AN IMPERIAL LOVER


[Illustration: Pierre le Grand.]




  AN IMPERIAL LOVER

  BY

  M. IMLAY TAYLOR

  AUTHOR OF “ON THE RED STAIRCASE,” ETC.

  [Illustration]


  CHICAGO
  A. C. McCLURG AND COMPANY
  1898




  COPYRIGHT
  BY A. C. MCCLURG AND CO.
  A.D. 1897

  _All rights reserved_




CONTENTS.


  CHAPTER                                PAGE

       I. GUILLAUME DE LAMBERT              7

      II. THE GOLDEN HALL                  21

     III. AUNT AND NIECE                   34

      IV. THE LIVONIAN PEASANT GIRL        49

       V. THE TOWER OF IVAN VELIKI         64

      VI. CATHERINE AND THE CZAR           79

     VII. THE ENVOY’S CLOAK                93

    VIII. A MEDDLESOME COUSIN             106

      IX. MADEMOISELLE’S BRACELET         120

       X. THE TRYST                       131

      XI. AN INTERCEPTED LETTER           146

     XII. UNDER A CLOUD                   160

    XIII. TWO WARNINGS                    172

     XIV. A FAIR REBEL                    184

      XV. AN IMPERIAL INQUISITOR          196

     XVI. A DUEL WITH TONGUES             207

    XVII. MENTCHIKOF                      223

   XVIII. MISSING                         233

     XIX. THE MARRIAGE OF THE DWARFS      244

      XX. THE FAITHFUL SPY                256

     XXI. NAJINE                          266

    XXII. AN INTERVAL OF SUSPENSE         279

   XXIII. A FAIR PETITIONER               290

    XXIV. A DUEL WITH SWORDS              303

     XXV. NAJINE AND HER LOVER            314

    XXVI. MADAME ZOTOF                    326

   XXVII. THE CZAR’S EQUERRY              337

  XXVIII. A SON OF MISFORTUNE             346

    XXIX. THE GREATEST ROMANOFF           357

     XXX. A FUTURE EMPRESS                369




AN IMPERIAL LOVER.




CHAPTER I.

GUILLAUME DE LAMBERT.


TWENTY years had passed since my last visit to Moscow, a visit made
memorable by my marriage with Zénaïde Ramodanofsky. For many reasons
we did not return to Russia until, in the spring of 1703, the King of
France said to me: “M. de Brousson, there is no one else whom I care to
send to Moscow on a delicate mission. You have married a Russian, you
know Russia and the czar. In short, monsieur, I desire that you should
go.”

The year before the king my master had bestowed upon me the bâton of
a marshal of France, a reward for my services with the Marquis de
Villars at the victory of Friedlingen. The king’s favors to me had
been conspicuous; owing him so much, I owed him also a ready obedience
to his wishes, although this second mission to Moscow was far from
acceptable. The king desired to have some one at the Russian Court to
watch the vicissitudes of the northern war. The Czar Peter had joined
the alliance recently formed between Denmark, Brandenburg, and King
Augustus of Poland, against Sweden. He had been drawn into it partly
by his friendship for Augustus of Saxony, the King of Poland, but more
because he desired to recover the Land of Izhora, lost to Russia in
the Troublous Times. France was embarrassed by the war of the Spanish
Succession, which had broken out after King Louis XIV. accepted the
conditions of the will of the King of Spain, Charles II., bequeathing
the Spanish crown to the Duke of Anjou, the son of Monseigneur. It was
because of this imbroglio that the king my master watched with interest
the struggle between the princes of the North, since it diverted
that mad young hero Charles XII. of Sweden from supporting the Grand
Alliance against France.

In the midst of these complications it was my duty to go to Moscow and
observe the course of events, and transact some delicate diplomatic
business with the czar. My mission was a secret one, and I travelled
ostensibly to take my wife to visit the home of her childhood and to
look after some estates recently bequeathed to my son. I was destined
to find an altered Russia since the days of the regency of my old
friend the Czarina Sophia, now imprisoned by her imperial brother in
the Novodevitchy Monastery. Peter’s journey through Europe had inspired
him with a desire for reform, and on his return he swept away the old
régime. The national costume and the beard, sacred in the eyes of the
devout Russian, were sacrificed by this young iconoclast. All the men
about the person of the czar wore German clothes, and shaved their
faces so that the aspect of the court was greatly changed. Peter no
longer permitted forced marriages, and had liberated the women from the
old Eastern seclusion, and they, at least, rejoiced in the fashions of
Europe.

Madame de Brousson and I set out upon our journey north without our
son, a young man of nineteen, who was enrolled in the king’s household
troops and on the road to early preferment. Our daughter remained in a
convent at Paris, for we did not care to take her to the Russian Court.
We were attended by Pierrot, my old and faithful servant, who spoke
the Russian language, and an equerry named Touchet, and my friend and
secretary, Guillaume de Lambert,--a young man of noble family related
to my own, in whom I had become interested. On the field of Friedlingen
he was sent with a message from M. de Villars to one of the squadrons;
when he returned to where the marshal stood, surrounded by his staff,
he was about to present a note from one of the officers, when there was
a flash, and some one cried out that M. de Lambert was wounded. “It
is nothing,” he said with a smile, “but M. le Maréchal must pardon my
left hand;” and he presented his despatches with a salute, but we saw
the blood on his right sleeve, and his arm hung limp, broken by the
shot. From that day I became interested in M. de Lambert. A man who can
endure a broken arm with a smile has the mettle of a soldier in him. As
soon as his wound was healed he served directly under me through the
remainder of the campaign, and we became attached to each other. He
was the very picture of a soldier, of medium height, powerfully built
and athletic, with a handsome face and bright hazel eyes; something of
a gay courtier, but keen, ambitious, and brave to a fault, so that I
forgave the tendency to the fashions and foibles of the day, which my
wife declared I often regarded with too much severity. M. de Lambert
was the figure for a romance, yet little did I suspect the labyrinth
into which he was destined to lead me.

I had supposed that my mission would be speedily accomplished, and
left France in May, expecting to return in two or three months; but
to my chagrin December found me in Moscow, waiting impatiently for my
recall and involved in a domestic drama of a nature far too romantic
and delicate for my taste. I was no longer the hot-headed gallant who
had wooed and won Zénaïde Ramodanofsky. I was now past fifty, a marshal
of France, and a man whose mind was full of many grave problems;
nevertheless M. de Lambert had succeeded in interesting me in his love
affair, and Madame de Brousson was full of sympathy for him,--for, like
all handsome young soldiers, he knew how to win a woman’s friendship.

On our arrival in May we had been introduced to the new court, and
soon became acquainted with the alteration in the manners and customs
of the people. One of the greatest changes seemed to me to be the
freedom permitted to the women, who now appeared at court and at all
the festivals. It was no longer difficult to become acquainted with the
families of the nobility, and M. de Lambert met Najine at the house
of her uncle, M. Zotof. Najine was an orphan, the daughter of Zotof’s
brother Alexis; and, to my discomfiture, my secretary promptly fell in
love with her. At first the incipient romance troubled me but little,
and I thought that his suit would prosper, since I had no doubt that
Mademoiselle Zotof would reciprocate his affection, and the uncle
seemed inclined to regard the young French soldier with favor. M. de
Lambert was noble, brave, and handsome, and there was no reason to
foresee any obstacle to his suit. I was even disposed to regard it with
amusement, as an example of the ease with which some men march on the
road to happiness and fortune. Time was to undeceive me.

My own mission progressed but slowly. The czar was arrogant and
arbitrary, a difficult man to meet on diplomatic grounds and full of a
hot, ungoverned temper. Many times my mind recurred to my old friend
Dr. von Gaden’s estimate of him as a child: ‘a Tartar’ he used to call
him, and a Tartar I found him, though a far different man from the
one pictured by the exaggerated reports current in Europe, which made
him an uncouth and ferocious monster. He was restless,--sometimes at
Preobrazhensky, where he had spent his early manhood; sometimes at
Voronezh, superintending his fleet, for ship-building was his mania;
and sometimes at St. Petersburg, his new city on the Neva, which the
nobility hated. In December he had returned to Moscow, and I was
endeavoring to make the best of my opportunities. In 1698 he had sent
his wife, the Czarina Eudoxia, to the Pokrofsky Convent at Suzdal
in an open postcart, and ten months afterwards she was compelled to
take the vows as the nun Helen,--a practical divorce. Since then his
mistress Anna Mons, a German woman, had been discarded, and there were
rumors that he would marry again. His son by Eudoxia, the Czarevitch
Alexis, who was destined to cause him so much trouble, was already out
of favor; and in fact the shining light at court was the new favorite,
Alexander Danilovitch Mentchikof, who claimed to be descended from a
noble Lithuanian family, but was said to be the son of a pastry-cook.
Mentchikof was the only one who seemed likely to take the place of
Lefort in the czar’s regard.

The difference between the old days and the new was great. My friend
Prince Basil Galitsyn had been sent into exile at the fall of the
regency, and was to die in poverty and obscurity. The old régime was
swept away. I found myself in a network of intrigue and malice, beset
with a thousand annoyances, for the French at that time were regarded
with suspicion at Moscow; the Russians had never forgiven what they
imagined to be the bad treatment received by Sophia’s embassy to
Versailles, which was in reality due to the Russians’ ignorance of
French and their violation of all the etiquette of embassies. I had
asked the king for my recall again and again, but he would not hear of
it, and I was still struggling with my difficulties.

It was near Christmas, and I had been all day at the Kremlin wrangling
with the court officials over the minor articles of an agreement which
had consumed six months in the making and was unmade in six hours. The
obstinacy and the distrustfulness of the Russians made me think of
the Duke de Cröy when he exclaimed at the battle of Narva, “The devil
would not fight with such soldiers!” The Duke de Cröy was the prince of
the Holy Roman Empire into whose hands Peter confided his forces too
late to save them from defeat, and the Russians suspected the foreign
officers of betraying them into the hands of the Swedes.

I returned to my quarters sick at heart and in no pleasant humor.
Madame de Brousson was that day visiting at the house of a friend, and
I found that Pierrot had prepared my supper and had the tapers burning.
I sat down wearily, at first scarcely noticing the absence of M. de
Lambert; but presently I inquired if the young gallant had been there
during the day, but Pierrot replied in the negative.

“He went out early, M. le Maréchal,” he said, “and he has not yet
returned. Touchet attended him.”

“Humph!” I muttered, “little use is Touchet. He stands gaping when a
Russian speaks to him.”

“He is trying to learn the language, monsieur,” Pierrot replied
discreetly, “and he was ever better with his sword than with his
tongue.”

“Just as you were ever better with your tongue than with your sword,
you knave!” I retorted with amusement.

As I spoke, I heard steps in the hall, and Touchet opened the door for
M. de Lambert. The young man came in, arrayed in the richest of court
costumes, his coat of blue velvet and his white satin waistcoat ruffled
with lace, his graceful figure showing to advantage; but his brow was
like a thunder-cloud, and he barely controlled himself to salute me
with respect.

“You are late, monsieur,” I said jestingly; “love is often a laggard
at supper, but yours is wellnigh cold.”

He did not receive my pleasantry in good part, but muttering some
excuse seated himself at the board, and began to eat with the air
of a man with whom the world is at variance. Seeing his ill-humor,
I shrugged my shoulders and let him alone, giving my attention
to my meal, although I was not a little perplexed by his obvious
perturbation, for he was one of the most courteous of companions; and
it was the more incomprehensible because his dress told me plainly that
he had been in attendance either at court or upon mademoiselle. It was
not until Pierrot had retired and we sat over our wine that I addressed
another personal remark to him.

“You are ill at ease, M. de Lambert,” I said lightly.

“Not without reason, M. le Maréchal,” he replied sullenly; “one cannot
see a hawk about a dove without anger.”

“So ho, monsieur!” I said, laughing. “I read the riddle. You have a
rival!”

“Even so,” he replied in a low voice, “and a dangerous one.”

“What!” I exclaimed in surprise, “does mademoiselle regard him with
favor?”

“How can I tell, monsieur?” he retorted impatiently; “few young girls
would regard such a suitor with disfavor.”

I looked at him without understanding.

“Your meaning is obscure, monsieur,” I said.

“Have you not heard, then?” he asked; “it is whispered about already.”

“I did not know that there was any talk about Mademoiselle Zotof,”
I said; “she lives in comparative retirement. The new suitor is of
importance?”

He looked at me with a certain exasperation in his face.

“It is the czar,” he said.

I set down my glass, which had been half-way to my lips. I was
conscious of staring at him with amazement; my mind was really grasping
the situation in terrible detail. Here was a new complication for me. I
knew M. de Lambert, and was fully aware that not even an imperial rival
would daunt his courage, that opposition would only add fuel to the
flame. On the other hand, I knew the czar and the Councillor Zotof, and
I saw a tremendous climax. For my life I could not forbear laughing.
It was so perfectly in harmony with my usual fortune. M. de Lambert
regarded me with a frown.

“I am glad that you find it amusing, M. le Vicomte,” he said, his
temper showing itself.

“I beg your pardon, monsieur,” I said at once, “I do not find your
situation amusing, only my own. Frankly, my friend,” I added gravely,
“I advise you to resign your pretensions to mademoiselle’s hand. It
is impossible to meet a royal suitor on equal terms. You remember the
fate of M. de Bassompierre and the Prince de Condé in the old days, and
we might point a nearer example. Your position is already difficult.
A subject of the King of France and my secretary, you cannot offend
the czar. Mademoiselle Zotof is lovely, but there are many beautiful
maidens in our own country.”

M. de Lambert had risen from his chair and was pacing the room. From my
heart I sympathized with his impotent anger.

“Monsieur,” he said, pausing in front of me, “I have heard of your
romantic wooing. Did you apply the same argument to your own case?”

He had caught me fairly, and I smiled.

“I was a young man, M. de Lambert,” I said lightly, “and my rival was
not a Romanoff.”

He flung out his hands with a gesture of impatience. “It does not
matter, M. le Maréchal,” he exclaimed passionately. “I will not
surrender without a fight.”

“And mademoiselle?” I asked after a moment. “Have you any assurance
that she looks favorably upon your suit?”

He chafed a little under my inquiry, and his color rose.

“I believe that I am not indifferent to her, monsieur,” he answered
proudly.

“Then it is quite another matter,” I said gravely, “but how do you
propose to thwart the czar?”

He knit his brows, and I saw him gnawing his lip. He was violently
angry, and my composure fretted him. He writhed under my
interrogations, as I have seen a high-spirited horse restive under the
whip.

“That is a hard question, M. le Vicomte,” he said angrily; “emperors
and kings take an unfair advantage against honest men. But I am
determined that no man shall blast the future of mademoiselle.”

He was walking to and fro across the room, his face working with
contending emotions. I read his thoughts easily.

“You take a curious view of it, monsieur,” I remarked; “mademoiselle
could hardly desire a more brilliant future than to be Czarina of
Russia.”

He stopped short in his walk and gazed at me fiercely.

“The Czarina Eudoxia still lives, monsieur,” he said, “and you forget
the intrigue with Anna Mons.”

I shrugged my shoulders.

“The czarina is divorced, monsieur,” I said quietly, “and Mademoiselle
Zotof will never share the fate of Anna Mons. Mademoiselle is noble,
and there is no reason why she should not ascend the throne. Peter has
no heir but the czarevitch, and there is little love between the boy
and his father. There is no doubt that the czar will marry again, and
you can scarcely expect that the guardians of any young Russian girl
would prefer a poor French gentleman to the czar. I presume that the
Councillor Zotof is only too anxious to forward the interest of his
niece.”

I saw that his agitation was increased by my argument, and was heartily
sorry for him, even while I felt it my duty to show him the case in its
true aspect.

“There can be no doubt that the uncle is anxious to propitiate the
czar,” he remarked moodily.

He sat down as he spoke, and, leaning his elbow upon the table, shaded
his face with his hand. Remembering the days of my own youth, I pitied
him.

“You have one consolation, monsieur,” I said reassuringly;
“mademoiselle has many rivals. There is scarcely a maiden of noble
blood who will not be presented as a candidate for his hand. I have
heard rumors that his favorite Mentchikof has a candidate for the
czar’s favor, a young woman of obscure origin, Catherine Shavronsky.”

M. de Lambert brightened at this. “I had heard that also,” he said, and
then added dubiously, “there is no chance that she can outshine Najine.”

I rose from the table.

“A lover’s view of it, monsieur,” I said, smiling, and then added with
a sudden impulse of sympathy: “mademoiselle is indeed lovely, but her
beauty has a purity and delicacy that may be less attractive to her
imperial suitor than the coarser charms of Mentchikof’s candidate. Take
heart, monsieur; even a czar can fail in affairs of love!”




CHAPTER II.

THE GOLDEN HALL.


THE morning after M. de Lambert’s disclosure the czar held an audience
at the Kremlin. All ambassadors and special envoys were expected to be
present, and though I laid no claim to either title I was privileged
to appear. I saw that M. de Lambert was anxious to shirk the duty of
attending me, but I was determined that he should not remain behind,
for I foresaw future trouble from his excited mood, and was convinced
that it would be necessary to keep him under my own eye. Therefore,
a little before nine o’clock, we left our quarters and proceeded to
the Kremlin. It was a frosty morning, and we felt the need of our
heavy cloaks. The sky was gray,--that cold, even gray that makes the
Russian winter so gloomy. The snow was deep, and the domes and turrets
of the Kremlin and its fanglike battlements were sheeted in ice. M.
de Lambert was still in an angry humor, and muttered some curses on
Russian weather which made me smile, for a few days before he had been
delighted with Moscow: a lover’s mood is as variable as the favor
of his mistress. I could not forbear tormenting him a little with an
occasional taunt that made the blood rise to his hair and his brown
eyes kindle with a dangerous light. His was one of those sensitive,
fiery spirits that flash out in quick resentment, and Madame de
Brousson accused me of playing with his mood as a cat would worry a
mouse, and yet the young fellow stood high in my esteem. However, he
took my pleasantry so ill that morning that I let him have his way at
last, and we accomplished the rest of our walk in silence. When we
arrived at the Granovïtaïa Palata, the entrance to the Golden Hall was
crowded, for the guards still stood before the door. However, we came
at the appointed hour, and in a moment the doors were opened and the
throng admitted. It was a splendid spectacle, the vast golden hall with
its arches supported by a central pillar, and upon the arches were
inscribed ancient legends in Slavonic characters, and here and there
was a darkly rich painting in the golden vaults; it made a magnificent
background for the brilliant scene. All the men of note in Moscow were
there, foreign residents, ambassadors, gallant soldiers, gay courtiers.
I noticed at once the czar’s especial coterie, the Princes Dolgoruky,
Repnin, and Kurakin, Prince Ivan Troubetskoy, Andrew Matveief, the son
of the old chancellor, Prince Boris Galitsyn, the cousin of the exile,
Count Feodor Apraxin, and the new favorite, Alexander Mentchikof. In
the center of the room stood the czar, a conspicuous figure. Peter was
now thirty-one years old, and there was something in his appearance
that suggested at once his tremendous personality. His stature was
immense, nearly seven feet; his deep chest and powerful limbs showing
his great strength, while his presence was commanding. His forehead
was high, and he wore an unpowdered brown peruke, which was too short
for the prevailing fashion. His complexion was of a clear olive tint,
and his nose short and thick at the end, and his lips full. His eyes
were handsome, large, dark, and brilliant, reminding me of those of
his mother, the Czarina Natalia, but unfortunately affected by the
_tic_ which occasionally convulsed his features. He had suffered from
a nervous affliction, accompanied by a twitching of the face and
body, since he had been poisoned in his youth. His dress was usually
conspicuous for its simplicity and carelessness, for he seemed to scorn
the insignia of rank, and, in the midst of that brilliant assemblage,
he wore a close-fitting brown coat with gold buttons, a linen collar,
and no cuffs, his waistcoat, breeches, and stockings being as plain
as his coat, which was unbuttoned. He wore no jewels, only the blue
ribbon of the Order of St. Andrew which he had created, and of which
he was the sixth knight, having received it at the first Russian naval
victory over the Swedes, off the Vassily Island in the Neva, in
1702. About his neck was suspended an ancient Greek cross of metal,
which subsequently became famous as his ornament at the victory of
Poltava. A man of coarse and even brutal instincts, who could look with
indifference upon torture and execution, yet withal the ruler born. As
I looked at him, it seemed to me a question whether the young Frenchman
at my side, undistinguished save by personal bravery, could rival this
august personage in the fancy of a young and probably ambitious woman.
The czar was no contemptible tyrant, but a suitor who might dazzle the
imagination of a girl. He was royal, and his person was conspicuous
for those very qualities of manly endurance and strength which usually
attract the eye and fancy of the fair sex.

My personal relations with Peter were cordial. His temperament and
manner were alike frank and unconventional. He had an indifference to
the forms and ceremonies of a court, and his love of freedom had led
him into many a mad frolic in the German suburb. Indeed it had been
whispered that these frolics, and the intrigues connected with them,
were at the root of the trouble between him and the Czarina Eudoxia.

That morning he greeted me with a little constraint, and I noticed his
hawklike eye resting for an instant on M. de Lambert, who stood behind
me, and who made his salutation with an air of gloomy dignity. At the
time Peter was conversing with two or three officials who stood about
him, and some moments elapsed before he had an opportunity to speak
to me. After a little while, however, the others fell back, and the
czar, finding himself for the instant alone, addressed me with some
abruptness.

“A word with you, M. le Maréchal,” he said; “you have a young gentleman
in your suite, M. de --”

“M. de Lambert, your Majesty,” I said, supplying the name, as he
hesitated and waited for it.

“Ah, yes, M. de Lambert,” he continued; “is he your nephew or your
son-in-law?”

“Neither, your Majesty,” I replied; “he is a distant connection of my
family, and an officer of the household troops of the King of France.”

“Of noble blood, then,” the czar remarked, while I marvelled and tried
to divine his drift; “a good soldier, I presume?”

“A gallant one,” I replied at once, a little relieved at the turn of
his questions.

He paused and turned a searching glance on my face.

“A gallant soldier is always admirable in the eyes of the fair ladies,
M. de Brousson,” he continued deliberately; “perhaps it would be well
for you to remind M. de Lambert that while he is in Moscow I would
prefer to see him in his character of an attendant upon the envoy of
the King of France and not as an esquire of dames.”

I felt the blood rising on my cheek under the czar’s keen eyes. I was
angry, but I made an obeisance.

“Your Majesty’s wishes shall be respected,” I said calmly.

“You understand me, monsieur,” he went on coolly; “I rely upon
your amiable discretion. It is my good fortune to have so astute a
representative of the Court of France.”

Dolgoruky had approached while he was speaking; and when the czar
turned to address the prince, I took the opportunity to withdraw
a little from his immediate vicinity. I was angry and at the same
time amused. It was apparent that he regarded M. de Lambert as no
contemptible rival. It was equally obvious that the autocrat would
brook no interference in his dovecote, and my amusement threatened to
imperil my gravity. I was making an effort to pass through the crowd
unobserved and so effect an escape to some spot where I might consider
the situation, but I was not destined to accomplish my purpose.
Mentchikof met me on my way to the door, and laid a detaining hand on
my arm.

“I would speak with you a moment, M. le Maréchal,” he said pleasantly;
and we turned aside into a recess where we were practically alone.

“I have but just spoken to your young friend, M. de Lambert,” he began.

“_Ma foi!_” I exclaimed impatiently, “M. de Lambert is the only man
living to-day. Upon my soul, I did not know that he was so important.”

Mentchikof regarded me gravely, a certain intelligence in his glance.

“He is a very accomplished young gentleman,” he said, smiling, “and I
understand that he is betrothed to Najine Zotof.”

Now, I knew that Mentchikof was aware that there was no formal
betrothal, and I began to suspect his motive. Bearing in mind the
czar’s words, I was cautious.

“It is news to me, monsieur,” I said with assumed surprise; “surely M.
de Lambert did not inform you?”

Mentchikof shrugged his shoulders.

“Not in words, M. le Maréchal,” he replied suavely; “but such things
cannot be hidden. The little birds about a court carry the news.”

I felt a strong desire to make him drink of his own medicine and
replied in kind.

“It is sometimes dangerous, monsieur,” I said, “to listen to the
whispers of such little birds. In France I have known it to cost a man
his head.”

He flushed a little, and I saw a gleam of anger in his eyes; but he was
too astute to allow me to ruffle his serenity.

“An easy way of removing his ears, monsieur,” he replied calmly, “but I
regret to hear that there is so little foundation for my information.
I regret it, you understand. M. le Vicomte, it seemed to me, and to
others, that Najine Zotof’s marriage with M. de Lambert would be a
subject for rejoicing. I trust that it may yet be arranged.”

I looked at him keenly. While I thought that I understood his motive, I
was far from feeling any confidence in him.

“I am not here to arrange marriages, monsieur,” I said calmly, “but to
direct some business matters of my own.”

He smiled. “Twenty years ago, M. le Vicomte, you managed to accomplish
both missions with conspicuous success.”

I was accustomed to these references to my romantic marriage, and
accepted them in good part.

“I had a greater temptation then,” I said lightly.

“Nevertheless,” he continued persistently, “you cannot be without
interest in the welfare of your friend; and I have heard that the young
woman reciprocates his affection, and it is a genuine romance.”

“You are marvellously well informed, monsieur,” I replied serenely;
“for my own part, I do not pretend to know so much of such delicate
matters.”

“You tax my credulity, M. le Vicomte,” he said. “It is impossible for
me to believe that a man of your sagacity can be both blind and deaf.
M. de Lambert has made friends here, and we desire to see him happily
united to Najine Zotof; but it is well in Russia to accomplish these
things speedily and quietly. You doubtless understand me, monsieur.
There are many who approve of the marriage; it is not impossible to
accomplish now; later it might meet with grave opposition. I speak to
you as M. de Lambert’s friend and natural adviser.”

“I thank you, monsieur,” I rejoined with composure; “but why should I
counsel a Frenchman to contract a marriage which may meet such serious
opposition?”

His face hardened, and he looked at me sternly.

“You know Najine,” he said; “you doubtless feel some interest in her.”

“She is young and lovely,” I replied gallantly. “It is unlikely that
any man would regard her with entire indifference.”

“There is sometimes a hard fate in store for just such young and
lovely maidens, M. le Maréchal,” he said coolly. “You remember the
Princess Marie Dolgoruky and Euphemia Vsevolozhsky, and even the late
czarina,--the nun Helen. Archangel and Siberia are both not impossible
futures for candidates for the throne.”

I started. This was plain speaking, and I was certain now of his
motive. He had a candidate of his own, and Najine had been so
unfortunate as to rival her in the eyes of the czar. I saw it all in a
moment, and a grim picture it was. However, I did not permit my face to
betray me.

“You should speak to mademoiselle’s natural guardians, monsieur,” I
said quietly; “her interests are dear to them, while I could not even
suggest such dangers.”

He measured me with his penetrating glance, but I returned it with
amused serenity. Two or three nobles were approaching him, and
interruption was inevitable. He leaned a little towards me.

“Nevertheless, M. le Vicomte,” he said in a low voice, “you will
inform M. de Lambert that his best friends in Moscow desire to see him
speedily and quietly married to Najine Zotof.”

I was saved the necessity of a reply by his friends, who joined him
now and gave me my opportunity to withdraw. Near the door stood M. de
Lambert, and I signaled to him to follow me. In a few minutes we had
passed through the guard-rooms and left the palace. When I found myself
alone with him, I was at a loss to decide upon my next move. I knew
him well; brave, loyal, passionate, impulsive, and headstrong, how
could I trust the complicated situation to his discretion? How could I
counsel him? With him there would be but one course of action. He loved
Mademoiselle Zotof, and would save her, if he could, both from the
czar and from the intrigues of her rivals. But how could he accomplish
this? I asked myself that question again and again as we crossed the
square. He was singularly silent, as if he divined my perturbation or
was possessed with a similar anxiety. I cast a sidelong glance at him,
mentally comparing him with the czar, and wondering how the two would
contrast in the eyes of mademoiselle. I was forced to admit to myself
that he was a goodly man; he carried himself with the proud erectness
of a cavalier, and his clean-cut, candid face was good to look upon.
What he lacked of the czar’s powerful muscle, he gained in grace. I
smiled a little as I looked at him, thinking that he was a dangerous
rival even for an emperor. I could not decide upon any course, but
determined to try his temper. We had passed out of the Gate of the
Redeemer, and, his foot slipping on a piece of ice, he stumbled and
recovered himself with a muttered exclamation of impatience.

“You are out of temper again, M. de Lambert,” I said tauntingly. “You
should have more fortitude; there are worse slips than those upon
Russian ice.”

He darted an inquiring glance at me.

“I do not take your meaning, monsieur,” he said dryly, “I am not much
of a diplomat.”

I smiled. “No, I think not,” I replied, “and you may have need to be
one. The path on which an emperor treads is too slippery for other men.”

He understood me, and his face flushed.

“There can be no open path which an honest man can fear to tread,” he
said haughtily.

“No,” I acknowledged calmly, “fear is not the word; but royalty gives
no elbow-room, monsieur.”

He shut his teeth, and I saw his hand playing with the hilt of his
sword.

“No man,” he said slowly, “crowned or uncrowned, shall ever thrust me
aside unjustly without a struggle.”

“You are a young man, M. de Lambert,” I said quietly; “be warned. The
dangers that would assail you would not be half so serious as those
which would encompass one--whom we know.”

He started perceptibly. We took a few steps more and then he stopped
me. We had turned aside from the Red Place into a narrow lane; on
either hand were the blank walls of the courtyards of two houses. I
can see his face to-day as plainly as then, when it stood out in such
relief against the background of stone. He was pale, and his brows were
bent over his troubled eyes, while a lock of his own light brown hair
had escaped from beneath his peruke and was blown across his cheek.

“M. de Vicomte,” he said in a low voice, “have you been warned of any
danger threatening Mademoiselle Zotof?”

I felt the warmest sympathy for him. His manner convinced me of the
sincerity of his passion. I put my hand on his shoulder as I would have
laid it on a son’s.

“I will be frank, monsieur,” I said, carried out of all resolution of
reserve. “I have been assured to-day of two things,--the czar has a
serious fancy for mademoiselle, and Mentchikof is determined to induce
him to transfer it to Catherine Shavronsky.”

“May the saints speed his efforts!” exclaimed M. de Lambert, devoutly.

“In either case,” I went on, “mademoiselle is in danger. If the czar
loves her, you cannot hope to oppose him; and if he vacillates between
mademoiselle and the Shavronsky woman, Mentchikof and his faction
will find a way to deal with Najine Zotof, as other court factions
have dealt with rival candidates for the czar’s heart. Poison, exile,
death--the course is easy; and if they fail the czar will win, and you,
M. de Lambert--must lose.”

He heard me calmly to the end; then, throwing back his head, he looked
me in the eye, and I saw the fire kindling in his own.

“Monsieur,” he said, “no tyrant shall crush the spirit and happiness of
the woman I love, were he a thousand times a czar! If she loves me, I
will win her yet!”




CHAPTER III.

AUNT AND NIECE.


M. DE LAMBERT had at least one friend whose sympathy was unfailing.
Madame de Brousson took the warmest interest in his trials, encouraging
him in his rash suit, and even chiding me because I endeavored to point
out all the perils and difficulties. “If you had been thus cautious
twenty-one years ago, Philippe,” she said to me, “I should not now be
your wife.” Which was like a woman, for women love to apply the same
rule to all cases. She understood, as well as I did, all the obstacles,
but chose to throw the weight of her influence in the scale with love
and knight-errantry. Between the two, Zénaïde and M. de Lambert, I was
sore beset. The possibility that Peter might demand our young lover’s
return to France was imminent, and in any case I could not discover
a way for him to defeat successfully his imperial rival. In spite of
Zénaïde’s indignant protest, I had grave doubts that mademoiselle would
remain loyal to her French suitor in the face of the czar’s wooing. I
had been working industriously to ascertain something of the drift
of affairs, and found that an impression existed at court that Peter
intended to choose a second wife. He had confirmed this by his own
words, spoken in his indignation at the discovery of the infidelity
of Anna Mons. In the heat of his passion he told her lover, the
Prussian minister Kayserling, that he had educated the girl to marry
her himself. If he had contemplated wedding Anna Mons, it was far more
probable that he would wed mademoiselle. A passing fancy might end in
a futile intrigue; but if the czar was indeed seriously considering
the idea of marrying her, she was exposed to the machinations of the
rival parties at court, and especially to those of Mentchikof. He was
now the favorite, and the center of a web of intrigue. His household
was conducted by his sister, Madame Golovin, the wife of Count Alexis
Golovin; and with her resided the two Arsenief sisters, one of whom,
Daria, was said to be beloved by Mentchikof,--they had both been “boyar
maidens,” as the maids of honor were named. To this group had recently
been added Catherine Shavronsky, whom Mentchikof was introducing as a
candidate for the czar’s affection. He doubtless desired to establish
her in the place of Anna Mons, and through the new toy to rule the
court factions. If, on the other hand, Peter’s fancy for Najine Zotof
interfered with this scheme, Mentchikof would leave no stone unturned
in the effort to defeat and ruin the young girl whose beauty had been
so unfortunate as to attract the imperial notice.

