“Listen,” said the Frenchman.  “I once knew a man into whose care was given the happiness of a fellow-being.  There is a greater responsibility, by-the-way, than the well-being of a whole nation, even of one of the two greatest nations in the world.  And that is a care which you and I have had upon our shoulders for a brief hour here and there.  It was the old story; for it was the happiness of a woman.  God knows the man meant well!  But he bungled it.  Bon Dieu—­how he bungled it!  He said too little.  Ever since he has talked too much.  She was a Polish woman, by-the-way, and that has left a tenderness, nay, a raw place, in my heart, which smarts at the sound of a Polish word.  For I was the man.”

“Well,” asked Cartoner, “what do you want to know?”

“Nothing,” answered the other, quick as thought.  “I only tell you the story as a warning.  To you especially, who take so much for said that has not been said.  You are strong, and a man.  Remember that a woman—­even the strongest—­may not be able to bear such a strain as you can bear.”

Cartoner was listening attentively enough.  He always listened with attention to his friend on such rare occasions as he chose to be serious.

“You know,” went on Deulin, after a pause, during which the waiter had set before him a battered silver dish from which he removed the cover with a flourish full of promise—­“you know that I would give into your care unreservedly anything that I possessed, such as a fortune, or—­well—­a daughter.  I would trust you entirely.  But any man may make a mistake.  And if you make a mistake now, I shall never forgive you—­never.”

And his eyes flashed with a sudden fierceness as he looked at his companion.

“Is there anything I can do for you, my friend?” he asked, curtly.

“You have already promised to do the only thing I would ask you to do in Warsaw,” replied Cartoner.

Deulin held up one hand in a gesture commanding silence.

“Not another word—­they cost you so much, a few words—­I understand perfectly.”

Then with a rapid relapse into his gayer mood he turned to the dish before him.

“And now let us consider the railway beef.  It promises little.  But it cannot be so tough and indigestible as the memory of a mistake—­I tell you that.”

XXX

THE QUIET CITY

The most liberal-minded man in Russia at this time was the Czar.  He had chosen his ministers from among the nobles who were at least tolerant of advance, if they did not actually advocate it.  Much as he hated to make a change, he had in one or two instances parted with old and trusted servants—­friends of his boyhood—­rather than forgo one item of his policy.  In other cases he had appealed to the memory of their long friendship in order to bring his nobles not to his own way of thinking, for he could not do that, but to his own plan of action.