“Tomassov didn’t quite like that sort of thing.  But to a certain extent he had laid himself open to banter by the lasting character of his impressions which were connected with the passion of love and, perhaps, were not of such a rare kind as he seemed to think them.  What made his comrades tolerant of his rhapsodies was the fact that they were connected with France, with Paris!

“You of the present generation, you cannot conceive how much prestige there was then in those names for the whole world.  Paris was the centre of wonder for all human beings gifted with imagination.  There we were, the majority of us young and well connected, but not long out of our hereditary nests in the provinces; simple servants of God; mere rustics, if I may say so.  So we were only too ready to listen to the tales of France from our comrade Tomassov.  He had been attached to our mission in Paris the year before the war.  High protections very likely—­or maybe sheer luck.

“I don’t think he could have been a very useful member of the mission because of his youth and complete inexperience.  And apparently all his time in Paris was his own.  The use he made of it was to fall in love, to remain in that state, to cultivate it, to exist only for it in a manner of speaking.

“Thus it was something more than a mere memory that he had brought with him from France.  Memory is a fugitive thing.  It can be falsified, it can be effaced, it can be even doubted.  Why!  I myself come to doubt sometimes that I, too, have been in Paris in my turn.  And the long road there with battles for its stages would appear still more incredible if it were not for a certain musket ball which I have been carrying about my person ever since a little cavalry affair which happened in Silesia at the very beginning of the Leipsic campaign.

“Passages of love, however, are more impressive perhaps than passages of danger.  You don’t go affronting love in troops as it were.  They are rarer, more personal and more intimate.  And remember that with Tomassov all that was very fresh yet.  He had not been home from France three months when the war began.

“His heart, his mind were full of that experience.  He was really awed by it, and he was simple enough to let it appear in his speeches.  He considered himself a sort of privileged person, not because a woman had looked at him with favour, but simply because, how shall I say it, he had had the wonderful illumination of his worship for her, as if it were heaven itself that had done this for him.

“Oh yes, he was very simple.  A nice youngster, yet no fool; and with that, utterly inexperienced, unsuspicious, and unthinking.  You will find one like that here and there in the provinces.  He had some poetry in him too.  It could only be natural, something quite his own, not acquired.  I suppose Father Adam had some poetry in him of that natural sort.  For the rest un Russe sauvage as the French sometimes call us, but not of that kind