Such was the situation, and Madame de Brousson and M. de Lambert
understood it as fully as I did; but I saw that it was only acting as
a spur to his headstrong temperament. I spoke to Pierrot, and warned
him to aid Touchet in attending the young man, as I anticipated no
little trouble for him, knowing only too well that a sword-thrust or
a pistol-shot in the dark was not a singular occurrence in Moscow. My
wife did not permit my sympathy to cool, and we were both becoming
keenly interested in the little drama. Only one point disturbed my
appreciation of the romance, and that in spite of Madame de Brousson’s
protests: I had yet to feel assured of mademoiselle’s feelings. M. de
Lambert was loud in his denunciation of the Councillor Zotof and his
wife; they of course had grown cold to his suit at the first advent
of the czar, and now he accused them of endeavoring to coerce their
niece. Zénaïde continually urged me to go and see mademoiselle, and
so be convinced that she possessed a sweet and candid disposition;
and this would also give me an opportunity to observe the manner
of her guardians. My wife had no desire to go herself, because she
detested Madame Zotof, who was counted one of the greatest shrews in
Moscow. Moved partly by sympathy for M. de Lambert, and partly by a
desire to become better acquainted with the heroine of the romance, I
yielded to the domestic pressure and found an opportunity to visit the
councillor’s residence.

Zotof’s house stood within a spacious courtyard, and was a solid,
comfortable-looking building. The main door opened into a great hall,
usually full of serfs and retainers, while the living rooms were all
above,--a common fashion in Russia. It was towards evening when I
arrived, attended by Touchet; and a serf bearing a taper lighted me
up the stairs, ushering me into a spacious apartment furnished with
Russian luxuriousness in furs and heavy hangings. The councillor
was entertaining several friends, and his wife and niece were both
present. He received me courteously, but I fancied that I was less
welcome than formerly, and noticed his glance behind me at the door
as if he expected to see M. de Lambert enter also. Zotof was a short,
stout man, belonging to the old coterie, and a fair type of the
conservative nobility, having, I had no doubt, a wholesome abhorrence
of the czar’s innovations. Peter, who was fond of nick-naming the
older men, called him the “Prince Pope,” because he had assumed that
character at a masquerade. Zotof’s face, which was coarse and flushed
with high living, was not brutal, and I could imagine that he found
his position full of embarrassment. He had encouraged M. de Lambert
until he saw that his niece might hope for a crown, and now found it
difficult to extricate himself from his entanglement. Madame, on the
other hand, was the picture of a domestic tyrant,--a woman of medium
stature, but carrying herself with an erectness which increased her
appearance of height, her face pale and sharp-featured, her eyes keen
and unsympathetic, and her whole manner sharp and sometimes rude, while
not even her smile concealed her shrewish temper. I had long since
made up my mind about the pair, and was more or less amused at their
different attitudes in regard to me. In former days madame had been
gracious to the border of flattery in her address; she had welcomed me
as the representative of the king and a marshal of France, and M. de
Lambert, as my friend, was an honored guest; but now her ambition had
caught a glimpse of more splendid possibilities, she had a higher goal
in view, and was untroubled by her husband’s scruples about previous
engagements and obligations. She allowed me to see at once that while
she still respected my rank, she no longer desired my good offices
and was independent of my approval of her niece. I saw all this at a
glance, even while I was accepting their hospitality and exchanging
courtesies with their guests, and I found an opportunity to observe
the young girl who was the cause of all the intrigues and of so much
anxiety. Mademoiselle Zotof had remained modestly in the background,
but I saw that she was watching the little scene with keen attention.
I did not marvel at M. de Lambert’s infatuation, for her face was
peculiarly charming and vivacious. She had that clear white complexion
which is occasionally seen with intensely black hair, and her straight
black brows were strongly marked above dark blue eyes, her mouth having
tender curves that were contradicted by the firmness of her chin. She
was not tall, and was delicately formed, but she had the dignity of a
young princess. My wife declared that the Russian women had singular
ideas about the European fashions, and wore the tawdry clothes that
might disgrace even poor stage-players; but mademoiselle had certainly
evaded these eccentricities, for her robe was of simple white, edged
with ermine and girdled at the waist with a heavy silver cord, and it
dignified her girlish beauty without encumbering it with too superb a
setting. As I looked at the young face with its charm and animation, I
became not a little curious about her. She seemed to me to be the very
woman to grasp at an ambitious dream. Whatever she felt, she could hide
it well behind that inscrutable little smile, and she roused all my
interest.

Zotof’s guests had been enjoying an informal talk before my arrival,
but at my entrance there was a certain constraint in the conviviality,
although the liquor still flowed with Russian freedom, and we
stood about the table conversing in formal tones while madame kept
mademoiselle beside her in the background. I was determined to obtain
a nearer view of the latter, and after a little manœuvring managed to
make my way to madame’s side.

“I see you but seldom at court now, madame,” I said, making a direct
effort to sound her feeling, and I saw her quick glance at my face.

“I have always lived a retired life,” she replied calmly; “but now my
husband desires me to appear upon all state occasions, and I shall make
an effort to obey. I have heard with regret, monsieur,” she added,
“that you are so soon to return to France.”

It was my turn to glance at her in astonishment, for I thought for a
moment that she knew of some move of the czar’s; but the expression of
her face satisfied me that it was a haphazard shot and that the wish
was father to the thought.

“Madame is misinformed,” I said; “I have been delayed, and do not now
expect to leave as soon as I supposed.”

I saw her disappointment, and could scarcely restrain a smile.

“I am so fortunate,” I continued gallantly, “as to be permitted to
enjoy the society of my kind friends here for a yet longer period.”

“And Madame de Brousson remains also?” she asked a trifle tartly, for
she had doubtless detected my observation of her niece and knew the
cause. “Your wife is a Russian, I believe, M. le Vicomte?” she added.

This was my opportunity, and as soon as she gave it, she regretted it
and stood biting her lip.

“Yes, madame,” I returned, glancing at mademoiselle, “my wife was a
lovely Russian girl about the age of your fair niece when I won her.
She preferred the heart and sword of her French lover to the rank and
fortune of one of the imperial family, and I am happy in the assurance
that she has never regretted her choice.”

I was looking at mademoiselle while I spoke, and she raised her eyes to
mine with sudden comprehension, a beautiful blush suffusing her fair
face. Madame, following my glance, and seeing mademoiselle’s confusion,
gave me a look that would have annihilated a timid man; but I was too
old a soldier to shrink under a woman’s disapprobation, and I took the
opportunity to address her niece.

“Mademoiselle has never been to France?” I asked, changing my position
so as to stand between the two women.

“I have not had that happiness, M. le Vicomte,” she replied in her soft
voice, which had none of her aunt’s shrewish tones.

“It is a fair country, mademoiselle,” I said pleasantly, covertly
watching madame’s growing anger; “I wish that you might see it and know
my daughter, who is, I think, nearly of your age.”

“It would give me much pleasure, monsieur,” she replied softly, her
blue eyes glancing at me with a certain penetration which showed me
that she had a character of her own behind that modest and blushing
exterior.

“Mademoiselle would love France,” I went on easily, watching both aunt
and niece; “it is the country of beautiful women and brave men.”

Madame laughed harshly. “M. le Maréchal has an excellent opinion of his
own countrymen,” she said sharply.

“Naturally, madame,” I replied suavely; “although Russia is equally
fortunate with us in the beauty of her women, I will not admit that her
men are more brave.”

Madame swept me a mocking curtsy.

“The men of mature years are doubtless worthy of every panegyric, M. le
Vicomte,” she said tartly; “but the young French gallants whom I meet
lack discretion.”

Mademoiselle’s face was crimson, whether from embarrassment at her
aunt’s rudeness or at the cut at her lover, I could not divine; but I
saw that madame was unwittingly playing into my hands.

“What young Frenchman has been so unfortunate as to meet with madame’s
disapproval?” I inquired with assumed anxiety. “There are so few French
in Moscow; I trust it is not my own friend, M. de Lambert.”

Madame frowned; she had not anticipated my candor.

“My observation was general and not personal, monsieur,” she replied
shortly.

“You relieve my mind of much uneasiness, madame,” I said with feigned
earnestness. “I know there is unjust prejudice against my countrymen
here, and I should be sorry to have you misjudge M. de Lambert, one of
the most gallant and true young soldiers of France. It would interest
you, mademoiselle,” I added, turning pleasantly to Najine, who had not
yet recovered from her embarrassment, “to hear of his conduct upon the
field of Friedlingen. His Majesty the King of France has been pleased
to acknowledge personally the conspicuous gallantry of this young
fellow.”

And I proceeded to tell her with picturesque detail some stories of M.
de Lambert’s courage, and had the pleasure of seeing her eyes kindle
with excitement, while madame stood by fuming and tapping the floor
with her foot, no doubt wishing me back in my native land. I could not
repress a malicious amusement at her expense, she was so little adroit
in handling the weapons of intrigue and so honestly ill-tempered.
Her niece, on the other hand, changed visibly, her face flushing and
her manner relaxing as she listened to my eulogium, and I knew well
how to touch upon those points of courage and devotion that hold the
admiration of a young girl. Mademoiselle was convent-bred, and to her
mind men were either the bold villains of the ballads or knights of
the cross, and she probably comprehended her flesh-and-blood lover
as little as she understood the world. It seems to me that there is
nothing so sublimely ignorant of life, as it is, as a young girl just
looking out from the seclusion of her home; and it occurred to me, as
I watched the innocent candor of her emotion, that her marriage to
the czar would be a sacrifice for the saints to weep over. Innocence
and purity, youth and beauty, how sad the immolation! I thought of my
own daughter, and was drawn towards the maiden. Perhaps it was the
father in my tones that won her confidence, for she looked at me with
growing kindness in her glance, asking more than one question about
my country and my home. On one point I was reassured: she was not at
all afraid of Madame Zotof. I saw that. She was even a little amused
at the older woman’s anger, and I perceived too that she had plenty of
spirit, and was not likely to yield herself an easy victim to any of
their intrigues; indeed, there was decision in her manner, and she had
a proud way of holding her head that rejoiced my heart.

While I was still talking to mademoiselle, I heard madame utter an
exclamation, and, following her angry eyes, saw M. de Lambert entering
the room. He had never looked so handsome, and he carried himself
haughtily as he advanced towards M. Zotof. Madame made a swift movement
to intercept his approach to her niece; but I was too quick for her,
and stood directly in her path, suave and smiling, ready to converse
with her; and she hesitated, her face red and her sharp eyes trying
to look over my shoulder at M. de Lambert, who was bending low over
mademoiselle’s hand. Madame and I looked at each other in mutual
defiance, and I stood my ground.

“I have always desired to ask you, madame,” I began, saying the first
thing that came into my mind, “if you were personally acquainted with
the Czarina Natalia? I had the honor to know her Majesty, and always
desired to hear something of the last years of her life.”

“Monsieur had better ask one of the court functionaries,” she replied
tartly. “I was living in the provinces, and knew little of her imperial
Majesty. Have the kindness, M. le Vicomte, to permit me to speak to my
niece.”

I stood aside with a profound bow. I had gained my point, and madame
knew it, for M. de Lambert had had his opportunity, brief though it
was. Madame Zotof swept up to Najine, and, laying a hand upon her arm,
spoke a few words in her ear which were not difficult to interpret,
for the young girl flushed hotly, and with a formal curtsy to M. de
Lambert and to me withdrew, leaving her aunt triumphant and her lover
furious. It required all my diplomacy to relieve the situation, for M.
de Lambert had a quick temper, and the contempt that a noble nature
feels for intrigue. I interposed between them, and, drawing her into
conversation, gave him time to recover his equanimity, but was glad
of the arrival of more guests, which furnished an excuse for our
departure, for I felt that I could not trust the hot-headed gallant in
madame’s hands. As mademoiselle had withdrawn, he was willing enough to
depart with me, and I breathed more freely after we had made our formal
exit and I had him once more in the street.

“You young coxcomb,” I said, addressing him with that freedom which
our relative positions and my age permitted me to use, “why must you
anger madame at the outset, and so exile yourself from the house which
enshrines your divinity? You are indeed a poor diplomat.”

“Sanctus!” he exclaimed, “that woman! If she were a man I could run her
through, but she delights in the immunity of her sex. A termagant! A
meddlesome vixen!”

“Upon my soul!” I exclaimed. “A French gentleman--a soldier, and
calling a woman such names!”

His cheek flushed hotly, and he quickened his pace.

“She deserves them all, and more,” he said; and then I saw that he held
a scrap of white paper in his hand, and in a moment divined the truth.

“Ah,” I said wickedly, “I see that madame’s vigilance is not
unwarranted,--signs and tokens.”

For a moment he was embarrassed, and then threw himself upon my
confidence without reserve.

“It is but a line,” he said, with some manly confusion that pleased me,
“a line which I begged for--to tell me the reason of the change there
of late. It is as I feared; the czar is interfering with my happiness.
The Zotofs have announced to her that they have other schemes for her
future and that she must not see me again, and she bids me farewell.”

He was deeply moved, and for the moment we walked on in silence.

“Mademoiselle does not strike me as one who would surrender so easily,”
I remarked quietly.

“She shall not,” he said passionately; “she shall not be crushed into
submission to the dictation of that woman.”

“And how do you propose to avert the impending catastrophe?” I asked,
tormenting him at will, for he was wrought up to the height of his
temper.

“I mean to marry mademoiselle and carry her off to France,” he
exclaimed in so clear a tone that I laid my hand on his sleeve; but at
that instant there was a scuffle behind us, and I turned in time to see
Touchet, with his sword half bare, staring angrily at a tall stranger
who was muttering an apology in Russian, entirely uncomprehended by the
angry Frenchman.

“What is it, Touchet?” I called out to him.

“The fellow was so busy listening to you, M. le Vicomte, that he nearly
walked over me, and now only stands gibbering,” my equerry answered
angrily.

I translated what the Russian had said, and Touchet let him pass, but
not before I had obtained a view of his face, and he looked back at
me again after getting past my attendant. He appeared to me a poor
gentleman who might be of the suite of one of the noblemen.

“A word to you, M. de Lambert,” I said to my companion as we went on;
“do not speak your mind so freely in Moscow.”




CHAPTER IV.

THE LIVONIAN PEASANT GIRL.


IN the next few days matters went from bad to worse. M. de Lambert
found it impossible either to see mademoiselle or to communicate with
her, and I saw that he was chafing under the restraint and would break
out into some act of folly. For my own part, I regarded his case as
desperate. The czar was not the man to let his wishes be thwarted;
his temper was as violent as his rule was absolute, and it grew more
clear every day that his preference for Najine was a fact, and not
fancy. That the Zotofs would be complaisant was apparent enough, and
mademoiselle’s own feeling was, after all, of little consequence.
Watching the affair in its slow development, and being a constant
witness of M. Guillaume’s anxiety and disappointment, I found myself
becoming almost as interested as my wife. So it was that I promised
M. de Lambert to aid him, if I could, knowing that my chances of
seeing mademoiselle would be far better than his, even though Madame
Zotof regarded me with an eye of suspicion and was openly hostile to
Madame de Brousson, having previously discovered her championship
of mademoiselle’s lover. Zénaïde was a little chagrined that she had
betrayed herself by too much zeal, but was the more urgent for me to
embrace the opportunities that she had lost. Having all her friends
among the women, she heard the gossip of the hour and was able to aid
me with many suggestions. Indeed, it was to her that the King of France
owed the greater part of the information about the intrigues with
Augustus of Saxony and the negotiations with the Republic of Poland;
her quick eye and attentive ear caught the drift of the undercurrent.
She was the first to see Catherine Shavronsky, and returned from
Mentchikofs house with her mind full of the singular peasant girl.

“You must see her,” she said to me; “she is not so poor a rival for
Najine as I supposed.”

“Is she so charming?” I asked, amused at my wife’s change of sentiment;
for she had been contemptuous of this woman.

“It is not altogether that,” Zénaïde replied thoughtfully, “but
there is something that I cannot define. She is uneducated, she
cannot write, and she wears odd clothing, which does not fit her; yet
she has a certain power of fascination. After all, the czar is not
over-fastidious.”

“Have a care, madame,” I said, smiling; “he is a good judge of beauty,
they tell me.”

Madame’s lip curled scornfully. “There is enough of physical beauty,
and it is said that he admired her before he saw Najine.”

“Then it is the less likely that he will return to her, since
mademoiselle must be far more lovely,” I remarked.

“That is true,” my wife admitted; “yet do I think that this Catherine
would suit his fancy better,--she is of coarser mould. Young enough
too, poor child! only seventeen, and has been a slave of the Marshal
Sheremetief! And now the czar stoops to admire her. May the saints have
mercy on the souls of such men! I would have none!”

I laughed a little, in spite of Zénaïde’s angry glance. “It is well
that you are not to judge his imperial Majesty,” I said quietly.

“I pity the girl,” she replied sternly; “but she has no conception of
the misery of it--the shame of it! An ignorant peasant girl, how happy
would it be for her if she could garner the sheaves in the field! Poor,
wretched soul, may the Holy Virgin show her that mercy which man has
not shown, and woman cannot show.”

“Your sympathy is wasted, Zénaïde,” I said dryly; “she is not dreaming
of garnered sheaves, but of a crown.”

“That may be; yet the woman in my heart pities her,” my wife replied
gently, “although I doubt not she would laugh at my pity. Ignorant as
she must be, young as she is, I thought her shrewd and, I feared,
not over-scrupulous in her ambitions. You must see her and judge for
yourself. I do not think you will fall under the glamor of her charms.”

I saw the amusement in her eyes and answered her in kind.

“You mock me, madame,” I said; “my gray hairs--”

“Are no safeguard,” interrupted my wife, laughing softly, “but a loyal
heart--” and she made me a graceful curtsy.

I kissed her hand with gallantry. “Madame’s confidence shall not be
betrayed,” I said in the same tone.

“We are a couple of fools, Philippe,” she exclaimed gayly.

“True enough, madame,” I responded calmly; “but now I thought it
fortunate that our children were in France.”

“It is the old atmosphere, M. le Vicomte,” she rejoined; “we forgot the
twenty-one years and the young officer in the king’s guards.”

The next day, following her advice, I went to visit Mentchikof in
his own palace for the sole purpose of obtaining a view of Catherine
Shavronsky.

Alexander Mentchikof was a man of immense wealth and great influence.
He was one of the czar’s early companions, having as a boy enlisted in
Peter’s play regiment at Preobrazhensky. In the years of the Regency,
the Czarina Natalia and her two children, the little Czar Peter and the
Princess Natalia, were obliged to live in retirement in a villa at the
village of Preobrazhensky. There was spent Peter’s childhood and youth,
and there he organized those military sports which were the delight
of his boyhood, and formed that famous regiment which was to be the
nucleus of the Russian army. The boys that were on its muster-rolls
were his life-long friends, and became the men who shared his councils.
It was near Preobrazhensky, at Ismailovo, that he discovered the
ancient English boat belonging to Nikita Romanoff that was to suggest
to his mind the future Russian navy. From such humble beginnings
unroll the destinies of nations, because He who holds in the hollow of
His hand the world, works out His will with a mysterious wisdom that
beholds the usefulness of even a grain of wheat or a drop of dew.

Mentchikof was the object of much jealousy, for men saw the czar’s
increasing affection for him and that he would probably succeed to the
place of the dead Lefort, Peter’s Swiss favorite, and they both envied
and feared him. His palace at Moscow showed every evidence of that
extravagance which kept him embarrassed with debts and which sometimes
threatened to end his career in disgrace. On the day on which I
presented myself, he was entertaining a large party of his friends, and
I was ushered into a _salon_ that was Oriental in its magnificence. It
was a common custom to have dinner at noon, and continue the feasting
and gayety well into the night, and even until the next morning, the
amount of liquor consumed making the last hours wildly riotous. Russian
amusements were not always delicate; at one entertainment at which I
had been present, the representative of Bacchus walked naked in the
procession, crowned with a miter; the rout of Bacchanalians following
with great bowls of wine, mead, beer, and brandy. I found it in my
heart to pity the lean and long-limbed Bacchus, who must have felt the
chill of the weather, even in his effort to please the czar; for Peter
loved coarse and common amusements.

The new etiquette was in force at the house of Mentchikof, and the
women mingled freely with his guests. His sister, Madame Golovin, was
near him when I entered, and greeted me with effusion, warmly seconding
his cordiality. I saw at once that I was not only a welcome guest, but
that they desired to win me over to their interests. Madame Golovin
immediately presented me to Daria Arsenief, who, it was rumored, was
soon to wed Mentchikof. Mademoiselle Arsenief was a handsome and
clever woman, and I should doubtless have soon been interested in her
conversation if I had not been more curious to observe the candidate
for the czar’s favor, whom I had noticed, as soon as I entered,
standing at the further end of the _salon_, surrounded by a little
court of her own. She was of medium height, and finely formed, her
figure being extremely graceful, her complexion beautiful, and her hair
of a flaxen color. She had dark brows, and large bright dark eyes,
and a charming mouth, which made her smile most winning. Youth and a
certain vivacity of manner completed an attractive picture. I found
myself immediately comparing her with Mademoiselle Zotof. Najine’s face
was fair, intellectual, spiritual, with a charm of its own difficult to
define, while Mademoiselle Shavronsky had the beauty of the flesh, the
brilliant eye, the rosy cheek, the red-lipped mouth. It was impossible
to imagine which would command the heart of the imperial lover. So full
was my mind of all these speculations that Madame Golovin rallied me on
my preoccupation, and I was at a loss for a suitable reply. However she
laughed gayly.

“It is not difficult to understand you, M. le Maréchal,” she said,
shaking her finger at me; “your mind has been following your eyes, but
we cannot permit that. Catherine Shavronsky has already become too
important a figure, and we poor mortals, Daria and I, cannot suffer her
to draw all attention away from us.”

“And yet,” added Mademoiselle Arsenief, smiling, “we understand the
temptation. Is she not beautiful, monsieur?”

“Very beautiful, mademoiselle,” I replied gallantly; “she might appear
even more so alone, but by the side of two other beauties she cannot
reign undisputed.”

Mademoiselle Arsenief made me a curtsy, but Madame Golovin caught at my
words.

“‘Reign alone’!” she repeated; “ah, monsieur, you see it? She looks an
empress, does she not?”

Here was a shaft shot fairly at the mark, and I felt an inclination to
smile, but commanded my countenance and regarded madame with composure.

“Every beautiful woman is an empress of our hearts, madame,” I said
with the tone of a courtier; and she bit her lip, a little chagrined, I
thought, at the ease with which I had blunted the point of her remark.

“Monsieur desires to be presented, no doubt,” she said after a moment.

“Madame, it would give me much pleasure,” I replied; and at my words
she turned and led the way down the long _salon_ to the spot where
Catherine was holding her court.

There were two mirrors at the end of the apartment which reflected the
entire scene. As I approached, I could read the faces of the men who
were standing with their backs towards me talking to the beauty, and
I saw in their mirrored images the attention and rivalry of courtiers
eager to propitiate a rising power. How often had I witnessed similar
scenes at Versailles with La Vallière, with Madame de Montespan, and
now the same sycophants pulled long faces to suit the more subdued
taste of Madame de Maintenon. Yet this was a brilliant picture; here
were some of the gayest rufflers of the court, with their velvet
coats and satin breeches and jewelled swords; and in their midst was
Catherine Shavronsky, in a gay robe that had a suggestion of that
tawdry imitation of European fashion upon which my wife had commented.
Even I could see that she had not the appearance of a Frenchwoman, yet
no attire could disguise her fine figure, and she held herself with
imperious dignity, as if she already tasted the sweets of the power
that she coveted, felt in imagination the imperial diadem on her head.
For some reason the thought flashed upon me of the forlorn Eudoxia in
her postcart going to Suzdal, and of the faithless Anna Mons, and I
bowed low over Catherine’s hand to hide my smile. How poor a thing is
an emperor’s favor!

She greeted me with conspicuous kindness, and I was not a little
amused at her assumption of importance,--this poor Livonian peasant
girl, who had been a servant in the family of Pastor Gluck and one of
Sheremetief’s prisoners at the fall of Marienburg! A poor little orphan
girl and grasping now at a crown! However, I saw at once that here was
a strong character, and that she would be no mean rival for the other
candidates; moreover, her beauty was of that material and dazzling
type that seemed to me most likely to attract the czar’s admiration.
She talked to me eagerly, and I found her manner engaging, and her
voice was soft and gentle; she asked many questions about my country
and my journey, showing a ready wit. She amused me by inquiring, in a
direct fashion, about M. de Lambert; betraying that she was acquainted
with a little of the intrigue that was in progress, but I doubted if
she knew much of Mademoiselle Zotof. Mentchikof was probably too shrewd
a man to trust an impulsive girl with all the particulars of the czar’s
wavering and uncertain fancies. So eager was she to propitiate me that
she neglected her circle of attendants, and more than one gallant cast
an angry glance at me, until at last I reminded her, in an aside, of
their presence.

“Mademoiselle,” I said softly, “your courtiers are angry because you
are so gracious to an old fellow. I have noticed many a black look in
my direction.”

She gave me a charming glance. “They are not worth a thought,” she said
in her sweet tones; “it is only men like you, M. le Maréchal, who are
wise enough and brave enough to merit a woman’s admiration.”

“Mademoiselle does me too much honor,” I said lightly, “but it is some
young soldier who will win her heart.”

For an instant she was disconcerted, and I remembered that rumor
had it that she had been betrothed to a Swedish soldier; however she
recovered herself and laughed gayly.

“Ah, monsieur,” she said, “my heart will never be given except to a
great man--brave--noble--generous, a soldier, a statesman--a--” She
hesitated, her cheek mantling with color. She had read the expression
in my eye.

“A prince, mademoiselle!” I concluded softly.

She flushed crimson, and held out her hand with a charming gesture of
candid good-will. I took it in mine and looked into her kindling eyes.

“May mademoiselle be as fortunate and happy as her beauty deserves!” I
said in a low tone, and then, kissing her fingers, made my way through
the throng to Mentchikof, and so took my leave.

Pierrot was waiting for me in the lower hall, and followed as I
went out. My mind was much preoccupied by the scene that I had just
witnessed. I had the key to the situation, but it was none the less a
difficult one. At present no danger threatened Mademoiselle Zotof. I
had no doubt that Mentchikof and his party would use every fair means
before they resorted to foul; but I saw also that they were determined
to accomplish their purpose, and could only anticipate trouble for the
young girl whose beauty was an undoubted obstacle to their success.
Peter’s speech to me in regard to M. de Lambert was sufficient to carry
conviction as to his own feeling, and I was not sure that Catherine
Shavronsky’s charms could equal mademoiselle’s in his eyes. Meanwhile,
M. de Lambert was in the unenviable position of a rival of the czar,
and I was most anxious about the hot-headed young man. So absorbed was
I in my own reflections that I walked on unseeing, and found myself
in the Kremlin close to the Cathedral of the Assumption, before I was
aware of it. My attention was immediately attracted by two closely
veiled women who were just leaving the cathedral. There seemed to be
something familiar in their aspect, and I was observing them with
interest, when Pierrot approached.

“That is Mademoiselle Zotof, M. le Vicomte,” he said quietly. “I know
her woman Neonila, and that is she in the rear.”

I saw my opportunity, and thought of M. de Lambert’s anxiety. In a
moment I crossed over and addressed the more slender of the two figures.

“Mademoiselle Zotof,” I said quietly, “I am fortunate!”

She stopped, startled and confused, and stood a moment irresolute and
then walked on at my side, her woman falling behind.

“M. le Maréchal,” she said softly, “I--I did not think to meet you.”

“I trust, mademoiselle,” I said gravely, “that you do not desire to
avoid me.”

“Oh, no--no!” she exclaimed earnestly. “I am happy in seeing a friend,
for lately I have seen but few.”

“That is not their fault, mademoiselle,” I replied. “I know of at least
one who has been most unhappy since he has been denied your presence.
His sun is obscured.”

I was watching her narrowly, and saw her nervous hands and her whole
air of confusion.

“It is not my fault, either, monsieur,” she said gravely. “My uncle has
forbidden me to appear in public at present, and I find myself without
even my usual liberty. It is a privilege to be allowed to go to church
with my woman.”

“This is unnecessarily rigorous treatment, mademoiselle,” I said, “and,
of course, I understand it. You will permit me to say so much?”

She had put her veil a little aside, and I could see her face. She
raised her eyes to mine now with a half-roguish glance.

“I regard you as my friend, monsieur,” she said softly, and then added
with a smile and a blush, “you are a Frenchman.”

“And so is M. de Lambert, mademoiselle,” I exclaimed, quick to seize my
opportunity. “May I not take him some little message to reassure him?
Is it not possible to arrange this matter--to see him?”

She started, and I saw that she was puzzled and confused by the
unexpected proposition.

“Come, mademoiselle,” I said, “speak freely to me. My own daughter is
of your age, and indeed I think of her when I look at you. Is it not
possible for you to pass this way at this hour again?”

She gave me a quick glance.

“Would you wish it if I were your daughter, monsieur?” she asked,
smiling.

“Were you my daughter, mademoiselle,” I replied with decision, “there
is one who should not approach you, no matter how exalted his rank.”

Her face was grave in an instant, and her cheek flushed. I followed up
my advantage.

“At this hour to-morrow, mademoiselle,” I said gently, “you will be
here?”

She looked up at me with a suspicion of mischief in her dark blue eyes.

“Ah, M. le Maréchal,” she said softly, “I comprehend now how you won
Mademoiselle Ramodanofsky. You are excellent--you are determined.”

“Yes, mademoiselle,” I said, smiling; “but you forget that I dine and
sup with a disconsolate lover, and truly it destroys my appetite.
Therefore be merciful to us both.”

She hesitated a moment longer, and then she smiled.

“At this hour to-morrow I shall be in church, monsieur,” she said
demurely, “unless madame my aunt desires my presence elsewhere.”

“Mademoiselle,” I said quietly, “I cannot thank you for one who can,
and will, thank you for himself.”

As I spoke, she cast a startled glance behind her and veiled her face.
Looking back, I saw the same man who had jostled Touchet when M. de
Lambert and I were departing from Zotof’s house.

“Mademoiselle is alarmed,” I remarked.

“I am foolish, monsieur,” she replied, slightly agitated. “I saw the
man before, as I entered the cathedral, and felt as if he watched me.
Adieu, M. le Maréchal, I must leave you.”

She gave me her hand at parting, and I followed her a little way with
Pierrot until I saw her and her woman safe in the Zotof carriage, which
was in waiting across the square.




CHAPTER V.

THE TOWER OF IVAN VELIKI.


AFTER seeing mademoiselle safe in her carriage, I turned to look for
the tall stranger who had startled her, but he had vanished. I gazed
about me in some astonishment, for the square was open, and a moment
before he had been at our heels.

“_Morbleu!_” I exclaimed sharply, “where is the fellow?”

“He went back into the cathedral, your Excellency,” Pierrot replied
quietly; “he walks fast and takes but a moment to disappear.”

“You have noticed him before?” I asked, my mind full of conjectures.

“Three times, monsieur,” Pierrot said,--“once at the palace, once
behind M. de Lambert in the Zemlianui-gorod, and once at the house of
Prince Dolgoruky.”

I started, a solution of the mystery occurring to me.

“Is he an attendant of Prince Dolgoruky?” I asked.

“I believe he is the prince’s equerry, monsieur,” Pierrot replied,
looking at me with an expression of intelligence.

Here was an easy explanation. Dolgoruky was conspicuous among
Mentchikof’s opponents; he was one of the older noblemen, and was no
doubt jealous of the increasing influence of the favorite, probably
feeling that he had a better claim to the czar’s confidence and
affection. Moreover, there was another motive for the opposition;
there was much sympathy felt for the exiled czarina and her son,
the czarevitch, which would imbitter the faction against Catherine
Shavronsky. She was the candidate of Mentchikof, and he was secretly
accused of having intrigued to depose Eudoxia; the czarina herself had
openly reproached him with exercising a bad influence over the czar,
and it was thought that he was unfriendly to the Czarevitch Alexis.
There could be no doubt that a man like Alexander Mentchikof would
bitterly resent Eudoxia’s reproaches, and it was natural that he should
have no friendship for her son. The opposing faction, therefore, saw a
double danger in his intrigues; if he could establish Catherine upon
the throne, her children might succeed instead of Alexis; and all the
old party, hating Peter’s reforms, were rallying around the son of
Eudoxia, who was herself a type of the uneducated, bigoted women of
the old Moscovite Court. Better that the czar should wed one of their
own partisans than be swayed by a mistress of Mentchikof’s selection!
Zotof was one of themselves, and I had no doubt that the faction was
behind him in his desire to marry his niece to Peter, in which case
mademoiselle would be the object of constant intrigue. They probably
supposed that they could control the “Prince Pope” and insure the
succession of Alexis, in precedence of any children that might be born
of a union between the czar and Najine. And her selection would be less
of an insult to Eudoxia than the elevation of Mentchikof’s creature.
All these things increased the difficulties of the situation, and I
was convinced that Prince Dolgoruky, fearing the miscarriage of his
schemes, had set a watch upon mademoiselle and her French lover, and
the suspicion of the French that was prevalent at Moscow increased the
peril for M. de Lambert. A glance at Pierrot’s face satisfied me that
he, too, comprehended the situation; he was a shrewd fox, and grasped
it as quickly as I did.

