“Then, you feel both secure and justified?” I said.

“We feel both secure and justified”—­he answered me, smiling.

After that our conversation was personal and social.  Lawrence was very quiet.  I observed that the Baroness had a motherly affection for him, that she saw that he had everything that he wanted, and that she gave him every now and then little friendly confidential smiles.  As the meal proceeded, as I drank the most excellent wine and the warm austerity of my surroundings gathered ever more closely around me, I wondered whether after all my apprehensions and forebodings of the last weeks had not been the merest sick man’s cowardice.  Surely if any kingdom in the world was secure, it was this official Russia.  I could see it stretching through the space and silence of that vast land, its servants in every village, its paths and roads all leading back to the central citadel, its whispered orders flying through the air from district to district, its judgements, its rewards, its sins, its virtues, resting upon a basis of superstition and ignorance and apathy, the three sure friends of autocracy through history!

And on the other side—­who?  The Rat, Boris Grogoff, Markovitch.  Yes, the Baron had reason for his confidence....  I thought for a moment of that figure that I had seen on Christmas Eve by the river—­the strong grave bearded peasant whose gaze had seemed to go so far beyond the bounds of my own vision.  But no!  Russia’s mystical peasant—­that was an old tale.  Once, on the Front, when I had seen him facing the enemy with bare hands, I had, myself, believed it.  Now I thought once more of the Rat—­that was the type whom I must now confront.

I had a most agreeable evening.  I do not know how long it had been since I had tasted luxury and comfort and the true fruits of civilisation.  The Baron was a most admirable teller of stories, with a capital sense of humour.  After dinner the Baroness left us for half an hour, and the Baron became very pleasantly Rabelaisian, speaking of his experiences in Paris and London, Vienna and Berlin so easily and with so ready a wit that the evening flew.  The Baroness returned and, seeing that it was after eleven, I made my farewells.  Lawrence said that he would walk with me down the quay before turning into bed.  My host and hostess pressed me to come as often as possible.  The Baron’s last words to me were: 

“Have no fears, M. Durward.  There is much talk in this country, but we are a lazy people.”

The “we” rang strangely in my ears.

“He’s of course no more a Russian than you or I,” I said to Lawrence, as we started down the quay.

“Oh yes, he is!” Lawrence said.  “Quite genuine—­not a drop of German blood in spite of the name.  But he’s a Prussian at heart—­a Prussian of the Prussians.  By that I don’t mean in the least that he wants Germany to win the war.  He doesn’t—­his interests are all here, and you mayn’t believe me, but I assure you he’s a Patriot.  He loves Russia, and he wants what’s best for her—­and believes that to be Autocracy.”