“I am expecting you, Pierre,” said the same voice, but gently and affectionately.

The postilion started, the carriage wheels rattled. Prince Ippolit laughed spasmodically as he stood in the porch waiting for the vicomte whom he had promised to take home.

“Well, mon cher ,” said the vicomte, having seated himself beside Ippolit in the carriage, “your little princess is very nice, very nice indeed, quite French,” and he kissed the tips of his fingers. Ippolit burst out laughing.

“Do you know, you are a terrible chap for all your innocent airs,” continued the vicomte. “I pity the poor husband, that little officer who gives himself the airs of a monarch.”

Ippolit spluttered again, and amid his laughter said, “And you were saying that the Russian ladies are not equal to the French? One has to know how to deal with them.”