“Warn Touchet,” I said to him significantly; “he does not understand
the language, but he has a quick eye and a good sword arm.”

“I understand, M. le Vicomte,” Pierrot replied stolidly, and we walked
on across the square.

I was not startled, indeed not even surprised, when a few moments later
I encountered Prince Dolgoruky himself. He came out of the refectory
of the Miracle Monastery, accompanied only by one of the court dwarfs,
and, seeing me, stopped to await my approach. Personally, I liked the
prince, although he was a somewhat pompous man, and probably opposed
to every scheme I had on foot. Greeting me pleasantly, he walked with
me towards the Gate of the Redeemer. Whatever his thoughts were, he
turned the conversation at once on politics. Not all the Russians felt
confidence in the Saxon alliance; they knew that the War of the Spanish
Succession would involve the interests of King Augustus, who was the
creature of Austria and they already saw Russia deserted by her allies,
and attacked by Sweden on the north and Turkey on the south. Denmark
had been disposed of, and the wiser statesmen never trusted Augustus
the Dissembler, and their doubts were amply justified by the trick he
played Russia at the Peace of Altranstädt. Dolgoruky in his talk with
me showed his contempt for the Polish-Saxon intrigue.

“What we want,” he said frankly, “is an advantageous peace with Sweden.
We must have the Neva and St. Petersburg, but for my own part I am
weary of his Majesty of Poland. In the end he will make a peace with
Charles XII. that will suit him and will not suit the czar. He would
rather lose two Polands than two feet of his native Saxony.”

The event proved the truth of the prince’s assertion, but I was not
prepared to commit myself on the subject.

“Poland seems to me the most unfortunate,” I said, smiling, “since
she must support the war and see her territory parcelled out by the
conquerors.”

“Poland should be ours,” Dolgoruky replied decisively; “it is too much
a part of Russia to be torn to pieces by Augustus and that madman of
Sweden.”

“Charles XII.,” I said quietly; “a brilliant young hero.”

“A lunatic!” exclaimed the Russian, contemptuously. “Do you remember
the ‘Gottorp Fury,’ when he and his cousin Frederick, the Duke of
Holstein-Gottorp, rode through Stockholm in their shirts, and spent a
day striking off the heads of sheep in the palace, until the floors and
staircases ran with blood, while they threw the bleeding heads out of
the windows? Such men are fools.”

“The Duke of Holstein-Gottorp is the _casus belli_ between Sweden and
Denmark,” I remarked dryly.

Dolgoruky shrugged his shoulders. “Compare these men with his imperial
Majesty,” he said, “and you will find them but indifferent pictures of
royalty. Charles is at best but a mad king and a mad soldier, while the
czar has all the attributes of greatness, and only the one weakness
of trusting too implicitly in the judgment of those who have won his
regard.”

I knew that he referred to Mentchikof, and was amused.

“A weakness that is not unusual,” I remarked; “a sovereign is often
betrayed through his confidence!”

“Too often,” Dolgoruky said with feeling, “and once a favorite is
established, he will stop at nothing to gain complete control of his
master’s affairs; when a woman is added to the complication, it passes
an honest man’s patience.”

“Monsieur,” I said, smiling, “the Court of France has been swayed by
many fair women since Gabrielle d’Estrées quarrelled with Sully, and
before her day too. A courtier must learn to win the good graces of the
queen of the hour; it is only a plain soldier, like myself, who can
afford to carve his fortune with his sword.”

“I would rather carve mine with my sword,” he exclaimed, “than sue for
favor from--” He checked himself in time, catching the amusement in my
eye.

We had left the Kremlin and were walking through the Kitai-gorod; a few
rods more would bring us to the spot where our paths would naturally
separate.

“Be warned, prince,” I said kindly. “I have seen many changes, many
shifts of fortune. Let the court intrigues have a smooth road; seek
only the service of the state.”

He looked at me keenly, and smiled.

“Is that advice entirely disinterested, monsieur?” he asked.

We had both stopped, for here our ways parted.

“You must take the advice for what it is worth,” I replied calmly.

As I spoke, I glanced back and discovered the tall man, who had
shadowed mademoiselle, coming along a little behind Pierrot. I glanced
at the prince, and saw that he had followed my eyes.

“Your equerry is over-zealous,” I said, a trifle sharply.

He started. “My equerry?” he repeated with affected surprise.

“Yes, monsieur,” I replied coldly, “your equerry. This is not the
first time that I have found him in my wake. I trust your Excellency
will advise him to give my attendants more elbow-room; they are both
Frenchmen, and they cannot become accustomed to Moscovite manners.”

Dolgoruky was annoyed. He was not skilful in the art of dissimulation,
and stood frowning, uncertain whether to resent my manner or not.

“It is Tikhon,” he said after a moment. “I will speak to him; he is a
stupid fellow, and has probably erred through ignorance.”

“His face belies him then,” I said dryly; “I never saw a face more
shrewd. I bid your Excellency adieu.”

With this we parted, and he summoned Tikhon, and I heard hot words as
I passed on. Dolgoruky was manifestly angered and surprised that I had
fathomed his scheme of espionage, and I was well satisfied that I had
been able to warn him that he had shown his hand.

Half an hour later, I went to my lodgings to find M. de Lambert but
just returned from a fruitless visit to Zotof’s house. He was sitting
moodily at the table writing a letter, and scarcely noticed me as I
removed my cloak and sword. I was amused at his indifference, knowing
that my tidings would speedily dispel his apathy.

“You should have visited the Kremlin to-day, M. Guillaume,” I said
quietly.

He looked up at me carelessly, and with some little surprise at my
apparently meaningless remark.

“It will be well for you to pass the Cathedral of the Assumption
to-morrow afternoon,” I added, smiling.

In a moment he had caught my meaning, and his face kindled.

“You have seen her?” he exclaimed, springing up with his usual
impetuosity.

“Seen her?” I repeated tormentingly; “that is certainly indefinite,
monsieur. How many women are there in Moscow?”

“_Ma foi!_” he exclaimed impatiently, “you try me, M. le Maréchal; you
understand me well enough, but you love your own amusement.”

“Come now, M. de Lambert,” I said lightly, “let me have my jest. Have I
not sat opposite a disconsolate lover long enough to dull my spirit?
But I will not try you longer; I did see Mademoiselle Zotof to-day and
spoke with her, so I am a fortunate man.”

His face flushed, and his honest brown eyes lighted up so pleasantly
that I forgave him many short-comings.

“Was madame with her?” he asked quickly.

“She was attended only by her woman,” I replied, “and had been to the
cathedral. I spoke to her, and I think that she was glad to see me. I
did not forget you, monsieur. I pleaded your cause--in short, she will
go to the cathedral to-morrow at the same hour.”

He caught my hand and shook it warmly. There was no need for words, for
I understood him, and knew too that I had gained a hold upon his heart.
After a little I told him of Prince Dolgoruky and of Tikhon.

“Be warned, M. de Lambert,” I said; “there is danger ahead. You are
unfortunate enough to be the object of one party’s hopes and the
other’s anxiety,--in either case a dangerous position; even more so
than mademoiselle’s, whose place in the czar’s favor intimidates while
it excites the schemers. You, on the other hand, have no shelter but
the majesty of the King of France, not so potent here in Moscow; your
own wit and your own sword must be your chief reliance.”

“The danger to myself concerns me not at all,” he replied, “but
for mademoiselle I am deeply disturbed. Mentchikof will leave no
stone unturned to advance this Livonian woman; and while his success
would insure my chances of happiness, his defeat would increase
mademoiselle’s peril. Prince Dolgoruky’s conduct shows how deep the
intrigue runs, and it seems to me only to add another complication.”

“The prince represents the other faction at court,” I assented, “and
I do not doubt their determination to defeat Mentchikof. But you may
take this comfort, monsieur: the favorite is a power with the czar, and
Mademoiselle Shavronsky has beauty, wit, and ambition; therefore there
is hope that the autocrat may prefer the coarser charms of Catherine to
mademoiselle’s delicate beauty.”

He listened to me courteously, but I saw that he had a lover’s
conviction that no woman could bear comparison with mademoiselle. He
was too elated by the prospect of seeing his divinity to bear serious
remonstrance, but I prevailed upon him not to go alone to meet her. I
had seen enough to fear foul play, and determined to constitute myself
his guardian. I felt responsible for the young hot-head, and then too
he had won my regard. He was so brave a soldier, so true a gentleman,
so good a lover that he rejoiced my heart. The foibles of the court had
failed to spoil him, and I could forgive the fastidious elegance of the
courtier when I saw it side by side with conspicuous courage.

The appointed hour on the following day found us in the Kremlin; M.
de Lambert was all impatience, and I confess that my own interest was
keen. Touchet attended us; for many reasons, I preferred a man who
understood but little Russ and would comprehend less of the situation
than did Pierrot. We took up our position near the Tower of Ivan
Veliki, and M. de Lambert had time to become thoroughly impatient
before mademoiselle arrived. Whether her heart failed her at the last
moment or madame detained her I know not, but we had waited a full
half-hour before M. de Lambert uttered an exclamation and hurried
forward to meet two closely veiled women who were coming towards us.
Mademoiselle saw me, so I advanced also to greet her. She lifted
her veil and showed a charming face, suffused with a rosy hue that
increased the luster of her eyes. She evidently felt that she had taken
a decided step, and was doubtful of the propriety of her course, M. de
Lambert’s ardent greeting increasing her natural confusion. A flushed
and handsome young pair they looked, as they stood there before me,
shamefaced but manifestly happy at meeting each other.

“Mademoiselle,” I said gently, “I thank you for remembering my
petition; the day is brighter for seeing you.”

She smiled as she replied softly to my greeting, and then I discreetly
withdrew to a little distance, that they might have an opportunity
to converse. Her woman was waiting with Touchet, but as she spoke no
French and he only a few words of Russ, they made an amusing by-play
by their gestures and grimaces, which indeed conveyed nothing of
their meaning to each other. I watched them with enjoyment, for it
was evident that Touchet found it an effort to entertain her, and she
regarded him with distrust as an alien. Meanwhile mademoiselle and
her lover walked to and fro in the shadow of the great Tower of Ivan
Veliki, conversing in low tones; now and then I caught the czar’s name
and madame’s, and could see that M. de Lambert grew more eloquent each
moment, while mademoiselle was apparently uncertain; yet her face was
brighter than on the previous day. They had been talking a quarter of
an hour, and seemed to forget me, although I could overhear a sentence
or two as they passed and repassed me in their promenade.

“He is the czar and I but a poor French gentleman,” he said; “he can
offer you a crown and I--nothing but my sword and my heart.”

I saw mademoiselle’s face, and she gave her lover a charming glance.

“Is your heart so poor a thing, monsieur?” she asked; “it seems to me
that a true heart weighed in the scale with a diadem would exceed the
jewelled bauble.”

“You will be true to me, Najine!” he cried passionately.

“M. de Lambert,” I heard her reply, as they turned back upon their
walk, “I come of a loyal race, and the empty honor of a crown could not
shake my faith. Is there a better gift than an honest heart? A throne
and a heart are offered me--Guillaume, I prefer the heart!”

I smiled; were there ever two more simple children? Yet I loved them
both for their simplicity. A few moments later, mademoiselle had bidden
him adieu and came towards me with her veil down, so that I could but
dimly see her blushing cheeks as she parted from me. She had forbidden
our attendance, and with her woman walked rapidly away; as they did
so, I saw Tikhon come out of the cathedral and follow in their wake,
and knew that we had been watched. M. de Lambert saw it as quickly as
I did, and, before I could stop him, dashed off in pursuit. Knowing
his hot blood, I followed at once with Touchet, anticipating mischief.
Mademoiselle and her companion, walking fast, gained upon their
follower, and, turning the corner of the cathedral, disappeared just as
M. de Lambert overtook the Russian, and I could see that they disputed
together. Before I reached them, Guillaume struck the spy a blow with
the flat of his sword that stretched him on the ground; I know not
what would have ensued if I had not come up in time to catch his arm.

“You madman!” I exclaimed, “that is Prince Dolgoruky’s equerry. What
folly is this?”

But M. de Lambert’s blood was up. “The villain!” he cried fiercely;
“has he no other employment than to follow mademoiselle about the city?
I will teach him better manners.”

But Tikhon had scrambled to his feet while I held his assailant;
and although the fellow’s face was white with fury, he had felt the
strength of the Frenchman’s arm, and had no taste for more. Perhaps,
too, he saw the malicious delight on Touchet’s countenance, for my man
stood regarding the performance with unmitigated approval.

“Be off!” I exclaimed harshly; “and let this be a lesson to you to quit
the office of a common spy upon French gentlemen.”

He lowered at us with open resentment, but nevertheless retreated
slowly, as if half ashamed to yield to my command. It was plain that
only the number of his enemies discomfited him. When he was out of
sight, I read my fiery lover a lesson, although I knew it was to little
purpose, for he was at the white heat of anger; nor did I greatly blame
him for his righteous indignation; nevertheless, it was my duty to warn
him.

“You forget mademoiselle,” I said significantly; “it does her no good
to have this knave’s ill-will. It is easy to see that she is watched
at every step--watched by a party at court. Prince Dolgoruky would not
stoop to set a spy upon her unless grave interests were involved.”

But I might as well have talked to the wind. He would brook no
interference in any matter touching mademoiselle, and I saw that
he took my cautions with a poor grace, almost resenting my timely
interference.




CHAPTER VI.

CATHERINE AND THE CZAR.


IT was not until the day after the meeting with mademoiselle at the
Kremlin that M. de Lambert confided to me something of her talk with
him. It appeared that Zotof was straining every nerve to bring about
her union with the czar, with or without her consent; Dolgoruky, the
Marshal Sheremetief, and a dozen more of the nobility supporting him in
his desire for an alliance that would destroy rather than strengthen
the influence of Mentchikof. The old jealousy of the favorite, “the man
of the hour,” was glowing in the bosoms of Mentchikof’s associates, and
it was probable that they would go to any length to defeat his attempt
to establish Catherine Shavronsky in the czar’s favor, and the fact
that Peter had openly expressed his admiration for Najine supplied a
weapon ready to their hands.

There was an old custom that the czar should send the bridal robes to
the maiden whom he had selected, as a sign that his choice was made.
Mademoiselle told her lover that Madame Zotof was already making
preparations for some such event. Najine herself was determined to
resist any coercion, and she had a fine spirit. Peter had declared
against the old compulsory marriages, and he would scarcely care
to be the first to violate his own regulations; so there was the
better opportunity for mademoiselle to assert her independence. The
czar had probably not foreseen the possibility of any woman being
indifferent to his advances; his success in affairs of the heart having
been already but too conspicuous. But, after all, I fancied that
mademoiselle’s resistance could scarcely endure under the pressure that
would be brought to bear. Peter’s temperament was not one to brook
disappointment, and there was the force of his powerful will which
it would be hard for one young girl to resist. I saw that even M. de
Lambert was much cast down, and I felt more anxiety than he did, for I
had also the responsibility of steering him clear of the quicksands of
trouble that were spreading about his feet. I staked my chief hopes on
Mentchikof, on his ambition, diplomacy, and influence, and I determined
to keep him informed of the Dolgoruky intrigue by a delicate hint now
and then which would serve as a guide for his ready wit. He was not
slow to divine my friendliness to his scheme, and I saw that he was
inclined to extend every favor in his power to Guillaume de Lambert;
his kindness to him somewhat reassuring me, for I was convinced that he
would not willingly injure Mademoiselle Zotof, if she could be removed
from his path without violence.

It was at Mentchikof’s palace that I saw the czar bestow some marked
notice upon the Livonian girl, but at the same time he did not forget
to be cold to M. de Lambert. It was a week after the meeting by the
Tower of Ivan Veliki that we were bidden to a ball by Mentchikof.
Madame de Brousson had no love for these fêtes where the czar presided;
there was frequently too much liquor and too much violence, so she
pleaded indisposition, and M. de Lambert and I went alone. If the truth
must be told, I think that madame my wife looked with disapproval upon
both Mademoiselle Arsenief and Catherine, and therefore avoided their
presence. She had always preferred to live a retired life, and the sins
and the follies of a court were little to her taste. As a young girl,
she had seemed to me a model of purity, and she was no less so as a
matron.

M. Guillaume and I were late in arriving at the palace of Mentchikof,
and found it already crowded by the suite of the czar. When Peter went
to dine, it was not unusual for him to take with him eighty or ninety
guests and a hundred servants. With some difficulty we pushed our way
through the throng and entered the _salon_, at the end of which a
stage had been erected, and a German play was in progress. This was a
form of entertainment much favored by Peter and his court, where the
German influence predominated, German clothes were worn, and the German
language was more frequently spoken than any other, for the German
suburb of Moscow had been a potent influence in Peter’s early life; his
German friends and favorites having excited the jealousy of the Russian
people. To the end of the czar’s life, his favor for foreigners and his
constantly enforced foreign innovations were causes of bitterness and
rebellion.

The room was thronged, and to avoid interruption M. de Lambert and I
remained standing at the entrance, silent observers of the scene. The
drama was not without wit, but of a coarse and common sort that would
have been little to the taste of the Court of Versailles. However, the
audience seemed to enjoy it, especially the czar, who sat almost in the
center of the _salon_ surrounded by his immediate circle, Mentchikof,
Sheremetief, Repnin, Dolgoruky, and Prince Gregory Galitsyn, a cousin
of my exiled friend. The rival interests of the court were represented.
At a short distance from the czar were Madame Golovin, Madame
Sheremetief, the Arsenief sisters, and Catherine Shavronsky, the last
in a splendid robe of white velvet embroidered in silver, and wearing a
rope of pearls around her full white throat. It was a brilliant scene
of light and color, for all the great personages in Moscow were there,
and the gay velvet coats and powdered perukes made an odd contrast to
the old costumes that I remembered so well. Here were ruffles of lace
and the sheen of satin, and on nearly every breast gleamed a rare jewel
or a conspicuous order, the czar alone wearing his usual simple attire,
as if he scorned the rules that he made for others.

When the drama was over, I advanced to make my obeisance to Peter.
He received me graciously, but scarcely noticed M. de Lambert, which
was enough to convince me that Tikhon had not failed to report his
observations. Mentchikof saw the young man’s embarrassment, and taking
him aside talked pleasantly for a quarter of an hour. Catherine
Shavronsky was also gracious to him, which amused me not a little,
especially as I noticed that the czar was observing her narrowly,
and seemed to take an unusual interest in her conduct. I could not
deny to myself that she was beautiful, and that there was something
about her that suggested an ability above the common order. It was
not long before I found myself in her vicinity, and she greeted me
with a brilliant smile, extending her hand. She was not trammelled by
Mademoiselle Zotof’s blushes and youthful dignity; her manner was calm
and frank. It was, perhaps, this very quality that appealed to the
czar’s fancy.

“You were tardy, M. le Maréchal,” she said, upbraiding me. “I had
almost given up the hope of seeing you, and we are fortunate to-night
in having the presence of his Majesty.”

“I thought that the czar was frequently here, mademoiselle,” I said
purposely, “in the house of his favored friend.”

“Then you are mistaken, sir,” she retorted a little tartly. “It is long
since his Majesty has been here to enjoy a play. We have been under a
cloud, or, at least, so it seemed.”

I stood a moment looking upon the floor. In fact, I was revolving many
things in my mind.

“Mademoiselle,” I remarked absently, “it may be that some other star
drew away the imperial attention for the moment.”

A peculiar expression came over her face.

“You have seen the star,” she said, taking up my figure of speech. “Was
it beautiful?”

“Most lovely, mademoiselle,” I said at once; “pure and unsullied in its
radiance.”

She stood there twisting the pearls about her throat until I saw them
press into the delicate flesh, and her lips were compressed. It was a
moment before she spoke.

“I have been told,” she said in a low voice, “that some stars never
reach the greatest heights, but are content to shine in semi-obscurity.”

“That may be true, mademoiselle,” I replied; “but when a star is
radiant it must rise, unless some brighter planet outshines it.”

She looked at me keenly, and I returned her regard with a placid smile.

“Your friend M. de Lambert,” she said, “is, I hear, also an observer of
the stars.”

“I commend him to your friendship, mademoiselle,” I said quietly; “it
may be that he will have need of it. A brave soldier, but a hot-head.”

“We must find him a Russian bride, monsieur,” she said at once, a
gleam of amusement in her eyes. “Mentchikof and all the members of
this household will aid you. I feel myself a lively interest in M. de
Lambert’s happiness.”

“He is fortunate, mademoiselle,” I replied, “in having such champions,
but there is only one way to remove all rivals from his path.
Mademoiselle Shavronsky herself must interpose.”

She twisted the chain of pearls so tight that the necklace broke, and
they fell scattered on the floor. I stooped to gather the fragments,
but she received them with disdain.

“A trifle,” she said, placing her foot upon them. “What are pearls when
I have not my heart’s desire?”

“_Ciel!_” I exclaimed in a low tone, “admit it not, mademoiselle. What
can be beyond the reach of your beauty and your wit? The ladder of fate
is climbed step by step; never go back to a lower rung.”

Her momentary peevishness had passed, and she gave me a radiant glance.

“I thank you,” she said; “the advice is excellent, but I have heard
that it is more bitter to fall, when the height is once attained, than
never to attempt the ascent.”

“Many things in this life are bitter, mademoiselle,” I replied
philosophically, “but youth and beauty should not look upon the darker
side.”

As I spoke, there was a sudden confusion at the other side of the room,
and we both turned to discover the cause. The czar was the center of an
excited group, and before him stood a young man whom I knew by name,
Yury Apraxin. A glance at Peter showed me that he was in one of those
sudden and violent fits of passion which occasionally carried him
beyond the bounds of reason, while Apraxin was painfully embarrassed,
but maintained his position with sullen hauteur. We could not hear his
reply to Peter; but in a moment the czar struck him in the face with
his open palm, and would doubtless have followed the blow with some
great indignity if Mentchikof had not interposed his person, while
Sheremetief hurried the young nobleman to the door. Apraxin’s face
was white with fury at the insult, and in another instant, but for
Sheremetief, he would have struck back at the czar. The silence in the
_salon_ was sudden and painful. Peter thrust his favorite aside, and
with a crimson face shouted to his equerry to arrest the offender.

“I will have his head!” he cried fiercely.

From a scene of gayety it had become almost a tragedy. His Majesty’s
outbursts of fury were often fruitful of fearful results, and he was
ever at his worst when flushed with wine. Every face was pale, and the
women drew back with startled eyes, while the men regarded the czar
with ill-concealed apprehension. The autocrat himself stood in the
center of the apartment, his great figure towering over the others
and his breast heaving, while his face twitched with that nervous
affliction which made his expression for the time terrific. Through the
open door we could see Apraxin, struggling in the arms of his friends.

“What is the trouble?” I asked, in a whisper, of a courtier near me.

He glanced at me in a frightened way. “The young fool got into a
dispute with his Majesty about the battle of Narva,” he whispered back,
“praised the courage of Charles of Sweden, and condemned the conduct of
the Russian troops.”

I understood. It was the weak point in Peter’s armor; he never forgot
or forgave Narva until the victory of Poltava.

In a moment something happened which again transformed the scene.
While the czar was still quivering with ill-suppressed passion, in the
midst of an extending circle of courtiers, Catherine left my side and
advanced across the space. She was short, but she had a peculiarly
majestic mien in her sweeping white garments, her beautiful shoulders
bare and her proud head slightly bent. She walked straight up to the
infuriated czar, and knelt gracefully before him. Peter stared at her
in undisguised amazement, and the others were transfixed; not a word
was uttered, every eye was turned on the two central figures, the
massive form of the czar, contrasting with the figure of the woman at
his feet.

“I pray your Majesty’s forbearance,” she said, in a clear voice that
was heard the length of the room.

“Rise, Catherine,” he exclaimed, in an embarrassed tone, his passion
suddenly arrested by her unlooked-for interference.

“Nay, sire,” she replied gently, “I am a suppliant, and suppliants must
kneel. I crave your Majesty’s forgiveness for this young man who has
so unhappily offended. I doubt not that he regrets his fault, and your
Majesty’s anger is too great a chastisement. You are royal, and it is
royal to forgive!”

Her gesture and her glance were eloquent. I had never seen her so
beautiful. Her large eyes were kindled with some deep emotion, and her
face was pale, while her white throat was bare even of its necklace
of pearls. The Livonian peasant girl had suddenly assumed a dignity
that was worthy of a nobler origin. The czar was silent, but we, who
knew his moods, saw that the tempest was spent, and that the natural
generosity of his disposition would prevail; he was even perhaps a
little ashamed of the vehemence of his outburst. Whether she was sure
of her success or not, she spoke again, and now there was a thrill in
her rich voice.

“Sire,” she said softly, “you once promised me a boon--I claim your
pledge. Give me this boy’s pardon; a king may not break his word!”

The czar’s face paled, but he took her hand and raised her to her feet.

“Have I ever broken mine to you, sweetheart?” he said, a sudden smile
dispelling the cloud upon his face. “The youth has my pardon, but keep
him out of my sight for a while; I love not such disputatious boys.”

As he spoke, he drew a small bit of twisted paper from his pocket and
laid it in her hand. “I owe you something, Catherine,” he said, “since
you alone had the courage to remind me that I was a king.”

She bowed her graceful head and kissed his hand, and then the murmur
of talk arose; the spell was broken, and the startled courtiers
could breathe again. They flocked about Catherine with ill-concealed
admiration of her prowess, and many curious glances were cast upon the
paper package in her fingers. To gratify them, she opened the tiny
parcel, and smoothing out the old and wrinkled wrapper revealed a
splendid ruby,--a sign of favor that increased her circle of admirers.
It was characteristic of the czar to bestow a superb present with
nonchalance, and to wrap a jewel in a bit of soiled paper. To me the
scene was strangely significant; I had watched it as I would have
watched a cleverly conducted drama. Who but this Livonian woman would
have dared to achieve that success, and, after all, did she not stand
high in the czar’s regard? Looking across the _salon_, I saw into the
ante-room beyond, where they had hurried Apraxin out of sight, and
by the door stood M. de Lambert; reading the expression on his face,
I divined his thought. He was radiant; he fancied that Mademoiselle
Shavronsky had won the day. But I reflected that the road of court
intrigue is tortuous, and that there are many turnings before the end
is in view. I saw not only the satisfaction on the face of Mentchikof
and his _clique_, but the anger and anxiety on the countenances of
Prince Dolgoruky and Sheremetief and a dozen more, who I knew had
no toleration for the favorite or his schemes. Meanwhile the czar’s
good-humor had returned, and he was boisterous in the reaction. The
wine was already affecting several of the boyars, two or three were
foolishly happy, and a third was so belligerently inclined that he had
to be forcibly removed. The amount of liquor consumed often made the
guests at these entertainments violently ill, for there was a rivalry
over the quantity that each man could drink. When M. de Lambert and I
retired, the revelry was at its height and the czar was perhaps the
only sober man present, for Peter could drink unhurt more wine than his
most bibulous courtier.

As M. de Lambert and I walked to our quarters through the crooked
lanes, the first rosy tint of sunrise was spreading like a blush along
the eastern sky, while above it the morning star shone like a solitary
jewel in the pallid blue. The white buildings of the Kremlin loomed
ghostlike through the mist that was rising in a soft cloud over the
river Moskva; the city was as silent as a tomb; the shuttered windows
of the houses closed in their secrets, and the streets lay in the
dark, untouched by the golden shafts of light that were illuminating
the horizon. The spell of midnight was upon the earth, the radiance of
daybreak in the heavens, and between, a wreath of mist.

For a time no words passed between us, and then M. de Lambert spoke.

“The youth was foolish,” he said thoughtfully, “but the czar was wrong;
it was an unkingly act.”

“He has a kingly temper,” I said lightly; “the boy escaped easily.”

“It was not royal,” M. de Lambert went on, “and he lost a loyal
subject. I saw Apraxin’s face; he will never forgive it.”

“The czar can afford to offend,” I replied dryly; “royalty is rich in
friends.”

“No man can afford to be unjust,” M. de Lambert rejoined with that
generosity that was natural to him, for he had a noble nature.

“Mademoiselle Catherine has set her heart upon the crown, and she is
clever,” I remarked softly.

“I rejoiced to see it,” he said with relief in his voice, and added
eagerly, “did you note his manner, monsieur? He was very tender with
her.”

I laughed aloud. “Ah, M. de Lambert,” I said, “set not too great store
by that; the royal heart, we know, is fickle. Remember Madame de
Montespan!”




CHAPTER VII.

THE ENVOY’S CLOAK.


TO Zénaïde I gave a full description of the scene at Mentchikofs
palace, and she soon discovered the key to the matter. The episode
was much discussed, and she found that Yury Apraxin was an adopted
son of Madame Zotof’s brother, and called by courtesy a nephew of the
Councillor Zotof. No blood relationship existed; madame’s brother,
having no children, had adopted the son of a friend, but young Apraxin
held the place of a nephew in the Zotof household. Here, then, was a
complication. Not only was the czar offended at one of mademoiselle’s
connections, but how would Zotof endure the insult offered to his
family? Beyond all this there was another tangle in the skein; Zénaïde
was informed that young Apraxin had been absent in Lithuania and was
a lover of Mademoiselle Zotof, that her hand had been promised to
him,--one of those marriage contracts common in Russia, as in France,
when a boy and girl were betrothed in infancy by their parents. At an
inopportune time the fiancé had returned to claim his bride, but had
been quickly repudiated by Zotof, and in a few days he discovered the
cause of his discomfiture. Consequent jealousy of the czar led him to
make the offensive speech which had caused Peter’s outburst. Apraxin
had been only a week in Moscow, and probably knew nothing, as yet, of
M. de Lambert; but I fancied that as soon as he learned the truth, his
jealousy of the Frenchman would be more bitter than that which had
animated his attack upon the czar. So it was a wheel within a wheel,
and it required my wife’s wit to trace it all out.

Meanwhile the czar was apparently wavering between the two fair women,
although showing more favor to Catherine since the offence from one of
mademoiselle’s family. It was whispered, too, that M. Zotof had found
it difficult to accept the affair at Mentchikof’s with toleration.
The open insult to his protégé was scarcely repaired by the czar’s
forgiveness of the youth’s offence; however, the councillor was, in the
end, too wise to quarrel with a sovereign who might smite his adopted
nephew with one hand, and raise his niece to a throne with the other.
Moreover, madame would not allow him to resent the affront while she
had visions of her niece upon the throne of Russia, and it ended in
Apraxin being left to nurse his hatred of the czar in secret.

In the midst of these intrigues there was a little ripple of excitement
at court over the arrival of a secret envoy from Augustus of Saxony,
King of Poland. The envoy had important despatches, and came with
great secrecy and precaution, but in two hours his errand was known
all over Moscow, so difficult is it to keep court secrets. It was a
matter of particular interest to me, as it was my mission to watch the
Swedish-Saxon imbroglio. M. de Lambert and I were especially active,
and this very Polish envoy was, in a singular way, the cause of an
incident that proved more or less important to M. Guillaume. We had
both gone to the Kremlin at a late hour in the afternoon, and I had an
interview with the czar, while my companion was engaged with the chief
of the Department of Foreign Affairs. As we were leaving the palace,
the Polish envoy arrived; he left the ante-room as we entered it and,
taking up our cloaks, went out into the early Russian twilight. It was
a threatening evening and rapidly growing dark. A few drops of rain
fell on our faces as we crossed the square, and M. de Lambert looked up
at the lowering sky.

“More ice and snow,” he said; “how thankful the Russian must be to see
the spring! A man is fortunate to be born in a milder climate.”

I laughed softly. “In my young days, monsieur,” I said, “I remember
thinking that the sun shone only in Moscow, and I thought it was even
so with you.”

“My sun is for the time obscured by a cloud, M. le Vicomte,” he
responded readily.

We had passed out of the Gate of the Redeemer, and were walking slowly
towards our quarters. We were unattended, having left both Pierrot and
Touchet in Zénaïde’s service, and after a little we fell to talking
of the czar and the Polish envoy, and our voices were lowered. A few
yards from our quarters, there was a long lane flanked on either side
by the blank walls of vacant courtyards. When we reached it, it was
quite dark and the rain was falling fast. We were near the end of the
lane, when there was a rush behind us and a man flung himself upon my
companion. M. de Lambert’s foot slipped, and for the moment he had
difficulty in recovering himself under the sudden assault, yet he had
grasped and thrown his assailant before I could interpose. The man lay
still on his back in the mud, stunned by the heavy fall. We both bent
over him curiously, I fully expecting to see Tikhon. He stirred and
made an effort to rise, which caused M. de Lambert to lay a heavy hand
on his collar, while I removed the pistol from his belt; in doing so,
I discovered that it was not Dolgoruky’s equerry, but a younger and
smaller man. We ordered him to rise, and he obeyed sullenly, and then
stood motionless, an inconvenient prisoner.

