again and flowed in torrents.  In a frenzy of filial affection, overcome by her mother’s noble heroism, she fell on her knees before Adeline, took up the hem of her dress and kissed it, as pious Catholics kiss the holy relics of a martyr.

“Nay, get up, Hortense,” said the Baroness.  “Such homage from my daughter wipes out many sad memories.  Come to my heart, and weep for no sorrows but your own.  It is the despair of my dear little girl, whose joy was my only joy, that broke the solemn seal which nothing ought to have removed from my lips.  Indeed, I meant to have taken my woes to the tomb, as a shroud the more.  It was to soothe your anguish that I spoke.—­God will forgive me!

“Oh! if my life were to be your life, what would I not do?  Men, the world, Fate, Nature, God Himself, I believe, make us pay for love with the most cruel grief.  I must pay for ten years of happiness and twenty-four years of despair, of ceaseless sorrow, of bitterness—­”

“But you had ten years, dear mamma, and I have had but three!” said the self-absorbed girl.

“Nothing is lost yet,” said Adeline.  “Only wait till Wenceslas comes.”

“Mother,” said she, “he lied, he deceived me.  He said, ’I will not go,’ and he went.  And that over his child’s cradle.”

“For pleasure, my child, men will commit the most cowardly, the most infamous actions—­even crimes; it lies in their nature, it would seem.  We wives are set apart for sacrifice.  I believed my troubles were ended, and they are beginning again, for I never thought to suffer doubly by suffering with my child.  Courage—­and silence!—­My Hortense, swear that you will never discuss your griefs with anybody but me, never let them be suspected by any third person.  Oh! be as proud as your mother has been.”

Hortense started; she had heard her husband’s step.

“So it would seem,” said Wenceslas, as he came in, “that Stidmann has been here while I went to see him.”

“Indeed!” said Hortense, with the angry irony of an offended woman who uses words to stab.

“Certainly,” said Wenceslas, affecting surprise.  “We have just met.”

“And yesterday?”

“Well, yesterday I deceived you, my darling love; and your mother shall judge between us.”

This candor unlocked his wife’s heart.  All really lofty women like the truth better than lies.  They cannot bear to see their idol smirched; they want to be proud of the despotism they bow to.

There is a strain of this feeling in the devotion of the Russians to their Czar.