“What shall we do with him?” M. de Lambert asked of me in French.

“Take him to our quarters and there probe the matter,” I said at once.

Between us we managed to force the fellow to walk along with us; but a
few yards from my door, he made an effort to break away, and only M. de
Lambert’s agility checked him. My companion caught him in his arms, and
there was a fierce struggle before he submitted and walked before us
to the house, where Pierrot took him in charge. I had him taken to an
upper room, and, calling for lights, sat down and looked at him. M. de
Lambert was handing his cloak and sword to Touchet, when he uttered an
exclamation of surprise.

“I have made some mistake,” he said; “this is not my cloak.”

Looking around, I saw Touchet holding up a dark brown velvet cloak with
an enamelled clasp.

“I must have picked up the wrong one in the ante-room,” M. de Lambert
remarked in an annoyed tone.

I had been examining the garment, and all at once recognized it.

“It is the Polish envoy’s,” I said; “I noticed the clasp.”

“Ah, to be sure,” replied M. de Lambert. “I remember that he laid his
cloak aside just before I assumed mine. I have not profited by the
exchange. Take it back to the Kremlin, Touchet, and bring me mine.”

While he spoke, I saw a sudden flash of intelligence in the prisoner’s
expression which convinced me that he took a curious interest in the
cloak. He was a short man, slight but well formed, with a broad stolid
face, and his hair and complexion were light, his eyes being pale blue.
His garments, although plain, were not poor, and he had nothing of
the appearance of a common cut-purse, neither did he look a Russian.
A sudden inspiration coming to me, I took the opportunity when his
attention was riveted upon M. de Lambert to address him abruptly in
Swedish, with which language I was imperfectly acquainted.

“How long is it,” I said, “since you left Sweden?”

“Not two months,” he answered mechanically, and then, realizing that he
had betrayed himself, stood staring at me like a trapped tiger, while I
laughed. He had fallen so easily into my snare.

M. de Lambert and Touchet both turned at the sound of our voices; the
former understood the Swedish tongue more perfectly than I did.

“I have it,” he exclaimed, “he mistook me for the Polish envoy; it was
my cloak that he seized first.”

“Ay,” I replied significantly, “the envoy had papers. We have here a
pretty bird.”

The fellow eyed me sullenly, the color rising to his fair hair. The
more I examined his face the more satisfied I became that he was no
common miscreant, and his evident youth appealed to me. Touchet had
departed with the envoy’s cloak, and M. de Lambert sat down beside me
at the table, shading the taper so that he threw the light full on the
face of the Swede.

“What was the motive of your attack on a Frenchman, knave?” he asked,
addressing the prisoner.

The man looked at him strangely for a moment, and then seemed to come
to a sudden determination.

“I made a mistake, your Worship,” he replied hoarsely. “I pray you,
pardon me and let me go. I took you for an enemy of mine.”

“A likely story,” said M. de Lambert; “why should I not rather believe
you a common thief? You tried to drag my cloak from my shoulders, and
wellnigh strangled me to boot.”

“I made a mistake,” the man protested stolidly.

“You made a mistake only in the person,” I remarked dryly, “you
intended either to rob or stab some one--you admit that. Why should we
let you go?”

“We ought rather to turn him over to the authorities at Preobrazhensky,”
M. de Lambert said quietly.

Now, the secret-chancery of Preobrazhensky had borne an evil name since
it had been the scene of the tortures and executions of the Streltsi,
when Peter summoned those stubborn rebels to a bloody judgment, and it
was a common byword of horror to the Russian miscreant. At the mention
of it, the Swede started and his face paled perceptibly. I was watching
him keenly, and was quick to see the signs of weakening.

“Call Pierrot,” I said to my companion, “and send him for the captain
of the guard.”

At that the prisoner broke down. He made an effort to speak, but only
his lips moved at first, then he came nearer to the table.

“Gentlemen,” he said excitedly, “you are Frenchmen. King Louis has
no quarrel with the king my master; he even offered mediation at one
time between him and King Augustus. I pray you, deal leniently with
a Swedish subject. It is true that I mistook his Excellency for the
Polish envoy; it is true that I tried to snatch the cloak, which I
believe concealed valuable papers; but what of it? I was trying to
serve the king. If you deliver me up to the Russians, I shall be hung
as a spy, or perhaps tortured to death. I appeal to you as subjects of
the King of France to spare me for the sake of Charles of Sweden, whose
servant I am.”

M. de Lambert and I looked at each other. Here was a situation. We
had unwittingly captured a Swedish spy. If the czar discovered it, we
should be called to a sharp account, for Peter was not delicate in his
understanding of diplomatic relations. On the other hand, neither of us
cared to play the bloodhound for Russia or to sow the seeds of greater
discord between Sweden and France. Charles XII. himself could scarcely
have been a more troublesome or unwelcome prisoner. I knew from the
expression of M. de Lambert’s face that he regretted his own skill in
capturing the Swede. But the fact that we had him was palpable enough,
and what should we do with him? He was scanning our perplexed faces
with an anxious eye. I turned on him sternly.

“Young man,” I said, “you admit that you are a Swedish spy and that
you intended a mischief to the person of the Polish envoy. How dare
you appeal to French gentlemen for protection from your just fate? We
have no authority to save you from the Russians. This is Moscow, not
Paris. Why should we interpose at the expense of our country to save a
miscreant from the gallows?”

He had listened to me in silence, but a strange change came over his
face; it was no longer stolid, but quivered with emotion. He did not
appear like a coward at first, yet now he was showing every sign of
trepidation. When I finished speaking, he looked at me with a haggard
face.

“You will give me up, then?” he exclaimed in a low voice.

“Why not?” I asked coolly, leaning back in my chair, and shading my
face with my hand that he might not see my perplexity; “why should I
save a criminal?”

“And I shall die that shameful death,” he groaned. “My poor mother!”

I could see by M. de Lambert’s face that he was weakening. He was a
gallant soldier, but he had the softest heart I ever knew save in
woman. At the first sign of the fellow’s distress he began to waver,
and cast reproachful glances at me as I spoke sternly and sharply.

“What is your name?” he asked, abruptly addressing the prisoner.

The Swede’s cheeks burned with shame, but he seemed to derive some
comfort from the expression of M. de Lambert’s frank face.

“My name is Gustavus Lenk,” he said slowly; “a poor Swedish gentleman
of the king’s household. My record has been honorable, but now they
will hang me like a common spy.”

He covered his face with his hands, and broke down in unmanly grief. M.
de Lambert plucked my sleeve, making a mute appeal to me for mercy, but
I shook my head and answered him in low tones in French.

“We cannot take the responsibility,” I said. “We are in the service of
the King of France, we must do our duty.”

“I know it,” he replied; “but this is a poor fellow, and you know what
Russian justice is, monsieur.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “It is but a chance of war,” I said calmly;
“a man coming on such an errand takes his life in his hand. I confess
I should pity him more if he showed himself more of a man. He is too
womanish.”

“He is young,” M. de Lambert rejoined pitifully, “and they will torture
him. I know that Madame de Brousson would intercede for him; she--”

“Saint Denis!” I exclaimed sharply, “do not tell her. This is no case
for a woman!”

The Swede had recovered his composure and was watching us. I read his
face, and saw that he knew that M. de Lambert was pleading for him;
hope was kindling in his eyes. I pitied him myself more than I chose to
admit; he looked but a boy, and I knew only too well the truth of M. de
Lambert’s plea.

“Young man,” I said harshly, “you will be shut up in this house for an
hour or so while we deliberate, but prepare yourself for the worst. M.
de Lambert,” I added, “let Pierrot take him to the west room and guard
the door.”

M. de Lambert looked at me a moment, as if endeavoring to read my
thoughts, and then went himself with the prisoner, who submitted
without a word, a look of dull despair on his face. I heard them walk
across the hall, heard the thud of the bar in its sockets as M. de
Lambert secured the door. Then I heard him summon Pierrot to go on duty
at the door. After a moment he came back and sat down at the table. I
had extinguished two of the tapers, but the light of the remaining one
fell on his face, which was still anxious. We looked straight into each
other’s eyes.

“It was the only way,” I said, after a moment, smiling in spite of
myself.

“He is extremely dull,” M. de Lambert replied thoughtfully, “and half
stupefied with terror.”

“But, monsieur,” I said dryly, “the window is unbarred.”

Guillaume’s face lighted. “Then surely it will dawn upon his
intelligence,” he exclaimed with relief.

“It is an awkward situation,” I returned, “and if he is the blockhead I
think him, he may not look for an escape.”

“Or Touchet or Pierrot may recapture him,” suggested my companion,
uneasily.

“Pierrot is no such fool,” I said, smiling, “Touchet might blunder, but
not the other old fox.”

Nevertheless, we sat there above an hour in some suspense, and then
Pierrot came to the door. His manner was perfect.

“M. le Maréchal,” he cried, “shall I alarm the guard? The prisoner has
escaped!”

“How and when?” I exclaimed sharply, playing my part; but M. de
Lambert’s honest face flamed.

“Through the window, monsieur,” said Pierrot; “the shutters are broken
open. He must have been gone some time, for Touchet relieved me at the
door, and says he had heard no noise since he was there.”

“Then pursuit is useless,” I said calmly; “you may secure the house and
retire, Pierrot. We must avoid the west room as a prison; see that the
shutters are barred.”

“Very well, your Excellency,” he said, and moved away with his usual
unruffled countenance.

M. Guillaume drew a breath of relief, and I laughed.

“Not such a dullard as we thought,” I said, “and we have escaped more
easily than I hoped.”

“What will become of the Polish envoy?” he asked after a moment.

I shrugged my shoulders. “He must protect himself,” I said dryly; “and
as for you, monsieur, be careful to wear your own cloak in the future.”

“It is a dangerous thing to wear another man’s in Russia, it appears,”
he replied with a smile.




CHAPTER VIII.

A MEDDLESOME COUSIN.


SINCE the first meeting with mademoiselle before the Tower of Ivan
Veliki, M. de Lambert had found it convenient to pass in that direction
at a certain hour every afternoon. Mademoiselle did not appear so
frequently, but Madame de Brousson and I knew the days on which he
was fortunate by his high good-humor; and the rest of the week we had
cause enough to regret Najine’s caprice, since his mood was usually
gloomy, and he found endless fault with Touchet, who was his particular
attendant. But one evening he came in from the Kremlin, having seen
mademoiselle, but still being in so terrible a temper that I divined
at once that something was wrong. He ate little at supper, and it
evidently cost him an effort to respond to Zénaïde’s pleasantry. She
made covert signs to me to observe him, and soon slipped out of the
room to give me an opportunity to sound him. When we were alone, I
rallied him on his gloomy mood.

“You were fortunate to-day, I know,” I said lightly; “you saw
mademoiselle, yet you have been but an owl at my feast. Forsooth, when
I was of your age, I had a lighter heart.”

He looked at me gravely. “I have had heavy tidings,” he said;
“mademoiselle had some information to-day. The intrigues of Catherine
Shavronsky are in vain. The czar has spoken openly to the Councillor
Zotof.”

I started; here indeed was a climax. Since the scene at Mentchikof’s, I
had hung high hopes on the Livonian girl; but if the czar was seriously
considering a marriage with mademoiselle, all my schemes dissolved in
air.

“Did she give you the particulars?” I asked.

“All that she knew,” he replied moodily. “Madame told her that she must
prepare to accept the formal proposals of the czar, as he had already
spoken of it to Zotof. When Najine protested that she would not listen
to him, madame became violent and screamed with passion, threatening
her with confinement and I know not what. Before she shall be coerced,”
he touched his sword, “I will settle the account with her uncle.”

I looked at his haughty face with secret admiration, but I laughed.

“You are a young fool,” I said dryly. “Zotof is only doing what he
thinks is best for his niece; it would be a mistake to chastise him. If
you bagged madame, I should congratulate you with all my heart, for she
has the tongue of a vixen. Her husband is following his lights. After
all, you make a great evil out of what would seem to many the climax
of a noble maid’s ambition,--to ascend a throne.”

I could not forbear tormenting him a little, and he fretted under it,
his blood rising to his hair.

“The czar is personally unacceptable to mademoiselle,” he said proudly.

I laughed. “Come, come, M. de Lambert,” I said lightly, “if you were
out of the way, would the czar be unacceptable? A gallant soldier, a
generous foe, a warm-hearted despot, and, above all, a man of imperial
presence. Kings are usually fortunate wooers; we know of one, at least,
who has been ever so. Are you not standing in mademoiselle’s light?
Ought you not rather to retire generously and behold her Czarina and
Grand Duchess of all the Russias? M. Guillaume, you are selfish.”

He sprang to his feet with a passionate gesture, his fine face flushed
and his brown eyes kindling; as he confronted me, I thought that I had
never seen a better picture of a soldier and a lover.

“M. le Vicomte,” he said, “I love mademoiselle well enough to be
generous. If I thought she desired the throne, I would withdraw,
but she assures me that she dreads the violence and the passion of
the czar; she has no wish to take the place of the wife whom he has
divorced. In thinking of the crown, she remembers a poor dishonored
woman, in an open postcart, going to hide her uncrowned head behind a
convent’s walls. And,” he added, looking at me proudly, “mademoiselle
loves me.”

I bowed my head. “Mademoiselle’s will is law,” I said at once; “you
have my congratulations, monsieur. When a woman prefers you to a
czar, you may consider yourself a fortunate man. I honor her for her
constancy.”

“She is an angel,” he replied briefly, as he walked to and fro,--his
habit when excited.

“Are you not over-anxious,” I remarked, after a little thought. “Has
not madame pushed matters, to alarm and intimidate mademoiselle?
Mayhap, there is more smoke than fire. I thought that I saw signs of
great favor for the Livonian girl.”

Without a word he walked to the table, and, thrusting his hand into his
breast, brought out a packet, and laid a splendid ring in my hand. I
recognized it at once, for it bore the double-headed eagle. Turning it
over in my palm, I glanced at him interrogatively.

“Madame brought it to mademoiselle as a present from the czar,” he said
significantly.

I looked at it again and smiled. “And mademoiselle brought it to you,”
I remarked. “A dangerous thing to possess, monsieur.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “As safe for me as for her,” he said.

“Perilous for both,” I replied. “Let me borrow it for a while,” I
added, after a moment, a sudden thought having suggested a new course
of action.

“Keep it,” he said indifferently. “Mademoiselle was anxious to be rid
of it, and I promised to lose it for her in the river.”

“It would have been wiser to have kept the promise, monsieur,” I
remarked. “The czar’s ring is an evil ornament for a foreigner, and
evil indeed for you; so I will even take it into my own custody for the
time.”

“I care not,” he rejoined indifferently; “do with it as you will. I am
determined only to rescue mademoiselle, if I have to carry her off by
force.”

“Is she willing to submit to your guidance?” I asked quietly. “As a
rule, the Russian maiden is too strictly trained to contemplate a
stolen marriage, especially under such peculiar conditions.”

“That is the trouble,” he replied gloomily; “she is full of doubts and
hesitations. She fears for me and for herself. There are a hundred
obstacles, and yet is she a brave woman and a true.”

“I doubt it not, monsieur,” I replied gravely, “but you would marry her
at the risk of your life. You remember the scene at Mentchikof’s? That
was caused by a trivial incident. The czar has violent moods, and it
would rouse him to fury to be thwarted in this matter. We are treading
on dangerous ground, and it behooves us to be careful.”

“I count the danger of small consequence,” he said calmly; and I knew
that his absolute fearlessness was as likely to be disastrous as his
impetuosity.

“The risk must, however, be considered on mademoiselle’s behalf,” I
warned him; and he acquiesced.

I looked again at the ring, and then, wrapping it carefully, put it in
my pocket, for I had a purpose in regard to it. The czar was liberal
with his tokens, it seemed.

“I marvel what he has done with his portrait, framed in diamonds, which
he took away from Anna Mons,” I said to myself, and then laughed aloud,
although M. de Lambert did not understand the drift of my thoughts,
and was piqued at my boisterous merriment. But I could not forbear; it
was too absurd. Would mademoiselle fall heir to the picture that had
belonged to Anna Mons--and also to Eudoxia’s crown? How happy is the
woman whose destiny depends upon the caprice of a tyrant!

An hour later, I summoned Pierrot, and, covering my figure with a dark
cloak, made my way on foot to the palace of Mentchikof. The night
was dark, for the young moon gave no light and there was a cold wind
blowing that cut my face, and Pierrot and I both walked with our heads
bent to avoid it. Entering the courtyard, I passed around to the side
of the house, where a short flight of stone steps built in the wall
led to a private door where only a few favored guests were admitted. A
porter answered my summons and held up his light to examine us, while
yawning prodigiously, as if he had been asleep at his post. I sent a
message desiring to see Mademoiselle Shavronsky. He left me waiting in
an ante-room, and was some time absent, returning at last to conduct
me through a long corridor into a suite of apartments that I had never
seen. I expected to be received by the family or by Madame Golovin,
at least, but was surprised to be ushered into a large room where I
found only Catherine herself and a young Russian attendant, who sat
in a corner over her embroidery, never once raising her eyes from her
work. When I entered, Catherine was half reclining on an ottoman that
was covered with a rug of sable, but at my appearance she rose, and
greeted me with a manner at once frank and dignified. In spite of her
short stature, there was majesty in her bearing, and she had never
looked more handsome, although her attire was simple, and she wore no
jewel, not even in her hair, which was rolled back from her brow after
the fashion affected by the ladies of the French court. This Livonian
peasant girl was, after all, a singular character; she had the intrepid
courage and the unflinching purpose of a man, together with the charm
of a woman.

She was the first to speak. “This is, indeed, an honor, M. le
Maréchal,” she said pleasantly, “and if I mistake not, you have tidings
for me.”

I looked at her and smiled. If it pleased her to be direct, why should
I not humor her?

“Mademoiselle,” I said, “I am a seeker after information. Mentchikof
stands so near the person of his imperial Majesty that I felt that in
this household I should learn the truth. I have heard that the czar is
soon to wed again.”

She started violently, the color leaving her face.

“Your authority, sir?” she exclaimed sharply.

Watching her, I drew the ring out and laid it on my palm. She took a
step nearer, and stood looking at the bauble, and I saw her breath come
quickly and her eyes dilate. We were both silent; after a moment she
looked up into my face.

“Whence came it?” she asked in a low voice.

I shrugged my shoulders and laughed.

“Mademoiselle, you press me too closely with questions,” I said
quietly, “but you know the ring?”

She put out her hand to take it, but I evaded her.

“Give it to me, M. le Maréchal,” she said petulantly; “lend it to me,
if only for a day.”

“No, no, mademoiselle,” I said lightly. “It was only lent to me. I
cannot take the risk.”

She looked at me like a wilful child, but I saw the tigress gleaming in
her eyes.

“I beg it of you, monsieur,” she said passionately, “I--who never sue
for favors. I pray you give me this ring for a day, for an hour.”

“Not for a moment, mademoiselle,” I replied, returning it to my breast.
“I have been your friend to-night, but I cannot give you this. I must
remember the person who gave it to me.”

“She cannot value it,” Catherine exclaimed.

I looked at her calmly. “He, mademoiselle,” I said quietly; “you
confound the sex.”

She gazed at me a moment in amazement, and then a sudden intelligence
illumined her eyes. She knew that Mademoiselle Zotof had given it to M.
de Lambert.

“Tell him,” she said with emphasis, “to be loyal in his devotion, and
happiness will crown it.”

“Mademoiselle,” I responded gallantly, “I know of no one who deserves
it more than you, and I count myself fortunate to be your friend.”

She gave me a peculiar glance, and stood trying to devise some way to
obtain her wish.

“Let me look at the ring once more, then,” she coaxed, changing from
angry demands to a pretty persuasion that did not suit her passionate
face so well.

I let her look at the ring, and then had much ado to keep it from her
covetous fingers. She was eager enough to snatch it if I was but an
instant off my guard, and she began, too, to be piqued at my obstinacy,
so that I saw that I was in a delicate place and half regretted my
manœuvre. Putting her off and arguing with her, I managed to evade
her; but I found it expedient to withdraw as speedily as possible,
foreseeing only endless contention, for she had the kind of persistence
that achieves success.

I was glad enough to be in the open air again, and quickened my pace as
I crossed the court. I had warned Catherine, and I did not doubt her
activity. After all, she was much better suited to the czar’s temper
than a woman like Najine Zotof. When mademoiselle would not understand
him, and would shrink from his violent moods, this Livonian girl would
be full of sympathy for his ambitions, and unrevolted by the coarser
aspect of his nature. I could see that she had a feline temperament,
full of passion and intrigue, and that she was not scrupulous as to the
means by which she could further her ends. My mind was so full of these
thoughts that I almost stumbled upon a man at the gate of the court. As
I apologized, he recognized me.

“A word with you, monsieur,” he said, in bad French.

I was, at first, perplexed; then something in his figure suggested a
memory, and I knew him. It was Yury Apraxin.

“I am at your service, monsieur,” I said, not a little surprised.

“By your leave, then,” he replied, “I will walk with you to the end of
the street.”

“As you will, M. Apraxin,” I said.

He turned and accompanied me along the narrow way. He was a stranger,
and I was curious to know what he wanted from me. For a few moments he
was silent, and we could hear Pierrot’s even tread close behind us,
which made me smile, for I knew that he was on the watch.

“M. de Brousson,” Apraxin said at last, “I am a relative of
Mademoiselle Zotof, and, as such, I desire to warn you to restrain your
friend M. de Lambert from persecuting her.”

“Persecuting mademoiselle!” I exclaimed with unfeigned astonishment.

“Those were my words, sir,” he replied haughtily. “I pray you tell M.
de Lambert that he cannot dog mademoiselle’s footsteps to and from
church unobserved, and that if the Councillor Zotof does not interfere,
he will have to account to me.”

“You take a high tone, monsieur,” I said tauntingly, for the boy’s
insolence annoyed me, “but you forget that a French gentleman is not
likely to submit to the dictation of a sulky lad.”

“Your gray hairs should be respected, M. de Brousson,” he said in a
choked voice, for he was furious, “but it is unnecessary to insult me.
I have a right to protect my _fiancée_, and I will. No French coxcomb
shall pursue her here against her guardian’s wishes.”

“And yours, monsieur,” I added dryly. “You are a young man, M. Apraxin;
be advised, and meddle not too much with one of the most expert
swordsmen that I know.”

We had reached the turning of the street and he stopped. I knew, even
in the darkness, that he could ill suppress his rage.

“You think me a coward, sir,” he cried fiercely, “because I did not
strike back at the czar, but you mistake me. That insult burnt through
my face to my soul, and I will not endure such from a lesser man. ‘An
expert swordsman,’” he added with an oath. “I care as little for his
sword as I do for a straw. I have given him a fair warning. Najine is
betrothed to me, and I will brook no interference with my affairs.”

“Rumor supplies another destiny for mademoiselle,” I said, unable to
suppress a desire to lash the ill-tempered fool to fury.

“Rumor lies!” he answered with fierce emphasis. “She is to be my wife,
and no one else shall wed her.”

“I trust that mademoiselle is of your mind,” I replied, turning away
with feigned indifference, “otherwise I fear she will think you but
a sullen bridegroom. I wish you good-night, monsieur; a good rest
will clear your brain of many of these hallucinations. Take a sleeping
potion and seek your couch.”

I heard him muttering some passionate reply, but passed on unheeding,
although secretly disturbed, for here was a new difficulty for
Guillaume de Lambert. An ill-tempered boy spying upon him was enough
evil to make his interviews with mademoiselle a source of anxiety to
me. Moreover, I foresaw that they would speedily cease, since it was
improbable that Apraxin would fail to use the simplest means to end
them, by informing her uncle; and, once mademoiselle was confined
to the house, communication would be difficult in the extreme. Yet
I smiled a little over the situation; what a trio of lovers had
mademoiselle! A czar, a French soldier, and a violent-tempered boy,
whose face had been slapped by his imperial rival. What would be next?

And, on the other hand, the women. Catherine rose before my mental
vision, a distinct and remarkable figure; her fate could be no common
one; natures cast in that mould must achieve the highest or fall to
the lowest. By contrast, I saw mademoiselle, delicately formed, but
stately, high-spirited, charming, with that fine quality of soul that
spurns the mire, that is free from vulgar ambition, noble, generous,
and before all tenderly affectionate, not formed of the stuff that
makes an empress, and yet imperial enough, in her young beauty and
purity, to adorn the most brilliant court in Europe. What a strange
tangle in the skein of destiny had brought these heterogeneous
characters together, and caught them in the meshes of the glittering
net of court intrigue? Even so the fisher, when he casts his net into
the sea, draws forth all manner of fish.




CHAPTER IX.

MADEMOISELLE’S BRACELET.


WHEN I warned M. de Lambert of Apraxin’s jealousy, he treated it
with the scorn that I had anticipated. To him the disappointed lover
seemed but a sulky boy, and he attached no importance to his threats
until he found that mademoiselle came no more to the cathedral. It was
evident that the ill-tempered youth had become a tale-bearer; failing
to execute his threat in any other way, he separated mademoiselle
from her lover by the interposition of her uncle’s authority. M.
Guillaume fretted and fumed to no purpose; if he had met Apraxin he
would undoubtedly have given him a thrashing, but the young fellow
had cleverness enough to evade him, and time passed with no news from
mademoiselle. The day arrived for the semi-annual blessing of the river
Moskva before this silence was broken.

The blessing of the river was a ceremony as old and as sacred in the
eyes of the Moscovite as the holy white city of Moscow itself. Four
years before, Peter had made one of those changes which shocked the
conservative Russian. It had been the custom to begin the year on the
1st of September, dating from the beginning of the world, for the
Russians believed that the earth was created in the autumn with its
perfected fruits. By an imperial decree, his Majesty ordered the year
to begin on the 1st of January, dating from the birth of our Blessed
Lord, as all the nations of Europe were accustomed to date it. This
was in 1700, and his people received the change with as little favor
as they received the czar’s other innovations. The custom of blessing
the river fell upon the Feast of Epiphany, and was a solemn event. The
patriarch and all the clergy of Moscow were present with the czar and
the court officials, foreign ministers and residents; rich and great,
poor and humble, assembled on the banks of the river to witness the
benediction.

The day was fair; the sun shone on the white walls and buildings
of the Kremlin and on domes of gold and green and azure, and on a
myriad cupolas, all studded with stars and surmounted by crosses, and
everywhere touched by the white hand of the snow; and circling around
them, soaring high overhead, flew the ravens of the Kremlin, their
croaking voices making a strange monotone through all the ceremonies,
their black forms now sweeping around some tower, now floating, with
suspended wings, above some great cathedral. The city was full of
activity, its narrow streets thronged with people, crowding toward the
one spot, until every avenue was choked with the masses. M. de Lambert
and I were fortunately placed, and could look down upon the scene. It
was an orderly assembly, for the Russian has a deep reverence for holy
things, and there was no confusion even where the populace pressed
close upon the soldiers. The river was frozen, and the troops were
drawn up upon its bosom, phalanx after phalanx, war-worn veterans and
raw conscripts, Russian and Cossack, presenting a curious spectacle
to the eyes of the foreigners. I marked the great improvement in
organization, in bearing, in clothing. Here was an army where there
had been none, and it was due to the untiring energy and ambition
of one man. The sun flashed on polished arms, on coats-of-mail, on
helmets, and on the blades of Damascus, as the troopers waited there
upon the ice, a great, compact, unwavering mass of men; and in their
midst, mounted on his favorite horse, Lisette, was the czar, more like
an image than a man, his great stature and huge limbs seeming to make
other men diminutive. The center of all the pomp and panoply of war,
surrounded by his glittering staff, he wore the simple uniform of a
Colonel of the Preobrazhensky regiment, his personal guards, and there
was no order, only the Greek cross on his breast. The Preobrazhensky
regiment was the outgrowth of those boy soldiers that the common people
had called the _Potieshnie Koniukhi_, “troops for sport,” and Peter
had risen from the rank of bombardier sergeant, having enlisted in
that capacity under the name of Peter Alexéief. It was his peculiarity
to court a simplicity that was sometimes an offence to the pride of
the Russians accustomed to look upon the person of the czar as sacred.
That day, the expression of his face was stern and even sad. He was
subject to seasons of melancholy, and for the time was under the shadow
of some depression. A man who stands above his fellows, not only by
virtue of his rank but by a certain greatness of soul, is alienated
from their sympathy,--isolated in his elevation. Peter was a reformer,
and since the world began reformers have been more or less hated by
their contemporaries. I think the czar felt peculiarly alone, and there
was, too, some shadow on his soul that no human sympathy could reach.
He sat there on his splendid horse, a solitary figure amidst those
tens of thousands, a soldier, a statesman, an emperor, and alone in
the presence of his people. Every eye in that vast assembly was upon
him, but he was as unconscious as a statue. Near him was the patriarch,
his pontificals blazing with gold and silver and jewels, his miter
surmounted by a jewelled cross,--an imposing figure surrounded by his
priests in their Byzantine robes, their copes of silver and gold, and
the acolytes in vestments of nacarat velvet and gold. They went down
into the little open chapel that had been erected over the square cut
through the ice to the dark water below; the slender pillars of the
chapel supported a dome in which was suspended the dove with its golden
rays, and about it stood the silent, statuelike guard of soldiers,
and in the biting cold every head was bare. In the silence that falls
upon a multitude when hearts are stirred, the priests chanted the
solemn service, and at the final moment the cannon boomed heavily
upon the air, then again came the low, even chant of the priests. The
patriarch’s voice, though clear and loud, did not reach the outskirts
of the vast assembly, and many there could only follow the ceremony
by his gestures; but the responsive tones of the people rose in low
deep notes, one mighty wave of sound, which was echoed from the
battlements of the Kremlin and rolled away toward those vast plains
that, surrounding the city, extend as far as the eye can reach to be
lost in the horizon. Yet, impressive as was the ceremony, splendid as
was the figure of the patriarch, all were alike insignificant beside
that silent man upon his horse; the ruler of the Russias held the
throng fascinated by that peculiar power that made Peter always the
central figure; something about his individuality that was more than
the mere habit of command and was born with him, constituting one of
those influences which exalted his personality in the estimation of his
people, in spite of a hundred faults and weaknesses that would have
ruined a lesser man.

The scene left an enduring impress upon my mind; the clear atmosphere,
the pale blue sky, the white Kremlin, the frozen river, and the
brilliant assemblage, blazing with gold and jewels, against the
background of the populace in their dark and often ragged clothing,
brightened here and there with a touch of scarlet or of blue.

After the ceremony was concluded, there was a procession to the
churches, and a banquet at the Kremlin, at which the czar entertained
all the ambassadors and the nobility,--one of those tedious and
interminable feasts which were so burdensome with their ceremonial
and their inevitable termination in carousal, for the Russians and
the Germans, of whom there were many, were heavy drinkers. I noted a
significant indication of the drift of intrigue in the presence of
the Councillor Zotof in the personal circle of the czar, and saw that
Mentchikof was as uneasy and watchful as his opponent was complaisant.
Zotof was one of those blatant fools who congratulate themselves too
soon on an apparent victory, and was not keen enough to measure the wit
and the resources of the favorite. The czar’s gloomy mood cast a shadow
upon the fête, and I observed that he did not respond at all to M. de
Lambert’s obeisance,--another sign of the times. King Augustus’ private
envoy had departed, and I could not avoid some speculation about the
Swedish spy. I fancied that he had either followed the Pole or was
still loitering about the court in quest of valuable information. We
had so happily escaped all responsibility in regard to him that I
congratulated myself on my good fortune in finding a solution of the
difficulty.

In the course of the day Alexander Mentchikof found an opportunity to
speak to me privately.

“M. le Vicomte,” he said, “I thank you for your visit to my house.
Mademoiselle Catherine told me all, and I shall not forget your
friendship. Tell M. de Lambert to be of good cheer; the game is not yet
lost, and it will be many a day before I yield to that old fool across
the way.”

He referred to Zotof, who was standing opposite, talking to a group of
his friends, and the picture of self-satisfaction.

“Mademoiselle Shavronsky is well?” I inquired courteously, anxious to
avoid a too personal conversation.

The favorite smiled, and gave me a keen glance. “Mademoiselle is under
a cloud at present,” he said significantly, “but there must be a change
erelong, unless we surrender at discretion, and you know how probable
that is.”

“I cannot imagine it, monsieur,” I replied dryly, “and you have my good
wishes.”

“I thank you,” he said with dignity, as he turned to rejoin the czar.

Peter had been observing us, and it was sometimes unpleasant to find
his keen eye upon you; it must have been peculiarly uncomfortable for
Mentchikof at a time when he was straining every nerve to thwart his
master’s fancy for Mademoiselle Zotof.

It was near midnight when M. de Lambert and I left the Kremlin
together. We were not in a talkative mood, and traversed the streets
in silence, each wrapped in his own thoughts. Mine were anxious, and I
fancied that his were gloomy, since there had been little to reassure
him at court to-day. We had reached the door of our lodgings when a man
stepped out of the shadow of the house and, approaching M. de Lambert,
addressed him in Russ.

“A word with you, master,” he said.

My foot was already on the doorstep, but I stopped, feeling some alarm
for my companion.

“You may speak here,” M. de Lambert said sharply.

The fellow hesitated. “I was directed to deliver my message to you
alone,” he replied, drawing a small packet from under his cloak.

“I am alone,” M. Guillaume said.

“My mistress directed me to place this in your hands,” the man
explained, giving him the packet and turning away.

“Hold!” exclaimed M. de Lambert, excitedly; “there is some answer?”

“None,” the messenger replied, “and I dare not linger. I have waited
too long already.”

He turned as he spoke and walked rapidly away, his figure soon
disappearing in the darkness. M. de Lambert, following me into the
house, went directly to a table in the hall where Pierrot had left the
tapers burning. The packet was a small one, tied with a gold cord. In
a moment M. de Lambert had it open, disclosing a band of gold with a
single large emerald on the clasp, a bracelet that I had myself seen
on the arm of Mademoiselle Zotof; wrapped about it was a strip of
paper which her lover unfolded eagerly. I confess that I was nearly as
curious as he, and watched his face as he read it.

“She has been closely guarded,” he said after a moment, “but she can be
at the bridge to-morrow at dusk.”

“At the bridge at dusk,” I repeated; “this is a strange appointment,
monsieur. If she has been closely guarded, it is marvellous that she
can evade them at such an hour and that she should select such a spot
Are you sure that it is her writing?”

He was half indignant at my criticism.

“It is not only her writing, monsieur,” he replied, “but this is her
bracelet.”

“I recognize the token,” I said, “but older blood is cautious, and I
like neither the place nor the hour of the appointment. However, you
can take both Pierrot and Touchet with you, which will be a greater
protection for mademoiselle.”

“That cannot be,” he answered quickly, “since she especially requests
me to come unattended, for some reason of her own.”

For the moment I was silent. Not only did mademoiselle’s request
surprise me, but it seemed unnatural and without justification. She
knew that her lover was encompassed by a net of intrigue, and it was
more like a woman to surround him with precaution than to desire him to
risk his person unprotected in a lonely spot at nightfall, and I could
not suppose that she intended to bring a sufficient guard, for in the
very act of evading the authority of her guardian she could scarcely
command a numerous escort. The whole business seemed to me suspicious,
but I saw that he was carried away by the one thought of seeing
mademoiselle once more.

“At least, monsieur,” I said, “you will permit me to accompany you
as a friend, if I stand at a distance and do not offend against
mademoiselle’s rules.”

He smiled a little at my words.

“I cannot even permit that,” he replied. “I must obey not only in the
letter but the spirit.”

“A faithful lover,” I said, smiling also; “I wish I shared your
confidence in the authenticity of the document. At least, monsieur, go
armed and be watchful. There are many here who would rejoice at your
undoing; the fact that we have not lately seen a spy at your heels does
not reassure me. Prince Dolgoruky saw that we were over-watchful, and
it may be that he would disarm our suspicion, if he could. I know the
ways of Moscow, and I warn you to beware upon what ground you tread.”

He was standing on the opposite side of the table, holding
mademoiselle’s bracelet in his fingers, and he looked at me and smiled.

“In the old days, monsieur,” he said, “were you as cautious? If Madame
de Brousson had sent for you, would you have waited for an escort?”

I laughed and shook my head.

“Young blood,” I said, “young blood! I do not criticise you, monsieur,
I only suggest caution. I cannot say that I exercised it. Fortunately
for me, I got off with my life. The dangers which surround you are less
violent, but far more subtle. Be warned, M. de Lambert, and look well
to sword and pistol before you keep the tryst.”




CHAPTER X.

THE TRYST.


MADEMOISELLE CATHERINE had fallen into a dangerous habit of sending
me little billets, written at her dictation by Madame Golovin. Subtle
enough in many ways, the Livonian had still a woman’s excitable
temperament, and was without patience to watch the results. In these
missives she and Madame Golovin veiled their meaning but thinly, and it
was not difficult to identify the czar, Najine, and Prince Dolgoruky.
Since Peter’s gift of a ring to mademoiselle, Catherine had been little
noticed, and those who thought they saw in her a possible successor to
Anna Mons began to doubt her influence, but I was not one of these.
She actually loved the czar, and her nature was one that would be
peculiarly adapted to his, and, knowing that she was aiming at the
throne, I believed that nothing stood between her and her desire but
Mademoiselle Zotof. Mademoiselle, however, had a tremendous advantage
over her rival; Catherine was of humble origin, and her passions and
ambitions were alike involved; on the other hand, Najine was noble and
entirely indifferent to her imperial lover; she would be betrayed into
no indiscretion, and her birth, her beauty, and her friends would all
demand the crown for her. It would be impolitic--almost impossible--for
his imperial Majesty to put a slight upon the faction that supported
her, and mademoiselle’s personal repugnance to the marriage only piqued
the pride of a suitor who had never before been rejected. Catherine
was quick to see all the disadvantages of her own position and the
advantages of her rival’s, and was therefore urgent in her desire to
forward M. de Lambert’s fortunes. Immediately after Najine’s message
reached him, Mademoiselle Shavronsky sent me a note warning me that the
czar’s personal attendants had been commanded to watch M. Guillaume.
I read the missive twice over to be certain that I understood it,
although not surprised that such instruction had been given. The czar’s
manner to the young Frenchman indicated extreme displeasure, but I was
astonished that the order had been issued so carelessly as to reach the
ears of Mentchikof. Either Peter was willing that his favorite should
see that he preferred mademoiselle, or else Mentchikof had so environed
him with spies that nothing was concealed and he could manipulate every
thread in the skein. It seemed almost useless to tell M. de Lambert; he
was in a heedless mood, bent only on seeing mademoiselle and with all
a brave man’s indifference to peril. In fact, I think the danger of
the situation had its own peculiar charms for him, and he counted every
risk for Najine’s sake a source of comfort and rejoicing. To Pierrot
I could speak with more confidence, and instructed him to be doubly
cautious, especially as we could place less trust in Touchet’s sagacity.

“Since M. de Lambert is sure to be watched,” I concluded, “you and
Touchet must exercise a peculiar vigilance and endeavor to evade the
spies.”

“Prince Dolgoruky’s equerry has been about here for two days, M. le
Maréchal,” Pierrot replied calmly; “after M. de Lambert threw him down
at the Kremlin he kept away for a while, but now he has returned to his
old vocation, and there is also another fellow with him, who, I think,
wears the czar’s livery under his cloak.”

“That is likely enough,” I said, thinking of Catherine’s warning;
“watch both of them, but especially Tikhon; he has a personal grudge
against M. de Lambert, and is therefore the more dangerous. It will go
ill with us, Pierrot, if we cannot outwit these Russians; we did it
in our young days, and if we fail now it will be because old age is
creeping on.”

A smile illumined Pierrot’s stolid face. “Ah, M. le Vicomte,” he said,
“we should never have returned to Moscow, for it is our fate here to
be constantly mixed up with love and desperate intrigue. I am getting
old and stiff, monsieur, and cannot defeat these rascals so easily as I
did twenty years ago.”

“Do not confess your age or your stiff joints, Pierrot,” I said,
laughing; “it is too soon to be laid upon the shelf by the wild young
gallants of to-day. Moreover, they need our counsel.”

“The more they need it, the less likely they are to take it, monsieur,”
he said dryly. “Touchet is a featherhead, and M. de Lambert is
over-rash, although a noble and gallant gentleman. He reminds me of
you, M. le Maréchal, in your youth; the same brave, loyal, and devoted
soldier. I think of the old days often, and of madame when she was
Mademoiselle Ramodanofsky.”

“We are a couple of old fools, Pierrot,” I replied, “for I think of
it too, and perhaps that is why I have so much forbearance for M.
Guillaume.”

Pierrot shook his head and smiled. “Ah, monsieur,” he said, “you
were a gallant young gentleman too; and Mademoiselle Zénaïde--how
well I remember her as she looked when we brought you up the stairs
unconscious, after you had saved her life and the others! Those were
brave days, M. le Vicomte; you had the swiftest and the strongest
sword-thrust that it has been my good fortune to see; you--”

“Hush, man!” I interrupted, “you make me an old fogy. My hand has not
yet lost its cunning. You talk of me as an old fellow without a good
right arm.”

“The saints forbid!” Pierrot said devoutly; “but you are now a marshal
of France and you were then a young cavalier. It is the bâton that is
for you now, rather than the sword and the dagger.”

“True enough, Pierrot,” I assented with a sigh; “I must remember my
dignity and my years, and let the young have the adventures. Soon it
will be my son who has his father’s old tricks with the rapier, and I
shall be but a gouty old gentleman who was once marshal of France, but
is now a fossil too stiff for service in the field and laid upon the
shelf. Well, well, Pierrot, an old sword and an old servant, I hope,
will be left me.”

There were tears in the honest fellow’s eyes. “My father died in the
service of your house, M. le Vicomte,” he said proudly, “and I will die
in yours.”

At a later hour my wife came to me with a troubled face.

“M. de Lambert is determined to keep his appointment,” she said, “and
to go unattended; but it seems to me that Pierrot ought to follow him
without his knowledge.”

“I thought of that,” I replied, “but it looked unfair to follow him
against his wishes,--a betrayal of his confidence.”

Zénaïde shrugged her shoulders. “I would not draw such distinctions,”
she said, with a woman’s fine disdain of a man’s scruples; “his life is
the first object. You know, Philippe, I do not believe that Najine ever
sent that message; it is unnatural and unwomanly, but M. de Lambert
will not listen to me. I believe I admire him the more for his rash
devotion; still I would protect him, whether he wished it or not.”

I reflected, for her opinion and mine coincided, and I felt most
reluctant to allow the young man to expose himself to unnecessary risk.
So it was that I called Pierrot, who had withdrawn, and instructed him
to follow M. de Lambert when he departed at dusk to keep the tryst.

An appointment with the czar took me to the Kremlin two hours before
the important moment. At this time the Swedes were occupying the
provinces of Kalisz and Posen, in Poland, and the Polish Primate,
Cardinal Radziejowski, had summoned a Diet at Warsaw, ostensibly
that the Republic of Poland might make a separate peace with Charles
XII., but with the real purpose of deposing Augustus of Saxony. The
confederation of Schrod, or Great Poland, was under the protection of
the King of Sweden, who was proposing Prince Jacob Sobieski to succeed
Augustus. It was an intrigue to control Poland and dethrone her king,
looked upon with little favor by the powers. Peter was continually
endeavoring to feel the pulse of France; to ascertain how far the king
my master would interfere between him and Charles XII., and whether
the partition of Poland or the downfall of Augustus would be regarded
with indifference by the French. My moves were even more cautious
than his; sent to watch the disposition of Russia toward the Grand
Alliance, and to ascertain how far the czar would go in upholding
Augustus in Saxony, I played the game of cross purposes day by day,
though I often saw the hot-tempered czar fretted by my complaisance and
by the apparent indifference of France. While I never admitted that I
was an envoy of my government, Peter allowed me to see that he divined
my mission; but through all the manœuvring he did not forget to probe
me about M. de Lambert and mademoiselle. He was quite aware that she
preferred her French lover, and it must have been a keen annoyance to
his haughty nature. His personal feeling toward me was cordial; he was
easy to approach, his large nature scorning the trivial etiquette of
courts, and, in spite of his violent temper and mad outbursts, there
were many qualities that were kingly and commanded my regard. That he
regretted his occasional paroxysms of fury, I did not doubt. It was
not even difficult to understand his treatment of the Czarina Eudoxia.
She belonged to the old régime; an ignorant woman, narrow, bigoted,
and jealous, clashing with the temperament of her husband at every
point, unable to comprehend his intellect, hating his reforms, without
sympathy for his ambitions; tried, no doubt, beyond endurance by the
czar’s intrigue with Anna Mons, but, in any case, totally unfit to hold
his esteem. Unhappily, it was said that the Czarevitch Alexis, then
a lad of thirteen, was like his mother in disposition and in tastes;
already the wiseacres at court looked forward to the day when there
would be a breach between father and son. It was this probability
and the delicate constitution of Alexis which made Peter’s possible
marriage an event of keen interest to the opposing parties and of vital
importance to Mentchikof, who was determined to keep his place beside
the czar.

When I left the Kremlin and turned my steps toward my lodgings, my
mind was still full of these matters. France and the Grand Alliance,
Russia and Charles XII. filled my thoughts, and for the time I had
forgotten M. de Lambert and his love affair. Although my path took me
in the direction of the bridge, I walked toward it still too absorbed
to remember the tryst. It was now quite dark, and a mist hung over the
frozen river; the ground was white with snow and it was beginning to
sleet. It seemed unusually still, so that I heard the scream of a raven
disturbed in his rest. Suddenly there was a cry and a pistol-shot.
Remembering M. de Lambert, I dashed down the slope to the bridge. As I
did so, I ran against a man who was rushing up the bank, and, obeying
an instinct, I caught him in my arms, pinioning his; but the ground
was slippery and he threw himself on me, pushing me sideways on the
slope until I lost my footing and went down on one knee. Having me at
a disadvantage, he wrenched himself free, and, dealing a blow that
stretched me on the ice, dashed off in the darkness just as another man
came up from the bridge, and, seeing me upon my back, fell on me with a
cry of fury.

“You villain!” he exclaimed, “I have you now!”

It was Pierrot.

“Help me up, you knave!” I said, thrusting his hands from my throat;
“you will choke me here in the snow.”

He uttered an ejaculation and stood transfixed with amazement.

“I beg your pardon a thousand times, M. le Maréchal,” he said, after a
moment, recovering sufficiently to help me to my feet; “but where is
the other?”

“Gone while you were belaboring me,” I replied dryly. “What has
happened?”

“M. de Lambert is wounded,” he said, “I know not how badly. It was, as
you supposed, a trap; mademoiselle was not here.”

I did not wait to hear more, being anxious for my friend. “Where is
he?” I exclaimed.

Pierrot turned, and conducted me across the bridge to the farther side.
There in the snow were two dark figures.

“Who is with him?” I asked quickly.

“I know not,” my equerry replied; “but it is the stranger who saved his
life.”

As we approached, I saw that M. de Lambert was sitting up, supported by
the other.

“How is it with you, Guillaume?” I inquired, bending over him.

“I have a cut,” he said quietly, “but it is not serious; with your
help, I will go back to our quarters.”

I was straining my eyes in the dark to see the face of his companion;
when he spoke, I recognized his voice.

“If he will lean on my arm, he can rise,” he said.

It was the Swedish spy. With his help, M. de Lambert rose and stood
leaning his hand on the other’s shoulder. After a moment he recovered
sufficiently to take my arm and walk slowly in the direction of our
lodgings. The Swede followed us a few steps; then, seeing that the
wounded man could walk alone, turned to leave us, but I checked him.

“Not so fast, friend,” I said; “my man tells me that you saved M. de
Lambert’s life. You cannot escape our gratitude.”

M. de Lambert held out his hand. “You must return with us,” he said.

“Nay, your Excellencies,” the Swede replied with evident embarrassment,
“I should be an unwelcome visitor.”

“Not so,” I responded quietly, “and you alone can fully explain this
matter.”

After some hesitation he yielded, and we moved on slowly on account of
M. de Lambert, while Pierrot went for a surgeon. We had not a great
distance to walk; and when we reached our quarters, Touchet opened
the door and we helped the wounded man to his room. My wife, hearing
us enter, came to our aid, and we had M. de Lambert comfortably lying
on his couch when the surgeon arrived,--a German whom I knew, for I
would not trust him in Russian hands. An examination showed a stab in
the side, which had caused some loss of blood, but had not touched any
vital spot. Reassured as to his safety, I was at leisure to return to
the outer room, where I found Pierrot and the Swede talking together.
Sitting down by the table, I signed to them to advance.

“Now,” I said, “tell me, if you can, exactly what occurred at the
bridge.”

Pierrot pointed to the Swede. “He can tell you more than I,” he said;
“obeying your instructions, I followed M. de Lambert at a distance
and saw him go down to the bridge. A moment later, I heard the noise
of a struggle, and running forward reached the bridge as another man
sprang upon it, and, turning aside the assassin’s pistol, saved M.
de Lambert’s life. I had almost caught the villain, but he wrenched
himself away from me and fled up the bank. You know the rest, monsieur.”

“And now your story, Lenk,” I said, turning to the spy.

“I was coming along by the river, your Excellency,” he replied quietly,
“and saw a man, muffled in his cloak, loitering by the bridge in a
manner that arrested my attention. Then seeing who it was, I suspected
a greater plot than even this.”

“Who was it?” I asked sharply.

The Swede looked at me an instant before he answered. “It was Yury
Apraxin,” he said.

“Ah!” I exclaimed softly, knowing at once that he had supposed that the
young man was waiting to avenge the czar’s insult, aware of Peter’s
careless habit of going unattended.

“So suspicious were his movements,” the spy continued, “that I too
loitered about in the shelter of the wall and watched. After a long
while M. de Lambert appeared, and walked rapidly towards the bridge.
Then I observed that Apraxin had let his mantle fall until he looked
almost a woman in the dusk, and it flashed upon me that it was a trick.
I ran to the bridge, reaching it just as he stabbed your friend. I
caught the fellow’s arm, and he drew his pistol with his left hand.
I struck his wrist, and the weapon went off. Pierrot came, and the
assassin escaped in the struggle and confusion. That is all, your
Excellency.”

“It is to your swift action, then, that we owe M. de Lambert’s life,”
I said, looking at him attentively. “What motive prompted you to risk
your own for his?”

The Swede’s fair-skinned face flushed, and he returned my look with a
flash of feeling in his light eyes.

“I owed him a life,” he replied stolidly, “and I do not forget my
debts.”

Remembering M. de Lambert’s relief and mine to be rid of him on that
night, I smiled.

“You are an honest fellow; accept our thanks,” I said, drawing out my
purse.

He started back with an expression of resentment.

“Not that, your Excellency,” he said proudly; “my life was worth more
to me than French gold. I did but discharge my just debts. Keep your
money for those who seek it; I am a free-born Swede and have saved a
life. That requires no thanks.”

I looked at him with growing interest. This was no common spy, or if
the lower classes were of such noble stuff, how worthy must be the
higher orders! King Charles was fortunate. I rose and held out my hand.

“You must accept, at least, my thanks,” I said.

As I spoke, I saw my wife coming forward. She had entered the room
unobserved, and overheard the conversation. Her cheeks were flushed,
and her blue eyes kindled with a look they had when she was deeply
stirred. She came across to the Swede, and drew a ring from her finger.

“Accept this, my friend,” she said in her gracious way, “for your
sweetheart, as a gift of recognition for a gallant service to a
Frenchman.”

The Swede, looking at her fine and animated face, took the ring and
made her a profound obeisance.

“Madame,” he said in a low voice, “I esteem it an honor to accept your
gift. In a manner I have regained my reputation. His Excellency your
husband and his friend thought me a cowardly spy because I dreaded to
die a shameful death; but I do not fear to die--as a brave man should.”

Zénaïde gave me a glance in which were mingled triumph and reproach.

“You have not only won our respect,” she replied, “but you have earned
our gratitude, for we both love M. de Lambert. We do not forget such a
service.”

“Madame, you are good,” the Swede said quietly; “and I will wear your
ring always, to remind me of the nobler purposes of life.”

Kneeling down, he kissed the hem of her robe, and then, rising, left
the house without another word.

“And you thought him a coward!” exclaimed Zénaïde, looking at me with a
smile.

“He is not only a brave man, but a courtier, it seems, Madame de
Brousson,” I replied dryly.

She laughed, looking down at her robe and flushing like a girl.




CHAPTER XI.

AN INTERCEPTED LETTER.


M. DE LAMBERT’S wound, though not dangerous, was troublesome, and kept
him confined to his room for some time; a fretful patient he was,
trying my wife’s forbearance, although she was in full sympathy with
his anxieties. There were no definite developments, but it was manifest
that Catherine Shavronsky was at this time more or less neglected,
while favors were showered upon the Zotofs, and mademoiselle’s name
was on every lip. In the interval she appeared once at court, and was
surrounded by a bevy of courtiers, and it occurred to me that perhaps
her silence toward her lover was caused by a change of heart, that the
splendors of a throne had dazzled her; but Zénaïde refused to believe
it. She had an unshaken confidence in Najine’s loyalty, and fully
appreciated the difficulties which beset the young girl. We endeavored
to send her a message explaining M. de Lambert’s condition, but neither
Zénaïde nor I believed that it ever reached her. Meanwhile Apraxin had
disappeared. It would have been impossible to obtain any satisfaction
in regard to the young villain, and I was more or less relieved at his
departure. There was no doubt that his attack on M. Guillaume had been
actuated entirely by jealousy, and that there was no deeper motive
behind it, which diminished the chances of obtaining any redress.

Madame de Brousson’s woman, Jeanne, had made several attempts to
penetrate the seclusion of the Zotof mansion without success, but at
last she was more fortunate, and it was while M. de Lambert was still
suffering from his wound that she returned one forenoon with important
tidings. Mademoiselle herself had been dangerously ill, and there were
whispers of suspicious circumstances attending her indisposition. She
had accompanied Madame Zotof to a fête at the palace, returning with
the usual gifts of sweetmeats; madame ate hers without ill effects, but
mademoiselle had no sooner tasted the comfit than she was seized with
a sudden and alarming illness, and madame summoned a physician in hot
haste. At first he almost despaired of saving Najine’s life, but after
a while the worst symptoms passed off, and she recovered consciousness.
The physician, after examining the fragment remaining, declared
that the comfit had been poisoned. Mademoiselle was now recovering,
Jeanne reported, and there was a close surveillance exercised, no
food reaching her room untasted. The retainers and serfs at the Zotof
mansion were in a state of profound excitement, and it was whispered
that the Czarevna Natalia, Peter’s sister, was endeavoring to poison
Najine. This, of course, was the idle gossip of the servants, and not
worth a thought; Natalia Alexeievna had too many noble qualities to
stoop to the assassin’s weapons. Nor could the princess have any real
choice between mademoiselle and the Livonian, unless, indeed, she
thought that an intrigue with Catherine would end as it had ended with
Anna Mons, while, on the other hand, mademoiselle would undoubtedly
ascend the throne if Zotof’s intrigues were successful. In any case,
the czarevna could have little interest in the matter; it was true that
she was the aunt of the czarevitch, but it was probable that she shared
her brother’s dislike of Eudoxia, and was therefore without personal
feeling toward the woman who was likely to supplant her. It was not
difficult to imagine that there were many at court who were jealous of
Najine. I had feared from the first some overt act after Mentchikof’s
veiled threat to me, that if fair means did not succeed, foul would. If
the czar was indeed enamored of mademoiselle, he would not be thwarted,
and neither Catherine Shavronsky nor M. de Lambert nor the young fool
Apraxin was likely to defeat his settled purpose; and this attempt to
remove her at once convinced me that the belief was prevalent that she
was the imperial choice. Zénaïde, who was a keen observer, was deeply
concerned, and, being a Russian, she understood the undercurrents. The
only hope that I saw lay in the fact that Peter had made no public
announcement, which would have been irretrievable. If we could but turn
him aside, and prevent such a declaration for Najine, we might yet save
the day. We had determined not to inform M. de Lambert of her illness,
but such secrets find their way to lovers’ ears too easily. I had
scarcely known it a day myself when he sent for me to his room. I found
him propped upon his pillows, still pale, for he had lost much blood,
but with the sparkle of health in his clear brown eyes. He responded
to my inquiries with impatience, and, dismissing Touchet, who was in
attendance, asked me to be seated opposite to him, where the light fell
full upon my face.

“How is mademoiselle?” he asked me sharply, scanning my features with
the eye of a hawk; “how ill has she been?”

I smiled in spite of myself. “She is more nearly recovered than you,
monsieur,” I said, “and perhaps was never worse than you have been.
Some one has told you garbled tales.”

“I hope that you do not deceive me, M. le Maréchal,” he replied
distrustfully; “it would be a poor kindness.”

“Happily, I do not need to deceive you,” I replied; “mademoiselle has
had some illness from which she is almost recovered. The gossip of the
kitchen accounts it a poisoned comfit, but no breath of this is abroad.
It would be treason to whisper it, for the sweetmeats came from the
imperial table.”

He looked at me thoughtfully. “Can it be that the princess is against
her?” he exclaimed.

“Impossible,” I replied; “Natalia is too noble. Such treachery does not
belong to the Romanoff.”

“Some traitor in the kitchen, then,” he said gloomily; “and here I lie
on my back like a fool while her life is in danger!”

“Take comfort, monsieur,” I remarked calmly; “it has been a salutary
lesson, and mademoiselle will be watched the more carefully. Too much
hangs on her life for it to be exposed. Moreover, it may all have been
the veriest accident,--something dropped upon the comfit and falling
to mademoiselle by chance. Why work yourself into a fever over this?
I have tasted more than one Russian dish that I thought would shortly
send me to paradise, yet I live.”

He smiled in spite of himself, but I saw that his enforced helplessness
was fretting him like a thorn in the flesh, and could understand and
sympathize with his impatience, knowing how great would be mine in the
like case.

It was after leaving him that I entered Madame de Brousson’s closet and
found her with a letter in her hands.

“Here is another one of Catherine’s billets,” she said scornfully;
“but this one, I am certain, has been tampered with. Look at the
seal--look at the manner in which it is folded;” and she handed it to
me with a gesture of disdain.

Half amused, I took it and, holding it to the light, was at once
convinced that her keen eyes had discovered the truth. There was every
indication that the missive had been opened and re-sealed by some one
who scarcely cared to take the pains to conceal the work. Zénaïde,
seeing my face grow grave, came and stood by me, looking at the paper.

“It is true,” I remarked; “some one has tampered with it.”

“And who?” she said softly.

I shrugged my shoulders. “You have over-reached me there, madame,”
I replied; “I am no reader of riddles. But let us see what the fair
Catherine has to write to me in this careless way. Madame Golovin
should be wiser than to be her scribe; but when will women learn to
keep their pens from paper?” I unfolded it as I spoke, and together
we read a long note from Mademoiselle Shavronsky, full of too plain
references, hinting at a dozen ways of securing mademoiselle before the
czar should announce his choice or make any open sign in her favor,--a
mischievous note to fall into the wrong hands; referring to Najine’s
illness and to M. de Lambert’s wound and calling men by their names. I
read it through without a comment, and then Madame de Brousson and I
looked at each other.

“The woman is a fool, and Madame Golovin another,” I exclaimed
impatiently; “what would she have been in the hands of Madame de
Montespan?”

“Ah, well, we cannot look for a Madame de Maintenon every day,” Zénaïde
replied, shaking her head; “yet she risks not only herself, but all
this is dangerous to you. You must put an end to it, Philippe.”

“An end to it!” I exclaimed; “you are a woman, and yet fancy that I can
control another woman--and one like Catherine Shavronsky. You rave,
madame; I am no magician.”

“Appeal to Mentchikof,” Zénaïde suggested.

“Appeal to the moon!” I replied with impatience. “Catherine cares not
for him. Her head is full of fancies, and she must needs put them on
paper like a woman!”

“Now you are out of humor, M. le Maréchal,” Zénaïde said calmly; “you
are never discourteous except when you lose your temper. Then women
must bear the blame for all the errors of the world.”

I took her hand and kissed it, for I saw the flash in her blue eyes.
“If women were all like you, madame,” I said gallantly, “the world
would be fortunate indeed.”

“I thank you, monsieur,” she replied, answering me with my own manner;
“the woman does not live who is not more patient than man.”

But our little comedy was ended by Pierrot, who appeared suddenly at
the door with a perturbed countenance.

“A message from the Kremlin, monsieur,” he said in a strange voice.

I glanced at him, surprised. “A message from whom?” I asked.

“It is the czar’s equerry,” he replied.

Zénaïde had risen and stood with her hand upon my shoulder, and I felt
her fingers tighten their hold a trifle.

“Let him come here,” I said, and Pierrot departed on his errand.

“What can it be at this hour?” Zénaïde exclaimed, for it was late in
the evening.

I could not answer her, for I was myself perplexed. In a moment Pierrot
returned and announced the equerry, a young fellow whom I knew by sight.

“You are charged with a message to me?” I said, responding to his
salutation.

“His imperial Majesty desires your immediate attendance, M. de
Brousson,” he replied with an air of importance.

I rose at once. “The hour is late,” I said calmly, “but I will be with
you in a few moments.”

Zénaïde followed me from the room with a startled face. “I do not
like this summons,” she said, “or the hour. Is it necessary to obey,
Philippe? Can you not evade it?”

I shook my head. “Impossible,” I replied; “moreover, I have nothing to
fear. The gravest offence would be a refusal to obey. Take comfort, my
wife; you are too brave a woman to be anxious over a trifle.”

In spite of my reassuring words, she accompanied me to the door with a
grave face, and when I looked back I saw her graceful figure outlined
against the light, like a picture framed by the doorway.

Pierrot attended me, and, escorted by the messenger, we walked directly
to the Kremlin at a rapid pace. I had small leisure for reflection,
but could not forbear some speculation upon the cause of this summons.
No explanation offered itself, but the thought of the Swedish spy and
Yury Apraxin, and I was therefore wholly unprepared for the humor in
which I found the czar. The equerry conducted me to a private entrance
of the palace, and the wicket was opened by one of the court dwarfs. We
ascended a long narrow flight of stairs, and were admitted to Peter’s
private apartments. Pierrot remaining at the entrance, I was ushered
into a long gallery, which could be entered by two doors, one being at
either end, and there I remained for some moments alone. The place was
lighted by three lamps, swung by chains from the low vaulted ceiling,
and the whole gallery was decorated in dark red and blue and gold.
Two narrow windows looked out upon the domes of the Kremlin, shining
in the moonlight; on the other side, through a golden lattice, I could
see the tapers gleaming on an iconostase in one of the private chapels.
The whole effect was one of Oriental color and splendor. It must have
been a quarter of an hour before the door at the farther end was opened
quickly and Peter entered unattended. The moment that I beheld him, I
knew that there had been a paroxysm of rage and that he was suffering
from its effects. His dress was disordered, his shirt thrown open at
the throat, displaying his brawny neck; his face was deeply flushed,
and he wore no peruke, his own dark hair hanging dishevelled on his
temples, and his eyes were brilliant with anger. He came striding
towards me with the air of a common brawler rather than a king, and I
saw that he held a paper in his hand. Not knowing what to anticipate,
I prepared for some outburst, but it was difficult to master my
astonishment when, without replying to my obeisance, he thrust the
letter into my hand, exclaiming,--

“Explain that, sir!”

Collecting my thoughts, I slowly smoothed out the crumpled paper, and
suppressed a start with an effort when I saw Catherine Shavronsky’s
letter to me that I had left in my own lodgings. The czar’s eyes were
searching my face, but I lifted my brows with assumed surprise and
looked at him with composure.

“It is addressed to me,” I said quietly; “but as it has been received
by your Majesty, doubtless the explanation would be easier for those
who delivered it at the palace.”

Peter was no hair-splitter; he looked at me with scorn. “The letter was
on its way to you, M. de Brousson,” he said sharply; “the fac-simile of
it was delivered to you, but this is the original. Am I to understand
that I have a traitor in Mentchikof’s household, that my affairs are
betrayed to the King of France?”

I drew myself up haughtily, and looked the czar straight in the eye.

“Your Majesty forgets that you address a marshal of France,” I replied
coldly; “a soldier cannot descend to the level of a spy. Any man but
the czar would answer for those words at the point of the sword.”

His cheek flushed darkly, but he was not without generosity. “High
words, Maréchal de Brousson,” he said impatiently; “but I did not
accuse you, but--” he hesitated and then went on frankly, “I accused
Catherine Shavronsky.”

I was delicately placed and required patience. “Your Majesty,” I
replied calmly, “I have ever regarded Mademoiselle Catherine as a
devoted subject of the czar.”

He took two turns across the gallery, his face working as it did at
times, and his eyes on the ground. Then he faced me, and I saw that he
was more composed.

“M. de Brousson,” he said hoarsely, “I would send her to a nunnery
to-morrow, I would send her to Archangel, if I believed what they would
have me believe of that letter. If she writes these notes to you, it
will be well to warn her that she does so at her peril. These women
think that because they are beautiful, Peter is too great a fool to
give them their deserts, but I will tolerate no traitor, petticoated or
not, about my person. I will have satisfaction!”

He stood there looking at me like a thunder-cloud, his great figure
towering in the poorly lighted gallery and his large eyes full of
passion.

“Your Majesty,” I said calmly, and with what dignity I could command,
“I am a subject of the King of France, and it is outside of my province
to detect traitors here, neither do threats prevail with such. If I
have erred through ignorance, and violated the courtesy and respect due
to your person, I crave your Majesty’s indulgence. For Mademoiselle
Shavronsky I am in no way responsible.”

“By our Lady, M. l’Ambassadeur,” he exclaimed with violent excitement,
“she is the traitor to pen such lines to a stranger and a Frenchman. I
would rather give up the Neva to Charles of Sweden than have my heart
and thoughts betrayed to a foreign court! I have trusted her too
deeply, there is no truth in woman!”

His voice rose as he spoke, and his lips quivered with passion. He was
a man of strong emotions, violent and erratic. I stood silent; there
was nothing that I could say with safety, and I folded my arms and
leaned against the arras, regarding him with keen interest. He was
muttering to himself in German, the language that he loved and used
most frequently. I caught the name of Mentchikof, coupled with such
expressions as “mein Bruder” and “mein Herz.” He felt that he had been
betrayed in the house of his friend. Suddenly looking up, he caught my
eye, and perhaps read my secret amazement that a sovereign could so far
forget the reserve that belonged to his dignity.

“M. de Brousson,” he said, speaking with more composure, “I forget that
you are a stranger. You have seen me in a moment of weakness. A king
should scorn the intrigues of women, and my heart is indeed with the
state; my most earnest thoughts are with the commonweal. It is only
when the man feels the sting of deceit and of treachery that he forgets
that he is royal. To rule an empire is to be a friendless human being,”
he added, with a touch of passionate sadness.

I was strongly moved. I knew that he was too far in advance of his
countrymen, too far above the level of mediocrity, to be in touch with
sympathy. The isolation of this strange and violent man was almost
complete, and all at once I understood that mayhap he really cared for
mademoiselle’s love; that he craved one single human heart, amid the
adulation of a court. I remembered how Mademoiselle de la Vallière’s
devotion to Louis XIV. had contrasted with the intrigues of her
successor.

“Your Majesty,” I said in a low voice, “to be exalted is to be alone.
The rulers of the world stand before the nations in splendid solitude.”

His stormy mood was passing, and his face began to assume its natural
expression. Something in my speech stung him. He took another quick
turn across the gallery, and then paused before me, his eagle eye
searching my face.

“M. le Maréchal,” he said abruptly, “you are a brave man and a true.
You have seen Peter of Russia in an hour of weakness, betrayed by a
woman. It is unworthy of me and of your remembrance. Forget it!”

I made an obeisance. “Your Majesty, it is already forgotten,” I replied.

He responded with a dignified gesture, which was at once an
acknowledgment and a dismissal, and turning from me walked slowly down
the gallery and went out at the other end, closing the door behind him,
and leaving me with Catherine’s ill-starred letter in my hand.




CHAPTER XII.

UNDER A CLOUD.


I WAS awakened early the following morning by Zénaïde, who brought me a
summons from Mentchikof,--a few lines in French, asking me to come to
his house at my earliest convenience. I read the note with a smile.

“This also is the outcome of Mademoiselle Catherine’s letter,” I
remarked. “May the saints teach women to keep their pens from paper.”

“Such a woman cannot live without intrigue,” my wife replied; “she may
be remarkable, but she is not pure of soul.”

“My love, we have nothing to do with her soul,” I remarked
indifferently; “she is a splendid creature, but she is also the
daughter of a peasant. A few more letters, however, will send her where
neither beauty nor ambition nor intrigue will save her.”

“In which case it will be difficult to rescue Mademoiselle Zotof for M.
de Lambert,” my wife said astutely.

“Upon my soul,” I retorted, “I am half inclined to sympathize with the
czar. If this young Frenchman had not crossed mademoiselle’s path, she
would, no doubt, have rejoiced at the thought of becoming Czarina of
Russia; and, after all, is she not making a mistake? Peter is a goodly
man.”

Madame de Brousson uttered an exclamation of disgust. “You have no
sentiment, M. le Vicomte,” she said. “I often marvel that you were so
romantic twenty-one years ago.”

“The provocation was great, madame,” I replied, smiling; “you forget
that.”

Half an hour later, I was entering the courtyard of Mentchikof’s
palace. It was unusually quiet; not even a groom loitered by the gates,
and I was surprised that the master of the establishment was within
when there were so few signs of attendance. The steward who answered
my inquiry, however, corrected my mistake; Mentchikof was absent,
but Madame Golovin desired to speak to me. Supposing that Mentchikof
had been called away and had left his message with his sister, I
followed the steward up the broad stairs, and through three of the
long _salons_, into a small apartment, evidently dedicated to Madame
Golovin, for it was furnished with all a woman’s fanciful belongings,
and hung with gay tapestries. Madame kept me waiting but a few minutes,
and came in with a pale face. She greeted me cordially, but her manner
was abrupt and anxious.

“We are in trouble, M. le Maréchal,” she said at once, “and
Mademoiselle Shavronsky sent for you. She has made a painful
discovery. Give her what comfort and counsel you can. My brother is
with the czar.”

I was not in doubt as to the nature of their trouble, and felt my
position to be peculiarly delicate. Madame Golovin, however, did not
wait for a reply, but conducted me to the apartment where I had last
seen Catherine. At the door madame paused and whispered to me.

“Be gentle, M. le Maréchal,” she said. “Mademoiselle is overwrought,
and may speak unjustly, even wildly; but I trust your forbearance.”

“I am at your service, madame,” I replied with a gesture of reassurance.

She looked at me keenly, and I saw her lips compress, but after
an instant’s hesitation she threw open the door and we entered
unannounced. Near the threshold sat a young Russian girl, playing upon
a lute and singing a wild Cossack melody in a voice that seemed to me
to have only a keen high note that pierced the ear and could scarcely
have possessed the magic of consolation. Madame hushed the music with a
sign, and we passed on to the other end of the room, where, on a pile
of cushions and furs, lay the Livonian. As we approached, she rose and
confronted us. I saw a great change in her face; it was colorless, and
her large dark eyes were full of emotion; her flaxen hair had escaped
its bonds and hung in masses on her shoulders.

“M. de Brousson,” she exclaimed without preface, “did you receive a
letter from me last night?”

I smiled; it seemed to me that she would at last profit by her lesson.

“I received it, mademoiselle,” I said quietly.

A look of relief came over her face. “You received it,” she repeated,
coming a step nearer and looking searchingly at my face; “had it been
tampered with, monsieur?”

I returned her glance calmly. “It had, mademoiselle,” I replied in a
low voice.

In an instant the cloud came back to her face, and she clasped her
hands. “Alas!” she exclaimed, “we are undone.”

Madame Golovin made some sign to stay her impetuosity, but it was
without effect. Catherine’s nature was fully as impulsive and
passionate as that of the czar.

“M. le Maréchal,” she said, “my unhappy letter was taken from my
messenger, and must have been opened before it was delivered to you.”

“Doubtless, mademoiselle,” I said, determined to allow her to talk
rather than to talk myself. “It is unfortunate to write anything unless
you are certain of the messenger.”

She made a gesture of impatience. “He was trusty enough,” she said,
“but was overpowered and the letter taken from him; he knew nothing
more of its fate. This morning Mentchikof was summoned by the czar, a
peremptory message. Alas, monsieur, we fear that the unhappy billet
has reached his Majesty.”

She was standing close to me, her hands clasped and her eyes fastened
on my face. I felt her glance searching me, although I did not meet it,
but stood gazing at the logs that were blazing in the great chimney.

“Mademoiselle,” I said quietly, “I am old enough to be your father,
therefore permit me to advise you. It is true that I have not been so
much at court as in the camp, but I am not without my experience. Never
write anything, mademoiselle, that can be conveyed by word of mouth;
never write plainly if you write at all. That which is written is
written.”

“Alas!” she exclaimed, “you are a man, it is easy for you to be always
cautious. I have been foolish. I see it and deplore it, but must I
suffer for the fault of too much anxiety? My heart misgives me! I fear
that evil will come of it.” Then turning to me abruptly, she added,
“Have you heard anything of the letter save from me?”

“I heard of it last night, mademoiselle,” I admitted reluctantly.

She started, and caught my sleeve. “Tell me all, monsieur,” she cried;
“had it reached the palace? Who spoke of it to you?”

“The czar.”

My words were spoken low, but a pistol-shot could scarcely have
shocked her more. She released my arm and started back, her face
flushing scarlet and then becoming deadly pale. It was a moment of
weakness, and I pitied her. She was a strong woman, a woman of will
and brain, but she knew the peril of her situation, and for the moment
tottered under the blow, while Madame Golovin sank down upon a chair,
completely unnerved. Catherine was the first to recover.

“You saw him,” she exclaimed; “was he violently angry?”

I was most reluctant to speak. I neither desired to alarm her nor to
betray the czar, but saw that she would have an answer.

“Mademoiselle,” I said gently, “I am sorry to be able to give you no
comfort. His Majesty was sorely displeased.”

“He had--seen the letter?” she faltered.

“He had the letter,” I replied.

“Yet you also received it,” she exclaimed with momentary dulness; “I do
not understand.”

“Mine was a copy, mademoiselle,” I replied quietly; “his Majesty had
the original.”

She was silent, her face pale with contending emotions. She was far
too clever not to realize her position and all its perils, but she
was also a woman of resource, and I saw that it was not despair that
had overcome her,--far from it. Her quick wit was searching for some
expedient that would deliver her from the snare into which her own
folly had led her. Madame Golovin, her fellow conspirator, on the
other hand, gave way to her feelings. She foresaw not only the fall of
Catherine, but that of her brother, which would involve the ruin of her
husband.

“Alas!” she exclaimed, “we shall share the fate of Prince Basil
Galitsyn, of Sophia, of Eudoxia. Exile, imprisonment, perhaps death!”

Catherine glanced at her with contempt. Her own nature had rallied to
meet the crisis, and she looked more queenly at that moment than ever
before. There were no tears, there was no weakness; if disaster came,
she would face it with unflinching courage.

“M. de Brousson,” she said quietly, “what did the czar say?”

“Mademoiselle,” I replied with dignity, “you forget to whom you speak.
It is not for me to repeat the words of his Majesty. It would be
conduct worthy a court spy, but not of a marshal of France.”

She bit her lip, for the moment baffled, and the blood rose to her brow.

“Pardon me, M. l’Ambassadeur,” she exclaimed bitterly; “I forgot that a
diplomat could have no feeling for an unhappy woman.”

“You do me an injustice, mademoiselle,” I exclaimed with impatience; “I
would gladly serve you, as far as my honor permits me. I would advise
you now with sincerity, if you would allow me.”

“Ah, M. le Maréchal, help us if you can!” Madame Golovin exclaimed with
feeling.

“We would be your debtors,” Catherine added, with less excitement,
giving me a haughty glance, which I interpreted to signify that she
would remember my refusal to answer her, if she ever mounted the ladder
of success, and remember it to my cost.

“Mademoiselle Shavronsky,” I said calmly, “I would advise you to go to
the czar, and, confessing your error frankly, pray his forgiveness.
His Majesty is generous to a fault, and his anger passes like a cloud
before the sun.”

“M. de Brousson is right, Catherine,” madame exclaimed; “the czar is
generous. Remember that, for your sake, he forgave Yury Apraxin.”

But Catherine shook her head. She knew that the offence was of a
different nature, and knew also that if Peter pardoned her with
indifference her defeat would be as certain as a decree of exile. She
was essentially a proud woman, and half the sting of her position
lay in the thought of the triumph of the Zotofs. Madame Golovin’s
nervous terror had no response in her heart; a bold nature like hers
is untouched by little fears. She was playing for high stakes, and
knew that to lose would involve not only her own ruin, but that of
others, and was ready to play desperately. Looking at her face, gloomy
and disturbed as it was, I was convinced that the hour had come for
Mademoiselle Zotof to be cautious; this woman would sacrifice her
dearest friend to gain her ends. It had gone too far for retreat, and
she was beginning, no doubt, to hate the young girl who stood between
her and her ambition. I thought of the poisoned sweetmeat, and wondered
a little if Catherine would have regretted fatal consequences if they
had resulted from it. Najine’s demise would be such an easy solution of
one of her difficulties that it presented a perilous temptation.

My position was difficult, and I was casting about for a pretext to
withdraw, when the door was thrown open and Alexander Mentchikof
entered. He did not, at the moment, notice me, and came across the room
with a rapid step, his face clouded with some deep anxiety. Madame and
Catherine both stood looking at him with eager inquiry, oblivious of my
presence.

“It is as we thought, and worse than we thought,” he exclaimed, and
then, discovering me, stopped short and broke out with a hard laugh.
“On my word, M. le Vicomte,” he said, “I did not see you. But it is
of little consequence; it appears that we can keep no secrets in this
household.”

“The czar sent for M. de Brousson last night,” Catherine said quietly;
“therefore he knew more than we.”

I made haste to seize upon this opportunity to depart. “By your leave,
I will not intrude further upon your confidence,” I said; “madame and
mademoiselle, I bid you adieu.”

Madame Golovin responded warmly, but Catherine’s reply was haughty. She
had not yet forgiven my implied rebuke, and was visiting her folly on
my head. Mentchikof walked with me to the head of the stairs, and I was
never more impressed with his grace of manner. Anxious and disturbed
as he was, he did not forget the courtesy of the host. As we stood a
moment before parting, he laid his hand on my arm.

“M. le Maréchal,” he said in a low tone, “tell M. de Lambert that the
hour has come when Mademoiselle Zotof must either escape to France or
be sacrificed.”

I looked gravely into his face, and read determination in his eyes.

“Monsieur,” I said quietly, “you mean that mademoiselle will be a
czarina.”

“I do not!” he replied emphatically; “she shall not be. There is a
party yet at court strong enough to defeat her, even if Catherine’s
folly has ruined her cause; the other faction shall not triumph. Do you
think me so poor a fool? Zotof is a braggart, an old fossil; he could
never hold the regard of the czar. The beauty of the niece may have
touched the royal heart, but the wit of the uncle will never establish
her upon a throne.”

Remarking his somber expression, I began to apprehend serious trouble
for mademoiselle, and made an effort to turn his purpose.

“Remember, M. Mentchikof,” I said, “that mademoiselle is a young girl,
and I think I may safely say that her heart is in French keeping;
therefore be patient in your thoughts of her, however angry towards
Zotof.”

He looked back at me with an unmoved countenance.

“M. l’Ambassadeur,” he replied, in his suave way, “I have no doubt
of mademoiselle’s innocence; it is as conspicuous as her beauty,
but both are dangerous. Statesmen cannot see their dearest wishes,
their favorite ambitions swept aside for the sake of a young girl. If
mademoiselle desires to live long and happily, let her avoid the dizzy
paths to eminence. Greatness has its peculiar perils, and she who would
wear a crown must seek it at the risk of her head. I speak thus freely,
monsieur, not because I bear ill-will to mademoiselle, but because I
feel so much for her youth and her helplessness that I warn her that
the steps of the throne are slippery--with blood.”

I had descended a little way and stood below him on the stair, looking
up at his graceful figure and handsome face.

“Yet, monsieur,” I said lightly, “you are willing to risk one of your
own particular friends.”

He smiled, and the fire kindled in his eyes. “Ah, monsieur,” he
returned, “some women are born to walk where others fear to creep. I am
a believer in destiny!”

And I left him standing there with a smile upon his lips.




CHAPTER XIII.

TWO WARNINGS.


I WALKED away from Mentchikof’s house with a heavy heart. I knew that
Najine’s position was dangerous, and that Catherine’s folly had turned
the scale in Zotof’s favor. The favorite would never have uttered his
veiled threat against mademoiselle unless he felt that she held the key
to the situation, that the czar was prepared to let his inclinations
govern him at last, and would take some step towards publicly declaring
his choice to be the young girl who had bewitched him. I knew that
he had wavered between the two women, the one whom he already loved
and the one who loved him; but now that the latter had been betrayed
into something that savored so closely of treason, he would naturally
turn to the young woman who by birth and education was best fitted to
succeed the Czarina Eudoxia. Catherine, the Livonian peasant girl,
might be the toy of the hour, but Najine would be the Czarina of
Russia. Poor mademoiselle, my heart was touched whenever I remembered
the expression of her dark blue eyes when she listened to my eulogium
of her lover. How little would her opposition avail her if Peter was
determined to wed her! Her family would be solid in the support of her
imperial lover, a crown would tempt her, an autocrat compel her; and
yet, when I recalled the haughty pose of her head, I wondered if they
would find her as pliable as they supposed. Poor M. de Lambert! What
evil fate had turned his fancy into the same channel as a king’s? My
friend was recovered from his wound and was as headstrong as ever; and
what would come of it?

I walked slowly to my quarters, revolving many things in my mind, and
so absorbed that I scarcely noticed the men whom I passed, although it
was an hour before noon, and the streets were full; but I had the habit
of preoccupation and could be solitary in a crowd. When I turned into
the lane behind my lodgings, however, I became suddenly aware that some
one was following me, and looking back saw the Swede, Gustavus Lenk. I
halted and signed to him to approach, which he did readily enough, thus
refuting a momentary doubt of his integrity.

“Why do you follow me?” I asked, a trifle sharply.

“I was waiting for an opportunity to speak to you, my lord,” he replied
quietly; “I did not like to stop you on the open street, so many are
abroad to-day.”

“You have some tidings for my ear alone?” I inquired, marvelling a
little at the man’s strange gratitude to us.

“Your Excellency,” he began, hesitating a trifle, “am I mistaken in
thinking that the young Frenchman who was attacked by the bridge is
interested in the family of the Councillor Zotof?”

I was not a little surprised. “You are not mistaken,” I replied at
once; “have you any tidings of them?”

“I do not spy upon these people myself,” he said, his face flushing
under my eyes; “but others do, and information reaches me. It is
rumored that the czar will select the niece of Zotof for his bride, and
it is whispered, also, that she herself is in danger from the jealousy
of others.”

I listened gravely; he was not telling me anything new, and yet it was
a shock to have my own worst fears confirmed.

“I thank you,” I said briefly. “Any tidings that you can bring us will
be welcome; any service that you can render to mademoiselle will be
as much esteemed as a service to one of us.” Remembering that he had
accepted my wife’s gift, I drew a ring from my finger and gave it to
him. “Accept it,” I said, “not only as an acknowledgment, but if any
trouble threatens mademoiselle or M. de Lambert, send it to me as a
signal.”

He thanked me and put it on his hand, and then, as I was turning away,
stopped me again.

“Your Excellency,” he said, “you yourself are constantly shadowed, not
only by Prince Dolgoruky’s man Tikhon, but by Apraxin, who has returned
within a few days and is watching Mademoiselle Zotof and you.”

Without being surprised, I was not entirely prepared for this
information, and it was far from agreeable.

“Was I followed just now?” I asked.

“All the way to Mentchikof’s palace,” he answered quietly; “and if I
mistake not, there is a fellow loitering now at the end of the lane.”

We both looked back, and it seemed to me that I saw a man draw back
into the corner of the wall. I shrugged my shoulders.

“They will find it a weary task,” I remarked, and with a few more
words of thanks I dismissed him and went on to my own door. Entering,
I inquired for M. de Lambert, and found that he had just returned from
his first walk abroad since his wound, and I went at once to his room.

He was reclining in a large chair by the fire, and his pallor startled
me; yet it was more the contrast between his face and the dark coat he
wore than the color of his complexion. But his wound and the enforced
confinement had told upon him, and he looked thin and weary, although
he greeted me with a smile and an expectant expression.

“A dull day, monsieur,” I said, “and dull news. Let me sit by your
fire.”

“The heat is grateful after the frosty atmosphere without,” he replied,
as I seated myself opposite.

“I am beginning to grow old, I believe,” I remarked, laughing, “since
I love the chimney-corner and a blazing log. You have been out to-day,
they tell me.”

“I could endure my confinement no longer,” he answered, giving me a
keen glance. “You have some tidings, monsieur; what are they?”

“Nay,” I said, “no tidings, M. de Lambert. I have but now returned from
Mentchikof, and for the time a cloud obscures his glory. Catherine
Shavronsky wrote a foolish letter--or dictated it--a letter that told
too much of both the czar and his favorite and also of herself. Of
course, the billet was intercepted and reached his Majesty. You can
picture the result.”

“The poor fool!” he exclaimed with impatience; “has she a longing for
Archangel?”

“For the crown, monsieur,” I replied, laughing; “but women love the
pen.”

“And if she is retired from the court, there is no one to stand before
mademoiselle,” he exclaimed abruptly, his mind suddenly grasping all
the consequences. “Mentchikof out of favor and the other party in the
ascendant, Najine will be the lamb for their sacrifice.”

I was silent, indeed there was nothing to say; he had outlined the
situation. He rose from his chair and walked to the window and looked
out. I saw that he was too agitated to discuss the matter, and I sat
there turning it over in my mind. The way that was the simplest and
most effectual would be the most dangerous. I could not advise him to
carry mademoiselle off and marry her, for I felt sure that the czar
would not scruple to throw him into prison and declare the marriage
annulled, in which case it would take all my influence and the threats
of France to save him; as for mademoiselle, she would be sent to a
convent. Yet, for my life, I could see no other way. The Zotofs would
never admit his suit, Najine was powerless, and the czar would send him
back to France at the first hint of a marriage. But, after all, what
was the use of my mature reasoning? He was a hot-headed lover, and I
knew well that his mind was even now dwelling on some scheme to cut the
knot. My chief hope was that Catherine’s appeal to Peter would restore
her to favor, as my chief anxiety was the veiled threat of Alexander
Mentchikof.

M. de Lambert turned from the window and stood regarding me.

“I have been there,” he said abruptly, “and they would not admit me.”

“You mean the Zotofs?” I asked, glancing up with surprise.

“Ay,” he replied, “I mean the Zotofs. I went openly to the door, and
was refused admittance; then I went to the back of the house, scaled
the low wall of the court, and walked beneath Najine’s windows, but
without result. There was no sign or token that she was there.”

“They have, doubtless, removed her to other quarters since her
illness,” I said. “She is there, I am sure, but probably they know that
you are on the watch. I would be cautious, monsieur; the sight of you
will but increase their vigilance. You are not yet recovered from the
result of your temerity, therefore recollect that you carry your life
in your hand.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I was a fool to be surprised by that
murderous boy,” he retorted, “and if he had not leaped on me with a
knife so suddenly, I should have taught him a lesson; but he sprang
like an animal, and had me by the throat with one hand, while with the
other he struck the blade into my side.”

“And he has returned,” I remarked thoughtfully; “therefore it is doubly
necessary to be cautious.”

While I was speaking, M. de Lambert had been again looking from the
window, so intently that he did not heed me.

“Pierrot is below in the court,” he said, “and is talking to one of
the czar’s equerries. They have had their heads together for a quarter
of an hour, and I have no doubt that Pierrot has sifted the fellow as
wheat. There is something of interest, for the old knave will not let
the equerry go; he has him by the cloak and is questioning him with
lip and eye. It is a picture.”

I rose, and, joining him at his post, looked down upon the two men
below. Both were too intent to observe us,--the equerry endeavoring
to disengage himself; Pierrot persistent, gracious, eager. I laughed
softly. The old rogue had not lost his cunning; no one was more clever
at extracting information, no one more difficult to fathom.

“It is a bit of gossip,” M. de Lambert said. “Look at Touchet! He
is listening with that expression he wears when he hears two people
speaking Russ. Now and then a gleam of absolute complaisance crosses
his face, when he really understands a sentence; at other times he is
the picture of contemptuous bewilderment.”

“Pierrot is worth a hundred such,” I said; “men like Touchet come
for the asking, but there are few like Pierrot. Astute, cautious,
devoted--my cause is his.”

“You have the quality that attaches men to you, monsieur,” M. de
Lambert rejoined pleasantly; “it is a good fortune to serve the
Maréchal de Brousson.”

At this moment the equerry looked up, and, seeing us at the window,
would be detained no longer, but tearing himself away from Pierrot
hurried across the court. On the instant M. de Lambert leaned out, and
called to Pierrot to come up to us.

“We must have the news, monsieur,” he said, laughing. “I cannot let
them keep that morsel for themselves.”

“You grow trifling,” I remarked with a smile.

“An invalid’s privilege,” he said. “My sick-room would have been dull
indeed, but for the gossip they brought me.”

As we resumed our former seats, Pierrot came in and stood gravely
awaiting our commands.

“The tidings, Pierrot,” M. de Lambert exclaimed lightly; “let us have
the tidings.”

I had been observing Pierrot’s face, and read there a reluctance to
speak which made me uneasy. He glanced at me now before he replied.

“It is but the gossip of the court officials, monsieur,” he said,
addressing M. de Lambert, but watching me for a sign which I did not
give. “It may be false.”

“It must be bad news, man,” M. de Lambert remarked quickly, “else you
would not give it such a preface.”

“It is said,” Pierrot continued, despairing of help from me, “that
his Majesty was closeted with M. Zotof, that M. Mentchikof will be
dismissed, and Mademoiselle Shavronsky is to go to Novodevitchy, and--”
He paused, stammering and looking again at me.

“Go on!” M. de Lambert exclaimed impatiently; “have you no tongue, that
you cannot get through so simple a speech? Let us hear all.”

Pierrot was desperate, and he straightened himself and told the rest
without a pause, his expression stolid.

“It is reported that the czar has formally declared his intention of
being married to Mademoiselle Zotof within the month; and although this
is not publicly announced, the court officials are preparing for the
change.”

M. de Lambert’s face flushed darkly, and he leaned forward in his
chair, listening eagerly to the speaker; but even at the end he uttered
not a word, but I saw his brown eyes flash with resolution.

“Is there anything more?” he asked sharply after the pause, searching
his informant’s face.

Pierrot’s glance sank to the floor, and he shifted his position
uneasily; I knew that the last was the most difficult to tell.

“It is said, monsieur,” he replied in a low tone, “that Mademoiselle
Zotof has signified her willingness to be a--to obey the czar.”

M. de Lambert sprang from his chair with a fierce exclamation. “It is a
lie!” he cried bitterly, “a worthless, miserable lie!”

I checked him with a gesture; then, addressing my equerry,--

“That is all,” I said quietly, meaning that he could go; and he availed
himself of the opportunity with alacrity, only too glad to escape the
responsibility of giving unpleasant information. Meanwhile M. de
Lambert was walking about the room like one possessed.

“Did you ever hear such a damnable lie?” he exclaimed angrily; “the
idlest, most miserable attempt to circulate a fable.”

“On the contrary,” I replied thoughtfully, “I have expected some such
tidings for many days.”

“To what do you refer, M. le Maréchal?” he asked coldly.

“To the announcement of the czar’s intentions in regard to his
marriage.”

“It is not that,” he said with impatience; “it is the lie about
Najine,--that she has yielded so readily.”

I smiled. “After all, monsieur,” I rejoined gently, “are you sure
that she may not have changed her mind? The pressure must have been
tremendous, and she is young and doubtless ambitious.”

He paused before me, looking into my eyes, his flushed face unusually
handsome in its anger.

“You drive me mad, M. le Vicomte,” he said bitterly. “I know that I
am no match for a czar, but I judge mademoiselle’s heart by my own.
Neither do I believe her so weak as to yield to any pressure; she has a
noble spirit. I would stake my life upon her truth.”

I rose, and laid my hand upon his shoulder. “I did but jest,
Guillaume,” I said kindly. “I have often tried you and never found
you wanting. A hot-headed lover, but a loyal one. Mademoiselle is
fortunate. But plainly, monsieur, I have no doubt that the czar does
intend to wed her, and I do not at the moment perceive how either you
or I can prevent it.”

He felt the truth of my words, and stood looking at the floor, his
expression for the first time showing great depression.

“M. le Maréchal,” he said at last, turning upon me, “you won Madame
de Brousson almost at the point of the sword; why should I fail? Have
I not the greater opportunity, since I have your advice and, I trust,
your aid too?”

“My aid certainly, my dear M. de Lambert,” I replied heartily, for I
really loved the young man for his courage and his simplicity.

“Then doubtless I shall win,” he exclaimed; “you have but to teach me
how you achieved your victory, in the teeth of just such difficulties
and many more.”

I looked at him gravely, and shook my head.

“You forget, monsieur,” I replied quietly, “my rival was not the czar.”




CHAPTER XIV.

A FAIR REBEL.


THAT evening I went to the Kremlin for the sole purpose of gathering
information, and met with signal failure. The czar was closeted with
Prince Dolgoruky and Sheremetief, and the palace was almost deserted.
The few courtiers lingering in the ante-rooms stared at me curiously,
as if they knew of some matter with which my name was connected, and
I attributed their interest to Catherine Shavronsky’s unfortunate
letter. There are no secrets at a court; malice and curiosity pry out
every corner about a throne, and I had no doubt that every particular
of her foolish correspondence was known. I made an effort to see
Prince Dolgoruky, but to no purpose, and finally quitted the palace
much disturbed. I could not sift the situation, and was uneasy for M.
Guillaume, who had gone out again, in the hope of communicating with
mademoiselle, although I had endeavored to restrain his impetuosity,
fearing that some evil would result from it; but it was impossible to
control him. He departed upon his errand, burning with ardor to achieve
some enterprise, to rescue Najine, to thwart the czar. The absolute
recklessness of his courage made me smile. He dashed at obstacles in
his path, as if he were dealing with a man of straw, instead of with
one of the most resolute and autocratic men in the world. It looked
desperate to me, for I knew that Mentchikof was under a cloud, and
Catherine in a position that might terminate in exile, and the presence
of Dolgoruky in the imperial closet boded ill for any hopes of M. de
Lambert’s success.

It was early when I reached my quarters, and I was not surprised to
find that the anxious lover had not returned even to supper. Zénaïde
was disturbed; she knew even more than I about the perils of Najine’s
position, and felt a keen sympathy for the two lovers. It was cold, and
a great fire of logs blazed on the hearth, and I drew my chair before
it with a sigh of relief. After all, the pleasure of sitting by a
bright blaze on such a night diminished the trouble of court intrigue,
but Madame de Brousson’s mind was dwelling on M. de Lambert.

“I hope he will do nothing rash,” she said thoughtfully; “he is
determined to win, and sometimes that headlong impetuosity wrecks a
cause.”

“And sometimes it conquers,” I replied sententiously; “he can scarcely
see mademoiselle, even if he sees Zotof,” I added.

“Did he intend to see Zotof?” Zénaïde asked with surprise.

“He went mainly for that purpose,” I replied, “although what he
expected to gain by the interview I cannot imagine. The ‘Prince Pope’
is not likely to accept for his ward the hand of a poor Frenchman,
instead of the czar, even if her coronation is not an immediate
prospect. Peter would not insult her family by treating her with
neglect; moreover, I believe that he really loves Najine.”

Madame de Brousson shrugged her shoulders scornfully, her lip curling.

“I believe that some thought that King Louis loved Madame de
Montespan,” she said.

“The case is different, Zénaïde,” I returned quietly. “Madame de
Montespan could never have been more than the king’s mistress, Madame
de Maintenon can never be Queen of France, but it is different with
the Romanoff. He can make mademoiselle czarina, if he chooses, and he
undoubtedly will marry again. It is desirable that there should be
other heirs. Monseigneur with all his dulness is far more acceptable
to King Louis than is Alexis to his father. Peter might make Catherine
share the fate of Anna Mons, but Najine has too powerful a party behind
her, and he loves her. I have seen him strongly moved, and I know that
the man is genuine.”

“You have an admiration for him,” my wife remarked dryly; “he always
fascinated your interest. I confess that I remember that the Czarevna
Sophia saved us both, and I cannot love the czar’s treatment of her.”

“Yet there is no doubt,” I said calmly, “that she deserved it.”

“Alas, M. le Vicomte,” she replied, smiling, “if you fall back on our
merits, who can expect a better fate?”

“Hark! what is that?” I exclaimed, listening.

We both heard an unusual disturbance at the lower entrance, and the
sound of voices. In another moment the door of the room was opened
without ceremony by Pierrot, who stood aside to admit two closely
veiled women. My wife rose from her chair with an exclamation of
surprise, while I sat looking at them bewildered. It was not until they
dropped their mantles that we recognized them. It was mademoiselle
and her woman, Neonila. Najine threw back her hood, and her usually
pale face was flushed with excitement. Behind them stood Pierrot, for
the first time in his life too astonished to remember his duty and
withdraw. Madame de Brousson, recovering her wits first, went up to
Najine, and taking both her hands drew her to the chair by the fire.

“This is indeed a pleasure, mademoiselle,” she said easily, “and it is
the first time I have seen you since your illness.”

The young girl clung to Zénaïde’s hand with the first signs of weakness
that I had seen about her.

“Madame de Brousson and you, M. le Vicomte,” she said in a low voice,
“I know you think me demented to come here, and at this hour, but I
have need of advice, of help. I am sore beset, and yet I fear my visit
here will be only an embarrassment to you both. I am unfortunate.”

“And we are fortunate, mademoiselle,” I replied gallantly, “to have so
fair a visitor. In all things you may command me.”

She gave me a keen glance, as if she had already learned to sift men’s
souls, and was slow to give her confidence, but I saw that my wife had
won her heart. It was to Zénaïde that she mainly addressed herself, as
if she felt sure, at least, of a woman’s sympathy.

“I am not without natural affection for my uncle, madame,” she said
quietly, as if collecting her thoughts. “I would gladly submit to his
guidance, but his mind is full of dreams of greatness, and he forgets
my personal happiness, or believes that it can be assured by the
fulfilment of his wishes.”

She paused as if choosing her words, and I looked around to see that
Pierrot had withdrawn and her woman was standing by the door watching
us, as if she doubted the wisdom of her mistress’s action.

“He has determined to marry me,” mademoiselle continued, looking still
at my wife; “and I will not yield, even if it is--” She paused and,
glancing at me, framed the words with her lips, “the czar.”

Madame de Brousson was holding her hand and patting it gently, while
I sat and looked at her beautiful young face and the spirited pose of
her head. To advise her seemed impossible. She read my thoughts, and
glanced from my face to my wife’s.

“I will not marry him!” she cried passionately. “I have no desire to
share the fate of Eudoxia.”

“Nonsense, mademoiselle,” I exclaimed, smiling; “you cannot compare
yourself with the unfortunate czarina.”

“And why not, monsieur?” she asked with spirit. “I, too, would be at
the caprice of a tyrant. How soon might he weary of me? I am young
now, but in a few years a change might come,--illness, sorrow, loss of
youth,--and then I too should be sent in a postcart to the convent.”

She spoke with superb contempt, and I listened, thinking that if Peter
could hear her disdainful young voice it would be a salutary lesson
for the autocrat. My wife was smiling; the thought of this proud young
beauty sharing Eudoxia’s disgrace was absurd, and yet she was terribly
in earnest as she sat looking at us, her dark blue eyes kindled with
passionate anger.

“You are unlike other women, mademoiselle,” I said; “the splendors of a
throne have no attractions for you.”

“I do not say that, monsieur,” she replied with a sudden smile; “but
when I must share it--its attractions depend upon the partner of my
honors. I cannot purchase a crown at the price of my self-respect.”

“And yet,” I remarked quietly, “the czar is a ruler, a brave man,
a reformer, and with a certain simplicity of nature that makes him
lovable.”

“I did not think to find his advocate here, M. le Maréchal,” she said,
her cheeks flushing. “I came rather to find a way to escape, since the
matter is pressing.”

“It is hard for us to advise you, my dear,” Zénaïde replied gently; “we
feel as if we might injure rather than aid you. It is a grave step.”

“I know it,” she exclaimed, her lips quivering, “and I would not bring
trouble to you, but I saw no way. They have kept me as close as a
prisoner, and are deaf to my entreaties; they believe that their wisdom
is best.”

“There are two ways, mademoiselle,” I said slowly,--“one, to go to a
convent for temporary protection, but that would scarcely avail you;
the other--” I paused, and looked at Zénaïde. She, reading my thought,
laid her finger on her lip. She felt that M. de Lambert must speak for
himself.

“And the other?” repeated mademoiselle, looking at me inquiringly.

I smiled. “The other would be to go to France, mademoiselle.”

Her face flushed crimson, and she gave me a haughty glance, as if she
thought that I intended to reproach her for coming to us.

“That is possible, mademoiselle,” I hastened to explain; “we would
protect you, and if you could cross the border in disguise, all would
be well.”

She bit her lip, and sat looking at the fire. I knew that she marvelled
at M. de Lambert’s absence, but it would have been unfortunate to
mention his name while she was so sensitively conscious of her
precipitation in coming to us. In the pause I heard his voice in the
lower hall and rose to call him, but mademoiselle detained me.

“No, no!” she cried, blushing deeply, “I did not come to seek M. de
Lambert--nor would I have him think it, for the world. I came to you
and to Madame de Brousson for advice. I--I have put myself in an
unfortunate position.”

I took her hand, and, looking at her agitated face, understood how
she felt. “Mademoiselle,” I said gently, “are you not unkind to M. de
Lambert? He has but just returned from an effort to see you; he has
been ill--wounded in your quarrel--”

“Ill--wounded?” she cried in amazement, “I knew nothing of it! They
have kept me like a nun.”

While I was telling her of her lover’s misadventure, there was a tap
on the door, and Zénaïde opened it for M. de Lambert. At the sight
of Najine, he uttered an exclamation, and in a moment had both her
hands in his and was trying to express his amazement and delight,
while her face was covered with blushes, and her long lashes hid the
brightness of her eyes. I glanced at my wife, and we smiled; there was
even a smile on the face of the Russian woman who stood so patiently
by the door. After all, they were like two children, and it was a
shame to think of separating them. He led her back to her seat by
the fire, sitting down himself on a low stool at her feet, while I
told him briefly mademoiselle’s errand, and pointed out the gravity
and difficulty of the situation, although I knew that his impatience
would scoff at obstacles. I was rather astonished that he listened
with attention, and was willing to give the matter deep thought before
proposing a way out of it. I knew well enough the expedient that he
would suggest, for I saw it in his kindling eye, and imagined that
mademoiselle divined it too, for her embarrassment increased. He let me
finish my argument before he spoke at all.

“There is but one way,” he said at last. “Her guardians will have their
own wishes obeyed as long as she remains here; but--” He stopped and
looked up into mademoiselle’s face. “It is hasty,” he went on; “but if
she will marry me now--I can and will carry her back to France.”

“Oh, I could not now!” mademoiselle cried with a crimson face. “It
would be as if I had sought it!”

He caught her hand, and pressed it to his lips. “Najine,” he said
softly, “is that truthful? I could not break into your uncle’s house,
but I should have found a way to bring you out of it at last. Perhaps,
though,” he added, with a rare touch of diplomacy, “I am too poor a man
to be compared to a czar.”

“For shame, M. de Lambert!” Najine cried angrily; “why taunt me with
that? Have I deserved it?”

“Forgive me,” he replied, smiling; “you drove me to it. Najine, you
will wed me?” he went on with emotion. “There is no other way to rescue
you now. If you hesitate, they will not, and they will marry you to the
czar. You must choose between us.”

She looked down at him with a charming smile. “I have chosen,
monsieur,” she said softly; “but I will not have you risk your life for
me. We could not escape to-night or to-morrow, and I must not go back
to the house. I cannot again evade my aunt’s vigilance; she is more
bent upon this unhappy matter than my uncle. Another aunt, my mother’s
sister, whose husband is with the army in Livonia, is at Troïtsa. She
has gone there as a pilgrim to pray for her family; she is very fond
of me, and will be full of sympathy for my troubles. I have almost
determined to go to her for the present, especially as I believe they
would scarcely think of seeking me there, and if they do, she will help
me.”

I saw the wisdom of her decision as, I think, did M. de Lambert,
although he protested.

“Can you not stay with us to-night?” suggested Zénaïde; “why need any
one know that you are here?”

“Impossible!” she exclaimed at once. “My aunt will search Moscow for
me; she is very angry with me. I must go from the city.”

“Your aunt is certainly at Troïtsa, mademoiselle?” I asked.

“She has been there for some days, monsieur,” she replied.

I looked thoughtfully at M. de Lambert. “I believe that would be her
wisest course,” I said gravely; “it would be a temporary security and a
cause of desirable delay, which would enable us to find some way out of
this labyrinth.”

He was reluctant to assent to this arrangement, for he was manifestly
determined to carry Najine off in the teeth of all opposition. While we
sat looking at one another, each thinking of a different scheme, there
was a sudden noise below and the sound of loud talking. Mademoiselle
sprang up in quick alarm.

“They have come to seek me!” she exclaimed in excitement; “is there not
some other way by which I can escape? They must not find me here.”

“No harm shall come to you, Najine,” M. de Lambert exclaimed.

I had been listening, and heard heavy steps upon the stair. An instinct
warned me that there was danger.

“Take her away,” I said quickly to Zénaïde; and she, reading my face,
caught mademoiselle’s hand, and drew her through the door that opened
into the next apartment. Neonila followed, but had not time to close
the door when the other, by the stairs, was thrown open and a stranger
entered unannounced. I looked about, and saw, with relief, the door
close on the Russian woman; then I rose, and confronted my visitor.
He was a large man, and muffled in a long scarlet cloak, edged with
sables, the collar turned up about his face and his plumed hat set low
over his eyes. I raised the taper, and held it to throw the light upon
his figure, but he neither moved nor spoke.

“Your pleasure, monsieur?” I said sharply; “you intrude strangely upon
my privacy. It is not usual for a visitor to enter a house with such
noise, and then break in upon his host unannounced and bonneted.”

Without a word, he dropped his cloak and stood regarding me. It was the
czar!




CHAPTER XV.

AN IMPERIAL INQUISITOR.


WHEN I saw that my visitor was the czar, I suppressed my surprise, and
put the taper calmly upon the table, making my obeisance with all the
grace that I could command.

“Your Majesty honors me by this visit,” I said gravely, “but if I had
been advised of your coming I should have been better prepared.”

“Doubtless,” the czar replied dryly, “but it was for that reason that
I chose to come unannounced, M. le Maréchal. M. de Lambert, be kind
enough to remain where you are,” he added sharply.

M. de Lambert had made an effort to leave the room to warn Najine,
but at the czar’s words he paused, and stood haughtily with his back
against the door, and I saw the fire of determination in his brown eyes
as he looked back defiantly at the autocrat. I drew forward the best
chair in the room.

“Your Majesty will be seated,” I said courteously. “I am indeed
unprepared, but the best that the house affords is at the service of
the czar.”

“Pshaw, M. l’Ambassadeur!” Peter exclaimed with his usual frankness,
“you know that I do not come to pay you a formal visit at night and
almost unattended. The greatest courtesy that you can show me is to
reply to my questions without prevarication. You have one visitor here
already; who is she?”

His question was abrupt, but I had the advantage of being in a measure
prepared for it and remained undisturbed.

“I do not understand your Majesty,” I replied calmly; “I have no
visitors.”

The czar looked at me with passionate scorn, his great figure towering
in the dimly lighted room.

“Who was the woman who went out that door as I entered the other?” he
demanded sternly, pointing his finger at the door against which M. de
Lambert had set his back.

“Madame de Brousson,” I replied promptly, with some relief that I could
tell half the truth.

His lip curled scornfully. “Do you take me for a fool, M. le Maréchal?”
he exclaimed; “I presume that your wife did go out that door--and who
went with her?”

I was standing opposite to him, my hand resting on the back of the
chair that he had refused, and I looked him full in the face.

“Your Majesty is pleased to cross-question me closely about the affairs
of my own household,” I said haughtily.

“M. de Brousson,” he replied hotly, “Najine Zotof is in this house and
you know it.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “If your Majesty is convinced that the young
woman is here, why should I be questioned?” I said, conscious that the
blood burned on my cheeks, for his glance was exasperating.

“There is wisdom in that remark, sir,” he replied tartly. “It is indeed
unnecessary for you to reply, because I know she is here--here without
the consent or knowledge of her guardians,” he struck his hand on the
table sharply, “here on some foolish errand. Therefore, M. le Maréchal,
I demand that you bring her before me.”

I saw M. de Lambert’s face flush scarlet, and his hand seek the hilt of
his sword, and dreaded some act of folly. I was striving to plan some
escape and did not reply to the czar.

“Are you deaf, sir?” Peter exclaimed harshly. “Produce Najine Zotof.”

I did not move, but stood erect before him, my arms folded on my breast.

“Your Majesty,” I said slowly, “I owe you profound respect, the
reverence due to an anointed king, the courtesy due to the friend of
my master; but I am an officer of Louis, King of France, and my oath
binds me to his service alone. I cannot become an equerry to any other
sovereign, nor would I do police duty for his Majesty of France. Your
Majesty’s commands unhappily exceed the limit of my compliance.”

He stood gnawing his lip and regarding me with a brow as black as a
thunder-cloud.

“I thank you for the lesson, M. l’Ambassadeur,” he said bitterly;
“perhaps this gentleman here can be more obliging,” he added, turning
scornfully to M. de Lambert.

I made a sign to him to beware of his reply, but his eyes were fixed
haughtily on the czar’s face.

“Your Majesty forgets,” he replied proudly, “that I also am a subject
of the King of France.”

“By all the saints,” the czar exclaimed passionately, “I wish the
King of France had kept you there! Are you weak, that you lean so
persistently against that door?” he added with fine sarcasm.

“Your Majesty desired that I should remain where I am,” M. de Lambert
replied calmly, a little amusement showing in his eyes.

“I am gratified,” the czar said scornfully, “to find one Frenchman so
little obstinate that he can comply with my request. M. le Vicomte,” he
added sharply, turning to me, “if you will not produce Najine, I must
even go and seek her.”

I started. I was not prepared for so extreme a measure, and if he
searched the house, he would undoubtedly find her, unless Zénaïde had
smuggled her out, which was improbable. I glanced quickly at M. de
Lambert, and read consternation in his eyes. But there was no remedy
even in delay; still I made one last attempt to save the situation.

“It is an extreme measure, your Majesty,” I said with forced composure;
“you have called me an ambassador--it is unusual to search the house of
an ambassador.”

He uttered an exclamation of impatience. “Ambassador or not, I shall
do as I please,” he said haughtily. “I am weary of this banter of idle
words. You and your friend here will precede me, monsieur.”

I bowed gravely, and taking up a taper prepared to light him through
the corridor.

“Not so fast, M. l’Ambassadeur,” he said quietly; “the other door, if
you please, and M. de Lambert can walk in front.”

I bit my lip; my choler was rising fast, and it cost me an effort to
obey him with the courtesy which was his due, and I saw that M. de
Lambert was furious. However, we were compelled to open the door and
walk like two children before him through the adjoining rooms; to my
infinite relief, they were empty, and though he lifted the arras there
was no one concealed behind it, and his face darkened as he proceeded,
without any result for his pains. The apartment in which he had found
us adjoined two others, which in turn were separated by a narrow
passage and ante-room from my wife’s sleeping-room, and at her door
the procession halted. The czar motioned to me to proceed, but I stood
unmoved.

“This is Madame de Brousson’s apartment,” I said with dignity; “your
Majesty does not intend to intrude here.”

For the moment he was nonplussed. It would be indeed an extreme measure
to search my wife’s rooms, and yet he and I both knew that here was the
fair fugitive whom he sought. He stood irresolute, anger glowing in his
dark eyes, and his lips compressed; then looking up he caught the gleam
of triumph in M. de Lambert’s eye, and that decided him.

“Be kind enough to inform Madame de Brousson that the czar desires to
speak with her,” he said sternly.

With a heavy heart I tapped upon the door and delivered his message. To
my amazement, Zénaïde threw open the door, and came out to greet him
with a sweeping curtsy.

“I am at your Majesty’s service,” she said, with a woman’s graceful
tact, ignoring his angry aspect.

Peter looked beyond her into an apparently vacant room, and I saw
astonishment mingle with the displeasure on his countenance.

“Madame,” he said gravely, “you have Najine Zotof in your room; where
is she?”

“Your Majesty sees my apartment,” she replied with a graceful gesture;
“mademoiselle is not visible there, certainly.”

“These are words, madame,” he exclaimed impatiently; “Najine is
concealed there, and you know it.”

Zénaïde drew back haughtily. “The room is open for your Majesty’s
inspection,” she said quietly; “it is mine, but I will not attempt to
oppose the czar, since I am suspected of falsehood.”

Her manner had a strange effect upon him; he regarded her intently,
admiring, I think, her beauty and her dignity.

“Your husband has made many objections to my search of this house,” he
said slowly, “because he is an ambassador of France. I appeal to you,
madame, would not the king my brother do likewise in my case?”

She looked up quickly. “Your Majesty means to ask if the king my master
would search this room?” she asked in her sweet voice.

“I do, madame,” he replied gravely, watching her.

“His Majesty would not dream of it in the like case,” she replied at
once, and with decision.

The czar glanced at her with surprise. “And why not, madame?” he asked
quickly.

Zénaïde looked at him calmly, her blue eyes as innocent as they were
steadfast.

“Because, your Majesty,” she replied in a clear voice, “Louis de
Bourbon is the first gentleman in France.”

The czar started as if she had struck him in the face, and the blood
rushed to his temples. I caught my breath. What will not a woman dare?
Yet her manner was perfect, her composure unruffled. For a moment I
anticipated an explosion, and thought that Peter would resent her
reply as a deadly insult; but he commanded his passion and made her a
profound bow.

“Madame has read me a lesson,” he said bluntly, “that I would not
accept from less beauty and merit, but sometimes it is well for a czar
to be reminded that he is a man and not infallible. Madame, I will not
be excelled in courtesy by the King of France; close your door and keep
your counsel, but convey to your fair prisoner that she is a subject
of Russia and must obey her sovereign. Let her return quietly to the
house of her uncle, or else she will answer for her disobedience. Even
the King of France, I think, compels his fair subjects to respect his
authority.”

“Nay, your Majesty,” Zénaïde replied calmly, “the king my master reigns
not by fear. A Frenchwoman is never a slave.”

“I have often regretted, madame, that your marriage made you a French
subject,” Peter rejoined, “but I perceive now that I am fortunate,
since you would have taught my whole petticoated tribe the principles
of sedition.”

Zénaïde smiled. “Your Majesty would not desire a mean-spirited flock
of women,” she said quietly, “all modelled in the mould of blind
acquiescence to one will.”

“I have no such good hope as that,” replied the czar, dryly; “since
the days of Eve, madame, your sex has been a source of trouble. It was
the apple of obstinacy that your ancestress ate, as well as that of
knowledge. But I request you to convey my message to Najine Zotof.”

“It will be my first duty, your Majesty,” she replied, “when I see
mademoiselle.”

He made her a mocking bow. “When you see her, madame,” he replied with
a cynical smile, and then, turning on his heel, he walked away through
the rooms, followed by M. de Lambert and me, but ignoring us both until
he reached the head of the stairs. At the foot I saw Pierrot with the
czar’s equerry looking up at us, and understood why Peter had come up
unannounced. He turned upon us with a return of his haughty manner, his
dark eyes on M. de Lambert’s face.

“As for you, young sir,” he said coldly, “you are too clever in the
gallantry of courts. France is your proper sphere, and pray do not
allow us to detain you here. I will direct the authorities to furnish
you with your passport.”

The young man bowed haughtily, his face flushed with anger and his eyes
returning the czar’s glance with a defiance equal to his own.

“I am beholden to your Majesty,” he said in a low voice. “Since I have
been here, I have had occasion to feel the need of a safe-conduct.”

Peter gave him a searching glance.

“You are pleased to speak in riddles, M. de Lambert,” he said sharply,
“but it is well that something has warned you to be cautious. We
Russians know how to resent idle interference with our affairs.”

M. de Lambert bit his lip, his face paling a little. “Your Majesty has
the advantage,” he said, folding his arms on his breast, “since we
cannot meet on terms of equality.”

Peter laughed harshly. “You are a true knight-errant, monsieur,” he
said mockingly. “You forget, though, that the arm of Peter Romanoff is
not so feeble that he could not do battle, even if he did not wear a
crown. Do not be a fool, young man, and waste breath in idle boasts.”
Then turning to me, “As for you, M. l’Ambassadeur,” he added bluntly,
“I leave it to your conscience if it is consistent with your honor
and the honor of France to conceal and aid a little rebel against her
master.”

“Your Majesty makes serious charges,” I replied with composure, “but I
trust that my honor and that of my country will remain untarnished.”

The czar was already on the stairs, but at my words turned and looked
at me. I was lighting the way, holding the taper over my head, and I
saw the gleam of amusement in his eyes.

“You are an old fox, Brousson,” he said gravely, “but remember that the
fox is no match for the lion, and you are treading on dangerous ground.”

We were at the door, and I stood aside to permit him to pass out, still
holding the taper between us.

“The fox is no match for the lion, your Majesty,” I admitted calmly,
“but neither is the lion a match for the turtle-dove.”

He had gone out in the dark, but turned, and, coming close to me at the
door, spoke so low that none could hear.

“M. de Brousson,” he said sternly, “I have yielded to-night from
courtesy to madame, but if that young man yonder takes one step to make
Najine his wife without my sanction, it will cost him his head, were
there forty kings of France instead of one!”




CHAPTER XVI.

A DUEL WITH TONGUES.


WITH the czar’s threat ringing ominously in my ears, I ascended the
stairs and, asking M. de Lambert to remain in the _salon_, went on to
Madame de Brousson’s door to inquire for Najine. At the sound of my
voice they both came out into the ante-room, mademoiselle’s face still
pale with excitement. She ran up to me with the pretty manner of a
child, and, taking my hand, kissed it with impulsive gratitude.

“M. l’Ambassadeur,” she said, “I feel as if I ought to go down on
my knees to you and Madame de Brousson, for rescuing me from this
situation; I do not know how I could have faced the czar in this house.”

“Mademoiselle,” I replied gravely, “it was our happiness to shield
you, but I fear that we can do little more at this time. I wished to
talk to you without restraint, therefore I came alone. The czar has
spoken freely to me, and I believe that it is impossible for you to
escape to France at present; you are too closely watched. It is equally
impossible for me to protect you here; therefore, mademoiselle, there
is but one course open: you must go with all speed to your good aunt at
Troïtsa.”

“We had ourselves reached that conclusion,” Zénaïde said, “and Najine
and I were perfecting our arrangements to leave here in the morning.”

“That will not do,” I replied at once; “you must go within the hour.”

Mademoiselle glanced up with surprise, and Zénaïde uttered a protest.

“Philippe!” she exclaimed reproachfully, “mademoiselle will think you
lacking in courtesy.”

“No, no!” protested Najine, warmly, “I am sure that M. de Brousson has
some good reason for his haste.”

“I have the best, mademoiselle,” I replied; “the czar will undoubtedly
order your uncle to remove you from my house, and I have no authority
to resist him.”

“I know it, monsieur,” she replied gravely; “it is as I said, I cannot
remain here. Madame has urged me in her kindness, but it is impossible.
Neonila and I must find a way to escape from Moscow at once.”

“How can they?” cried Zénaïde, casting an indignant glance at me,--“two
women, and at this hour!”

“M. de Lambert and Pierrot will accompany them,” I replied firmly;
“they must not lose an hour.”

“I must go with them,” Zénaïde exclaimed.

“Pardon me, madame,” I answered, “you must, on the contrary, remain
here and detain the Councillor Zotof’s party.”

In a moment Zénaïde understood my scheme, and let me go to summon
Pierrot and give my orders. It was nearly midnight, and he was sleepy
and loath to go on his errand; but a few words from me roused him to
meet the emergency. Then I sought M. de Lambert, and informed him of
the measures which I had taken without consulting him, because I knew
that it would be folly to expect his acquiescence, and fatal to delay
Najine’s flight. He was angry and surprised at my action, and mastered
his emotion with difficulty, for his nature was impulsive.

“This seems a hard measure for mademoiselle,” he exclaimed at once, “to
send her away at this hour, when she came here for aid and protection.”

“M. de Lambert,” I replied gravely, “I understand your feeling, and you
have my sympathy in your indignation for mademoiselle, but I am truly
giving her the best aid in my power. If she stays here until morning,
I should be compelled to surrender her to her uncle; the demand is
inevitable, and may come at any hour. Moreover, I think it has cost
mademoiselle something to take this decided step; she is not without
regret and hesitation at the thought of acting directly in opposition
to her guardians, and it is possible that, under their persuasion, she
might yet surrender her will to theirs, which would be fatal to your
interests. It is no light thing for a young girl, reared as she has
been, to evade her uncle’s authority and contemplate a stolen marriage.
If you hope to succeed in your suit, you must speedily get her out of
the reach of Zotof and his wife.”

He listened to me thoughtfully, and I saw that he realized the truth
of my words. He stood with folded arms, his eyes bent on the fire and
his brows furrowed with anxiety. He was probably thinking of a dozen
ways to evade the czar, and in the end finding himself, each time, in
a _cul-de-sac_. I heard Pierrot’s step on the stair, and knew that all
things were in readiness.

“M. de Lambert,” I said gravely, “when this errand is over, we must
seriously consider your own situation. The czar has virtually demanded
your return to France, and I have no doubt that the passports will
be forthcoming; in which case there will be an accumulation of
difficulties.”

He looked at me calmly. “I shall remain here, monsieur,” he said at
once, “as long as mademoiselle remains.”

I smiled in spite of myself. “Even if she becomes the Czarina of
Russia?” I asked naïvely.

At this moment Pierrot announced that all preparations for departure
had been made, and so checked the angry retort that was on M. de
Lambert’s lips, for he always lost his temper at the suggestion that
mademoiselle would ultimately wed the czar. As Pierrot came, Madame de
Brousson entered by the other door with Najine and her woman, and I
had my last instructions to give, so that we had no further words over
mademoiselle’s future. Indeed I was anxious to hurry them off, knowing
that the reprieve would be short. Najine herself was nervous and
impatient, although she clung affectionately to my wife and, I thought,
would have been happy to stay with her. Zénaïde petted and soothed her,
after the fashion of women, until I felt it necessary to hasten them.

“Pardon my seeming discourtesy, mademoiselle,” I said, “but haste is
imperative. Pierrot, is everything in readiness?”

“At your service, M. le Vicomte,” he replied promptly.

Zénaïde herself adjusted mademoiselle’s mantle and hood, and M. de
Lambert, having placed his pistols in his belt, assumed his cloak, and
they were ready to follow Pierrot down to the rear door. Najine came to
me with outstretched hands, her charming face just peeping out of the
great gray fur-lined hood, which was peaked at the top and, framing her
face, met under her small firm chin.

“I thank you from my heart, monsieur,” she said softly. “May the
saints reward you for your kindness.”

“Mademoiselle,” I replied warmly, “I am always entirely at your
service, and, I trust, may yet find a way out of your difficulties.”

Something in the simplicity of her manner touched me more than her
words, and I went with her to the door and stood there, while she bade
Zénaïde farewell, without the heart to hasten her again. Finally,
however, M. de Lambert drew her arm through his and led her out into
the night, followed by Pierrot and her woman, while we watched in the
entry until we heard the horses start, and knew that they were safely
off; then I closed the door and barred it.

“And now for a few hours of repose!” I exclaimed with a sigh of relief;
but I was destined to disappointment. The words were scarcely out of my
mouth before a knock on the front door resounded through the house.

“Hark!” exclaimed Zénaïde, “what can it mean?”

“Some one who is determined to enter,” I remarked dryly, as we ascended
the stairs which communicated with my rooms by a rear door, so that we
could avoid the entrance. I heard Touchet stumbling through the house,
evidently roused from a nap, for he was slow, and there was a second
summons before he unbarred the door. Zénaïde followed me to the head of
the stairs, and we stood looking down into the lower hall. When the
door was opened, several persons immediately crowded into the entrance,
and I at once suspected who were our visitors, and in another moment a
sharp female voice confirmed my conclusion.

“Where is the marshal, and where is Madame de Brousson?” she exclaimed.

It was Madame Zotof, and she pushed past Touchet and began to come up
the stairs before her husband could collect himself for the attack.
It was characteristic of madame, who was always at the front of the
battle, and she was eager now for the fray. As I saw her on the stair,
I glanced at Zénaïde and smiled. Madame de Brousson was looking down
at her with a peculiar expression in her blue eyes, and knowing, as I
did, her estimate of Madame Zotof, I wondered a little what thoughts
were in her mind, as she stood there with unruffled composure awaiting
the onslaught. It was not until she was half-way up the stairs that
Madame Zotof looked up and saw us standing at the top; then she paused
an instant, and eyed us with that keen, ill-tempered look of hers, her
thin face and shrewish mouth showing in the glare of the taper that
Touchet had set upon the landing.

“I am fortunate to find you awake at this hour,” she remarked sharply.

“And we are fortunate to receive you at any hour, madame,” Zénaïde
replied suavely, “even if it is at a time when we usually seek repose.”

Madame Zotof looked at her keenly, suspicious of her opponent’s smooth
courtesy.

“It is evident that I did not rouse you,” she retorted tartly. “You do
not look as if you had come from your couch.”

By this time the councillor had come up the stair and stood behind
his wife, a few steps below us. Zénaïde, ignoring madame’s reply,
greeted him with quiet courtesy, and invited them to enter the _salon_,
ordering Touchet to bring fresh tapers, for those upon the table were
already exhausted. Madame Zotof, with an eager air, hurried into the
room behind my wife, and looked about, apparently for some token of
her truant niece, but there was no sign of her recent presence. The
apartment was in order, and the logs had burned down on the hearth, so
that there was a chill in the atmosphere. Zotof, following his wife,
stood in the center of the room, but seemed conscious that, for the
time, there was no need of speech from him, madame, as usual, taking
the lead.

“Be seated by the fire, for it grows cold here,” Zénaïde said easily;
“and, Touchet, bring hither some wine.”

“We do not want it,” Madame Zotof exclaimed angrily; “we did not come
out at two in the morning for entertainment. I came here for that mad
niece of ours, Madame de Brousson, and I would thank you to order her
to join me immediately; her conduct is unpardonable.”

Zénaïde looked at her with mild surprise. “You labor under a delusion,
Madame Zotof,” she said gently; “mademoiselle your niece is not here.”

Madame Zotof stared at her with exasperation showing in every line of
her face.

“It is you, Madame de Brousson, who labor under a mistake,” she replied
with a mocking imitation of Zénaïde’s manner. “A little bird told me
that my niece was here, and that it would be wise for you to surrender
her to her guardians.”

Zénaïde smiled. “It is unwise to listen to the counsel of little birds,
madame,” she remarked sweetly, “since your little bird was possessed of
the spirit of untruth.”

“It was not so small a bird as you think,” Madame Zotof exclaimed. “It
was a double-headed eagle, and it spoke the truth.”

“How could it,” Zénaïde said with a little laugh, “since it was
double-tongued and therefore versed in duplicity?”

“Beware, madame!” cried Madame Zotof; “the eagle knows how to avenge
both insult and injury.”

My wife’s face flushed with quick indignation. “Threats are wasted upon
me, Madame Zotof,” she said haughtily; “I am not so poor a coward as to
fear even an imperial eagle.”

“You will find that it has both beak and talons, madame,” the other
woman replied.

“Have done with this, wife,” Zotof exclaimed suddenly. “What profit
is it? In plain language, M. le Maréchal, his imperial Majesty has
notified us that my niece is in your house, and commanded us to take
her away. We must obey.”

“That may be, M. Zotof,” I replied haughtily; “but it does not signify
that a marshal of France must obey you.”

He looked at me gravely, evidently embarrassed by the position in which
he found himself, but stubbornly determined to obey the czar.

“It is true, M. le Vicomte,” he said, “that I cannot compel you to obey
my master, yet we are in Moscow, and the King of France does not reign
here. However, I ask you, as one man may ask another, in all courtesy,
to deliver my niece into my hands.”

“And I reply in the same spirit, monsieur, that your niece is not in my
house,” I said courteously.

He seemed for the moment perplexed; but Madame Zotof grasped the truth
of the matter at once.

“She was here,” she exclaimed in her high voice. “Where have you sent
her?”

“Madame forgets,” interposed Zénaïde, suavely, “that if she cannot
control her own niece, it is certainly not in our power to do so; that
is demanding a good deal of two strangers.”

The other woman turned upon her with a flash of temper. “Perhaps,
Madame de Brousson,” she said hotly, “you can also repudiate your
knowledge of M. de Lambert’s persistent pursuit of Mademoiselle Zotof.”

My wife smiled, her composure still unruffled. “I do not venture to
account for the love affairs of M. de Brousson’s suite,” she said
suavely; “it is customary in France for the families of the two young
people to manage these matters.”

“And customary for French people out of France to aid and abet a young
gallant in his pursuit of another man’s niece,” Madame Zotof retorted
sharply.

“I really cannot say, madame,” Zénaïde replied with naïveté, “for, you
know, I am myself a Russian.”

Madame Zotof stood biting her lip, too angry to keep up the play of
words, and her husband was red with impatience. I regarded the scene
with intense enjoyment. It was a fair match between two women, and
Zénaïde, having the better command of her temper and the sharper wit,
was lashing her opponent to fury. Meanwhile every moment’s delay was
precious to mademoiselle. Zotof took matters into his own hands; he
went to Zénaïde, and looked at her with almost an appeal in his eyes.

“Madame,” he said, “be kind enough to produce my niece.”

Madame de Brousson threw out her hands with a comic gesture of despair.

“M. Zotof,” she exclaimed, “I am not a magician! Mademoiselle is not
here.”

“I should like to look behind you in those rooms,” cried Madame Zotof,
pointing her finger at the door that led into the other apartments.

Zénaïde, seeing instantly an opportunity for delay, was all
complaisance.

“You shall be gratified,” she said sweetly. “Philippe, lead us with a
light.”

Madame Zotof was a little dashed by her ready compliance, but, still
full of suspicion, followed her closely, as I took the taper, and,
opening the door, conducted them slowly through the rooms. Zénaïde
consumed much time by insisting that Madame Zotof should look behind
every arras and into every cupboard, and Madame, full of doubt and
eagerness, peered into the crevices and behind the doors; her husband
following with a stolid obstinacy that did not permit him to see
how entirely they were playing into my wife’s hands. As we passed
on without success, madame’s face fell, and I saw the suspicion in
her pale eyes grow more intense as she began to realize that there
was a possibility that her niece had evaded her, even though we were
both in the house. At the door of my wife’s apartment I detained the
councillor, and the two women went in alone, while we stood on the
threshold. It was a strange scene; the room was brightly lighted both
with tapers and by the logs blazing on the hearth. The walls were
covered with tapestries, and Madame Zotof went about lifting them up
and searching for the truant, while Zénaïde stood in the center of
the room, her figure clearly outlined in its dignified repose, and a
smile of scorn on her face, her blue eyes following the other woman’s
quick movements. Never were two women so strongly contrasted; the
fine form and stately head of Madame de Brousson dwarfing the smaller
figure of Madame Zotof, whose face was naturally homely and shrewish;
her eyes of that cold, pale blue that is opaque, and her mouth like a
slit, while her chin projected. She had too an affectation of youth
that was absurd. When she had quite completed her investigation and
was satisfied that mademoiselle was not there, she paused a moment
confounded.

“You have had the pleasure of searching my house, Madame Zotof,”
Zénaïde said with a cold smile, “and now I have the pleasure of asking
you to leave it with what speed you may.”

She spoke with scorn, and Madame Zotof recoiled before the unexpected
attack; she felt that she had overstepped the bounds of propriety, and
that my wife was justified in her retort. After a moment she recovered
and made a sweeping curtsy.

“You carry things with a high hand, madame,” she said bitterly, “but
his Majesty the Czar will have satisfaction. You cannot spirit away my
niece without accounting for it.”

“You speak wildly,” replied Zénaïde, haughtily; “from your own
statement, I understand that your niece has gone, and you are searching
for her, but I see no reason for the accusation that I took her from
your house. It is absurd!”

“You may not have taken her from my house, but you certainly sent her
from yours,” madame replied quickly.

“That is your conclusion, madame,” Zénaïde said calmly; “and if you are
quite done with your search, I will bid you good-morning, for I find
myself in sore need of repose.”

“Do not allow me to disturb you,” Madame Zotof retorted with mock
courtesy; “my husband and I will withdraw instantly, and report to the
czar that you have found means to despatch Najine to some unknown spot.”

“As you will, madame,” Zénaïde retorted with assumed weariness; “but be
careful to adhere to the truth, for sometimes kings are exacting.”

Madame Zotof grew red with anger. “Madame is kind,” she exclaimed;
“on my word, I never received such treatment. I am requested to go,
and accused of falsehood in a breath. Truly, French manners have not
improved the Russian woman.”

Zénaïde had her hand on the door in the act of closing it upon the
other, but she paused with a little soft laugh of disdain.

“I am rebuked, madame,” she said lightly, “but you must remember that
the provocation was great;” and with that she shut the door, leaving
me with the pair upon my hands,--M. Zotof angry and embarrassed, and
madame fuming with passion but still ready to lead.

“Come, Zotof,” she said curtly, passing me without a glance; “it is a
waste of time to dally here. Najine has duped us again. Why stand there
gaping? Find a way out of this difficulty!” and she walked on before us
like a huge bird whose plumage had been ruffled in the fray.

“Permit me to conduct you, madame,” I said graciously, advancing with
the light; “the stairs are dark and somewhat steep.”

“Nay, I shall not break my neck,” she retorted with a discordant
laugh; “I am sure of foot. You will be sorry for this night’s work, M.
l’Ambassadeur.”

“That is true,” said Zotof, as he came slowly down behind us. “I am
truly sorry, M. le Maréchal, that you have mixed yourself up in this
matter.”

“I thank you for your solicitude, monsieur and madame both,” I replied,
shading the taper from the wind, for Touchet had already opened the
door and their attendants were waiting at the threshold. “I trust,
however, that I shall surmount the embarrassments of the occasion, and
hope that the king my master will not resent the discourtesy shown to
his subjects.”

At this Zotof stopped with his mouth open, his breath coming fast, for
he was a very stout man. It was obviously a new light on the situation;
but madame chose to ignore it, merely gathering her skirts about her as
if she shook off the dust of my dwelling.

“I should like,” she remarked, eying me keenly, “to know where M. de
Lambert is at this moment.”

I smiled. “Madame asks too much of me,” I said, shrugging my shoulders.
“I am not omniscient.”

“You have a devil of diplomacy, monsieur,” she retorted sharply; then
turning on her stout and slow moving lord, “Come, come, Zotof, we have
been fools long enough; the day is breaking.”

But he let her go out, and then, pausing on the threshold, looked back
at me.

“I may have seemed discourteous, M. l’Ambassadeur,” he said too low for
her ears; “but women will be women, and we came at the command of--of
one in authority.”

“Of the czar, monsieur,” I replied with a frankness that made him
wince. “I understand, and bear you no ill-will; but, M. Zotof, no
Frenchman endures such impertinence with patience; therefore let this
be the last time that either you or madame your wife trespass upon my
hospitality after such a fashion;” and with this I closed the door
sharply in his face.




CHAPTER XVII.

MENTCHIKOF.


AN hour after daybreak, Touchet came to me with the information that
one of the imperial equerries was in waiting. I had been endeavoring
to snatch a few hours’ rest, but roused myself at once, and throwing
on some clothing went out into the _salon_ and received the czar’s
messenger. He was a young fellow, who had been instructed to see me
before delivering his document,--a packet with the imperial seal. I was
not surprised, on opening it, to find M. de Lambert’s passports, with
a formal note to me requesting that the young man be sent at once to
France.

“M. de Lambert is absent,” I said to the equerry, “but as soon as he
returns I will inform him of the czar’s pleasure.”

The Russian seemed satisfied with my assurance, and with a few civil
words departed, evidently having been instructed to serve his notice
with all due respect to me.

The whole affair was profoundly annoying, and I wished from my heart
that M. de Lambert had found it convenient to fall in love at home. I
was well aware that nothing but force would induce him to leave Moscow
at this crisis, and bitterly repented my folly in bringing a young
court gallant in my suite. How to get him out of the imbroglio with a
whole skin was a difficult question, and I was not reassured by the
thought that Catherine Shavronsky was still under a cloud. I determined
to see Mentchikof at my earliest opportunity and feel his pulse on the
situation. His threats against mademoiselle were not to my comfort, but
I was convinced that he would never resort to extreme measures while
there was a possibility of reinstating the Livonian in favor.

The day passed without event, and the inaction of all persons concerned
was not altogether satisfactory. I feared that some trouble was
brewing, and was not quieted by the delay in the return of M. de
Lambert; he and Pierrot did not arrive until the following morning.
They were travel-stained and weary, but exultant; they had conducted
mademoiselle safely to her aunt at Troïtsa. Before allowing M. de
Lambert to remove the dust of the journey, I handed him the czar’s
document without comment, watching his face while he read it. His
expression was both scornful and perplexed, and his cheek flushed
scarlet as he flung the packet on the table.

“_Ma foi!_” he exclaimed with impatience, “the czar takes me for a
fool if he fancies that I can be packed off at his pleasure and leave
mademoiselle to his tender mercy!”

“You forget, monsieur,” I said gravely, “that he is master here.”

“I do not forget,” he returned passionately,--“_parbleu!_ it is thrown
in my teeth at every turn,--but I am a French soldier, and forty czars
shall not intimidate me.”

“Bravo, monsieur!” I retorted, clapping my hands; “but how do you
propose to beard the lion in his den?”

“I will find a way to defeat him,” he replied quietly; “he cannot
always conquer circumstances.”

While he was talking, Touchet came to the door and addressed him.

“There is a youth below, sir,” he said, “who would speak with you
alone.”

M. de Lambert looked up in surprise. He had not had the opportunity
to lay aside his cloak, and he picked up his sword from the table and
started, as he was, to the door.

“Be careful,” I said to him at once; “you are in a delicate
position--take no hasty step.”

“It can be nothing of importance,” he replied, “but I thank you for the
caution, M. le Maréchal.”

With those words he went down the stairs to the door, and, Pierrot at
the moment bringing in my breakfast, I sat down by the fire to eat it,
while my equerry, giving place to Touchet, went to seek a little rest
himself. In a moment Zénaïde came in through the corridor and joined me
at the table.

“Who went out the door, Touchet?” she asked.

“M. de Lambert is talking to a lad there,” I explained.

“Not now,” she said at once; “some one went out and closed the door.”

I rose and went to the window in time to see M. de Lambert walking away
alone and at a rapid pace.

“On some fool’s errand,” I muttered to myself, and went back to the
chair, explaining the departure with impatience.

Zénaïde looked disturbed, and was yet more troubled when I found an
opportunity to show her the passport.

“You should not have allowed him to go unattended, Philippe,” she said
gravely; “he is surrounded by dangers and so rash and headstrong.”

“By all the saints, madame!” I exclaimed, “I cannot be his guardian.
He has been here scarcely more than a quarter of an hour, and has not
removed the dust of his long ride; how could I foresee his immediate
departure?”

Madame de Brousson sighed. “I feel as if we were responsible for him,”
she remarked pensively, “and you and I both know the methods here more
thoroughly than he.”

“I am half thankful for his passports,” I grumbled, “since Russia is no
place for a young courtier.”

As I spoke, I looked up and caught my wife’s eyes fixed upon me with an
arch glance of amusement. She laughed softly.

“If you had possessed your mature wisdom twenty years ago, M. le
Vicomte,” she said gravely, “we should never have met.”

I had risen from my chair and I made her an obeisance.

“I am convicted, madame,” I replied with mock gravity, “and crave your
permission to withdraw.”

Touchet came, at the moment, with my mantle and sword, and, taking
him for an attendant, I went to Mentchikof’s house. As I approached
it, I noted with amusement the certain indications of the humor of a
court. A week before, he had been the czar’s favorite, the patron of
a beautiful woman who was likely to be the successor of Anna Mons,
and the courtyard and hall had been crowded with courtiers and those
miserable creatures who fawn upon the man of the hour. But for a few
days the sunshine of imperial favor had been obscured, and lo, the gay
host of butterflies had fluttered to some brighter spot. The entrance
was deserted, and a solitary usher conducted me through the splendid
_salons_ to the small room in the wing where the great man worked
alone. I had not seen Mentchikof since the day that we parted on his
stairs, with his veiled threat against mademoiselle in my ears, and
I approached him now with some feelings of curiosity. How would the
pampered favorite endure this season of neglect? how would the darling
of a court face the solitude of a discarded counsellor? Without any
ceremony, the usher threw open the door and I stood face to face with
Alexander Mentchikof. He sat in a large chair by his writing-table,
in an easy attitude; his left elbow resting on the arm of his chair,
his right arm thrown across the table; the pen, still wet with ink, in
his fingers, while his left hand supported his chin, for his head was
bent in thought and his fine face was unusually grave in its repose.
His rich dress of black velvet was arranged as carefully as if for
some court function, and the blue ribbon of the Order of Saint Andrew
showed on his breast. He greeted me without emotion and with his usual
urbanity, asking me to be seated.

“There are chairs in plenty to-day, M. le Maréchal,” he remarked,
smiling, as he glanced at the vacant room; “you find my state reduced,
and my friends”--he laughed, looking at me with those keen brilliant
eyes, “my friends are running for a safer covert. It reminds me of an
ancient legend,--of a great lion to whom all the beasts, through fear,
paid court. The lion had a favorite, a mouse, whom he guarded tenderly,
and all the other beasts paid homage to it, telling it that it
resembled its patron, until the mouse, through conceit, offended, and
the lion deserted it in anger. Immediately all the beasts departed,
save one, who swallowed the wretched little mouse. Presently, the lion,
returning, found his pet gone, and was enraged, and fell upon the
beast who had eaten it, and tore him and drove off the others, and was
afterwards a scourge because no animal dared any more to try to soothe
his mood.” Throwing out his hands with a gesture of disdain, he added,
“I am waiting to be devoured.”

“It is easy to draw a parallel,” I said thoughtfully, “for afterwards
no man will rule the heart of this lion.”

He laughed bitterly. “Fools rush upon their fate, M. le Maréchal,” he
rejoined; “each man thinks that he is born to scale the dizzy heights
of fame. The greater the fool, the more eager he is for the attempt.
Unhappily, they find their error out too late, and run headlong to
their ruin.”

“I have often considered whether it was worth while or not,” I remarked
quietly, “the glitter of a court dazzles, but its honors are hollow.”

Mentchikof smiled. “It is easy to philosophize in the hour of good
fortune, M. l’Ambassadeur,” he replied dryly, “but in the day of evil
it is difficult to apply it. We who have tasted the sweets of power
find the loss a bitter one. However, sometimes our friends desert too
soon, and Fortune changes when it is least expected.”

“It will be so with you, monsieur,” I said with conviction; “meanwhile
I find myself also in embarrassment. This morning I received this
communication from the czar.”

He held out his hand for the papers with an expression of curiosity; he
was far from suspecting their contents, for, after glancing over the
documents, he looked at me in open astonishment, smiling a little at
the gravity of my face.

“When a man is a king, it is easy to dispose of rivals, monsieur,” he
remarked quietly; “it makes the less fortunate envious.”

I laughed. “The case is peculiar, however,” I replied, “for M. de
Lambert is a young hot-head and ill to guide; it will be difficult to
send him away. I have had some hope that this order might be reversed
or, at least, a delay permitted.”

“It might have been,” Mentchikof replied thoughtfully; “but,
unhappily, Mademoiselle Shavronsky’s folly has made it impossible for
me to arrange it. His Majesty would be instantly suspicious of any
interference on my part. I fear, M. le Maréchal, that the young man
must go.”

I did not reply at once, and he folded the papers gravely and returned
them to me; as he did so, he glanced at me keenly and smiled.

“Where is Mademoiselle Zotof?” he asked abruptly.

For the moment I was taken unawares and hesitated to reply, and he
laughed.

“You must inquire of the Councillor Zotof,” I said with composure,
meeting his eye.

“If rumor makes no mistake, sir,” he rejoined quietly, “the councillor
is anxious to know.”

I had risen to take my leave. I was disappointed at the failure of my
effort, and no longer disturbed by his inquiry.

“You ask a good deal, monsieur,” I remarked calmly. “If the young
lady’s uncle cannot find her, certainly a stranger could not.”

He was still laughing softly and regarding me from beneath his drooping
lids.

“The czar may not think the same,” he said gently, “and it will be
difficult to avoid an explanation. As your friend, M. le Maréchal, I
warn you.”

I thanked him and withdrew, satisfied that he was really unable to
prevent M. de Lambert’s dismissal, but still gravely uncertain of
his intentions toward Najine. He would never accept his defeat with
resignation, and I had no doubt that he and Catherine were deep in plot
and counterplot. Meanwhile M. Guillaume would remain in Moscow at his
peril, and I shared Zénaïde’s feeling of personal responsibility. I
must send him away at once, or conceal him; and he would dispute either
expedient. Never was man more perplexed than I, as I walked slowly
toward my quarters. Mademoiselle, for the time, was safe, but it was
manifest that the Livonian girl was still out of favor, and the czar’s
fancy for Najine was likely to prevail; and, after all, would she still
persist in her repugnance to a crown?

When I entered the house, Pierrot met me with a grave face.

“M. de Lambert has not returned,” he said quietly, “and he went out
without eating a morsel.”

I paused to think. It was not reassuring, and yet there was a
possibility that there was no cause for apprehension.

“We will give him a few hours more, Pierrot,” I said; but I was ill at
ease.




CHAPTER XVIII.

MISSING.


WHEN the day was far spent and there was still no sign of M. de
Lambert, I began to share Madame de Brousson’s solicitude. That he
could be again duped when he knew that Najine was miles away, seemed
improbable, but I could expect almost any folly from his impetuosity.
Pierrot had been out in search of him, but without result, and came
back manifestly disquieted, for years had not dulled his suspicion of
the Russian. He told me too that he had seen Tikhon in the vicinity
of my quarters, and I saw that he suspected some plot to make away
with M. Guillaume. This seemed improbable to me, because of the czar’s
order for his departure, for it would be unnecessary to deal summarily
with the young man until he failed to obey the instructions. However,
I became uneasy and, ordering my horse, took Pierrot and started for
Prince Dolgoruky’s house. I could, at least, observe the prince, and
learn something of his designs, especially if he had really interfered
with M. de Lambert. We rode at a smart pace, and in a few moments I
was dismounting in the courtyard. While he did not assume the state
of Mentchikof, Dolgoruky belonged to the older boyars, and there was
more of the ceremony of twenty years before about his household. I was
ushered into his presence by an old Russian attendant who had probably
performed that office in the family for fifty years. The prince was not
alone, but surrounded by a group of friends, and, to my discomfiture,
attended by Zotof, who, I fancied, smiled a little at my entrance.
His presence disconcerted me, suggesting, as it did, an intimate
relation between the two, and therefore strengthening the probability
of Dolgoruky’s interference with my friend. However, I put a bold face
upon the matter, and, waiving the formal courtesy of the occasion,
spoke to the point, inventing a story for the purpose of entrapping him.

“I come on a pressing errand, prince,” I said at once. “M. de Lambert,
a gentleman of my suite, left my house this morning at a summons from
one of your household and has not yet returned. His presence being
imperative at my quarters, owing to a message from his Majesty the
Czar, I came here to inquire for him. Doubtless you can tell me where
he is.”

Dolgoruky stared at me with an astonishment that was either genuine or
exceedingly well feigned; then, turning to his friends, he exclaimed,--

“I call you to witness, gentlemen, the extraordinary demand of M. de
Brousson. He asks me to produce a French soldier whom I have not seen
for at least a fortnight and then at the palace.”

“M. de Brousson is a very extraordinary person,” remarked Zotof,
calmly. “He demands M. de Lambert at your hands, and yet refused to
account for my niece, Najine Alexeievna, when she visited his wife.”

“Then let us make a bargain, M. l’Ambassadeur,” said Dolgoruky,
smiling; “if you will produce Najine Zotof, we will endeavor to find M.
de Lambert.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “I am not a magician, gentlemen,” I said
dryly, “but I must account to the king my master for an officer of his
household troops, in the person of Guillaume de Lambert. King Louis
loves not an injury offered to any true Frenchman.”

The Russians looked at me intently. I was standing before them, my hat
in my hand, and my cloak still thrown across my shoulders, armed and
booted as I had ridden, and I was measuring them with a certain scorn
of their ability to dupe me, yet curious too as to their own estimate
of the situation, for I no longer doubted that they knew something of
M. de Lambert.

“All honor to the King of France,” Dolgoruky replied suavely; “long may
he live and learn to stand with Russia against the madman of Sweden
and the Turk! Why should I desire to offend his Majesty?”

“Nevertheless, the king will be gravely offended, Prince Dolgoruky,”
I said calmly, “if I cannot account for this young man who has served
with conspicuous gallantry in the armies of France.”

“Am I his keeper, M. l’Ambassadeur?” exclaimed the prince, tartly. “Why
do you demand a hot-headed boy at my hands?”

For a moment I did not reply. I wished my words to have additional
weight, and I let a silence intervene and then spoke with deliberation.

“I asked him at your hands, prince,” I said, “because you have set a
spy upon him for two months and more. It was your man, Tikhon, who
dogged his steps before Apraxin joined the pursuit and attempted to
assassinate him. I am responsible for his life, and am compelled to
demand your aid in my search for him.”

Dolgoruky’s face flushed deeply at my words, and I saw that he was
struggling with a passionate impulse to reply with violence, and his
anger was reflected in the faces of his friends. But he had much at
stake and was something of a diplomat; before I finished speaking, he
had smoothed his brow and was looking at me with candid reproach.

“You do me foul injustice, M. le Vicomte,” he said plaintively; “how
have I deserved such treatment at your hands? My assistance you shall
have. Tikhon shall go with you into every corner of Moscow, to search
for this young gentleman.”

He had assumed the only tone possible to evade my importunity, and I
was astonished at the ease with which he played the injured party.
I could not quarrel with so passive a foe, and was forced to accept
Tikhon for what he was worth as a guide. I had no authority to search
Dolgoruky’s house, and indeed doubted that he would attempt to detain
M. de Lambert there.

So it was that, baffled in my intention of taunting him into an
acknowledgment of his work, I left his house as quickly as possible to
prosecute my search, accompanied by Tikhon, who rode along sullenly
enough with Pierrot, for he probably still remembered the day when M.
de Lambert had stretched him on the pavement of the Grand Square of
the Kremlin. In truth, I scarcely knew what use to make of the silent
Russian, who protested an ignorance as great as his master’s, but whom
I suspected of considerable malevolence, for he was not the man to
forget or forgive.

We rode back rapidly to my quarters to inquire if M. de Lambert had
returned in the interval, and, finding that he was yet absent, went
on upon our errand. The improbability of his voluntarily staying so
long away now that Najine was absent was palpable enough, and I had no
longer any doubt that he had met with foul play. We had searched every
quarter where he was likely to visit, with the result of receiving
repeated assurances that he had not been seen that day, and I was
deeply disquieted. The dusk was gathering, and we rode back upon our
tracks in an aimless fashion. I had ordered my two attendants in front,
and was riding several yards behind absorbed in troubled thought. We
were below the Kremlin, on the bank of the Moskva, and so lost was I in
meditation that I started when my horse shied at the sudden appearance
of a man before him. The stranger laid his hand on my bridle, and I
drew my pistol, thinking him some cut-purse.

“You stop me at your peril, knave,” I said harshly, wrenching the rein
free.

“Do not shoot, sir!” he exclaimed, and I knew his voice at once; it was
the Swedish spy.

“You took a serious risk,” I remarked, putting up my weapon; “what
would you have from me?”

“You are searching for M. de Lambert,” he said quietly; “I have heard
of it. That man Tikhon knows something--and also, monsieur, Apraxin is
here again.”

I started; these were evil tidings, for I looked upon him as an
assassin. The Swede’s knowledge did not astonish me, since it was his
business to acquire information, and his devoted gratitude had already
been proved. I leaned from my saddle and spoke to him in a low tone.

“I thank you,” I said; “learn all you can, for I fear that he has met
with foul play. They desire his absence or his death.”

“Compel yonder man to speak, M. le Vicomte,” he said earnestly, “and I
will do my best. One good turn deserves another;” and with these words
he slipped back behind the shadow of a low building, and I rode on.

He had scarcely detained me five minutes, but the others had gained
upon me and were quite a way in advance, so that as I went I had time
to formulate a plan for learning something definite from Tikhon. After
a while I rode faster and, overtaking them, ordered them to proceed to
the Zemlianui-gorod by way of a lonely lane with which I was familiar.
It was now quite dark, and the quiet of the hour and the place suited
my purpose. When we had reached the loneliest spot, I called Pierrot to
me under the pretence that my saddle needed a tighter girth, and thus
found an opportunity to whisper a word or so in his ear. Tikhon had
halted and was waiting in sullen acquiescence, when Pierrot and I rode
forward, one on either side of him, and, Pierrot seizing his horse’s
rein, I pressed my pistol to his temple. He was taken unawares, and for
the moment, I think, was badly frightened.

“We have had enough of this child’s play,” I said sternly, “and now
you can tell us where to find M. de Lambert or you can die--like the
miserable wretch that you are.”

“I know nothing,” he replied stubbornly; “it will avail nothing to kill
me.”

“Tush, man!” I exclaimed sharply, “a spy is never so ignorant. You
cannot escape me. Either take me to M. de Lambert, or tell me where to
find him.”

“I can do neither,” he retorted, in the same sullen tone, gaining
courage because I did not immediately execute my threat. “I know
nothing, nor does the prince my master.”

“Probably you know how to say your prayers,” I remarked dryly, “in
which case you had better say them, for you have only about five
minutes to live. I give you so much space to choose between confession
and eternity.”

He did not reply. I think he only just began to believe that I was
in earnest. He was not a coward, but the touch of cold steel thrills
even a strong man. There was no chance of escape for him; we were in a
desolate spot, and the night grew intensely dark. There was no sound
as we sat there on our horses but their occasional restive movements.
Pierrot held his bridle with an iron grip, and I had covered him with
my weapon. A pistol-shot more or less would not be noticed in Moscow,
and death stared him in the face. In the silence I could hear his
breath coming short and thick, and knew his heart was failing him. He
could not see my face, and I smiled in the darkness. It would not be
necessary to use violence. He was struggling hard with himself, and
I had no doubt that he had cause to fear the result of a confession.
Dolgoruky, of course, had bound him to fidelity, and it was possible
that he saw death as an alternative on either hand, for the prince
would never pardon the betrayal of his trust, and he must have placed
great confidence in this man or he would not have permitted him to go
with me. The minutes passed, and Tikhon was silent, still doubtless
hoping for rescue. The stillness was oppressive; the city was strangely
quiet, only, far off, a cathedral bell tolled twice from the Kremlin.
Once more I raised and levelled my pistol.

“The time has expired,” I said quietly. “I shall count three before I
fire, therefore be prepared for eternity.”

Still he did not speak; he had a stubborn courage which was slow to
yield.

“One,” I counted, tightening my grip upon my horse’s rein, for it
seemed as if the fool was determined to rush upon his fate and I was
losing patience.

“Two!”

I heard him draw his breath with a gasp.

“Wait!” he cried thickly.

It had come at last, but I carried things with a high hand.

“Do not trifle,” I exclaimed sternly, “you are facing death; speak the
whole truth.”

“You are a hard man,” he said in his sullen voice. “I am likely to die
in either case, but I am not prepared now.”

“Be quick!” I cried with impatience; “where is M. de Lambert?”

“Where he is not likely to escape so easily,” he answered, with a
certain vicious triumph in his tone; “he is in a guard-room of the
Kremlin.”

I started; something in his tone convinced me that he spoke the truth,
and I was not prepared for it.

“He could not be there without the czar’s order,” I exclaimed, “and I
have his passports.”

“He was committed by the czar’s officers,” he replied.

“And you betrayed him into their hands,” I said fiercely.

“I did not,” he replied boldly; “not that I bore him any good-will, but
I had no need to do more than watch. Zotof’s relative, Apraxin, did the
work.”

“Ah!” I ejaculated, “where is the miserable coward?”

“Truly, I know not,” Tikhon said bluntly; “he is a sullen boy for whom
I have no love. He has doubtless taken care to escape your vengeance.”

“Not if he is in Moscow,” I said sharply, all the while thinking of
some way out of the difficulty.

“Are you satisfied, M. le Vicomte?” he asked after a moment; “am I at
liberty to live, having betrayed my trust?”

“If what you have told me proves true, you are safe,” I replied slowly;
“if it is false, you will answer for it. Let go his rein, Pierrot,
and ride with him to my quarters, and let him not escape your close
surveillance until I order his dismissal. I have another errand.”

I watched them ride away until their dark figures became parts of that
other darkness, and then, turning my horse’s head, made all speed to
the Kremlin.




CHAPTER XIX.

THE MARRIAGE OF THE DWARFS.


I RODE toward the Kremlin with a heavy heart; the perplexity and perils
of my position were increased a hundredfold. My distance from my own
government and my comparative isolation in Moscow made a demand for
justice not only difficult but practically futile. The czar had no
right to imprison arbitrarily one of my suite, but how absurd was it
to talk of privileges to the autocrat of all the Russias! It was well
enough to carry matters with a high hand and threaten the wrath of
the King of France while M. de Lambert was a free man, but the _coup
d’état_ was accomplished; he was actually in a Russian prison, and
might easily starve there before aid could come from Versailles. What
folly had led him into the trap? What madness on his part had prompted
this sudden seizure? Not only did I find these questions difficult
to answer, but I found it difficult, too, to hit upon a plan of
action. Never was man in more unfortunate position,--responsible for
a delicate mission to the king my master; responsible for a reckless
young soldier; responsible for the honor and dignity of my country,
and dealing with a man of violent passions, for the czar was a volcano
ready to breathe smoke and fire at a moment’s provocation. And how
could I approach him now? Should I assume ignorance, and appeal to him
to aid me in my search for M. de Lambert, or should I boldly proclaim
my knowledge of the imprisonment and demand justice in the name of
the King of France? I checked my horse and rode slowly to give myself
time for thought. On the whole, I reflected that feigned ignorance
would suit my purpose best, since defiance could scarcely help me and
might deeply incense the czar. There was one chance in a hundred for
the young man’s release, and that was a slender one. I fancied that
he would be offered an alternative; renunciation of mademoiselle or
imprisonment, perhaps worse, if Peter dared to offer a deeper injury
to a soldier of France. Knowing the czar as I did, I doubted his
hesitation at anything, especially where his personal feelings were
involved, and I no longer doubted his love for Najine. How tangled is
the skein of our existence! Here was a young girl, simple, beautiful,
innocent, holding in her hand the knot of an emperor’s destiny, and by
that accident of fate, involving so many other lives in the meshes.
Here were love and hate, malice and revenge, secret treason and
attempted assassination interwoven by the accident of one man’s fancy,
simply because that he was royal.

Slow as had been the latter part of my journey, it was accomplished
in spite of my reflections, and I found myself at the entrance of the
palace. My dress was somewhat disordered by hard riding, but I made no
attempt to adjust it, for it seemed to me that my appearance would be
one evidence of the urgency of my errand. Entering the ante-room, I
requested an audience of the czar. The chamberlain hesitated at first,
saying that his Majesty was present at a marriage and would scarcely
permit an interruption; but, hearing that my business was imperative,
he consented to be the bearer of my petition, and, departing on his
errand, left me for half an hour to my own reflections. I suspected
that Peter was not anxious to receive me, and speculated not a little
on the possibilities of the approaching interview, although all the
time full of anxiety for M. de Lambert, knowing something of the
treatment that he was likely to receive. After my patience was nearly
exhausted, the chamberlain returned and informed me that it was the
czar’s pleasure that I should be conducted to his presence. I followed
the Russian, expecting a private audience; but instead of turning
towards the czar’s own apartments, he led me through a low narrow
passage to one of the large halls. We entered by a small door at the
lower end, and I paused a moment on the threshold, regarding the scene
with considerable astonishment. It was a splendid _salon_, barbaric
in its gorgeous colors, which made a background for a fantastic
painted decoration of palm-leaves and flowers, and it was spanned by
glittering arches supporting the vaulted roof, and was lighted by a
thousand tapers. In seats and upon cushions, arranged close against
the four walls, reclined the gayest courtiers, the wild coterie that
constituted Peter’s intimate circle of revellers. The center of the
room was occupied by a crowd of dwarfs, of both sexes, some hideously
and grotesquely deformed. They were in charge of a dwarf marshal who
had eight assistants, all arrayed in gay uniform, bedizened with
tinsel, and they were executing one of their weird dances, while at the
upper end of the apartment, leaning back in his chair with a gloomy
face, was the czar. After a moment’s observation, I understood the
scene: there had been a marriage; two dwarfs had amused the audience
by the mockery of such a wedding. Those unhappy little creatures
were kept about the Russian court, its playthings and the objects of
many a grim jest; the spies and eavesdroppers of rival factions; the
tools and the dupes of the gay and the wicked; intimate with every
intrigue, masters of every secret, and often dangerous in their hatred,
as such misshapen creatures are likely to be; full of malice and all
unkindness, betraying and betrayed; the most pitiful and the most
miserable objects of that brilliant assemblage, and yet reckoned to be
one of its sources of amusement; ministering now to the gloomy temper
of a master whose evil spirit was upon him, for I saw, at a glance,
that Peter was suffering from one of those seasons of depression that
came over him like a cloud, and suggested an abnormal condition of mind
in a man usually so forceful and full of easy good-humor, with all his
violent passions. A great soul is isolated, and as the tempests sweep
around the mountain’s loftiest peak, so also must storm and terror
sweep sometimes over the spirit that has been set amid the rulers of
the earth. As the dark hour came upon Saul, so also did it come upon
the greatest Romanoff. He sat, shading his face with his hand, his
eyes fixed gloomily on the dwarfs; two of the little creatures, gifted
with singular beauty, were sitting at his feet, while the others had
begun a country-dance, called by the Germans _Grossvater_, which Peter
himself had learned when in his merry mood in the German quarter; but
to-night no music could charm him into the mazes of the dance, and the
revelry was subdued, for the courtier is quick to take his cue from
the imperial temper. In the circle immediately about the czar, I saw
Dolgoruky and Sheremetief, and, to my relief, at a little distance
was Mentchikof. I was standing with the full length of the _salon_
between myself and the imperial party, and was scarcely noticed by
the gay young nobles near me, except when one or two turned to stare
at my plain riding-suit and at the mud upon my boots. The chamberlain
who had brought me made his way slowly to the upper end of the
apartment, and announced my presence to his Majesty. I was watching
Peter narrowly, and saw him glance at the man with a frown, his face
almost instantly convulsed by that _tic_ which made his features, for
the moment, terrible. He spoke a few words to the chamberlain, who
withdrew a little way and waited while the czar turned his attention
again to the dancers and I stood unnoticed by the door. I began to
chafe under this treatment, for not only did it suggest delay, but it
might indicate a possible affront to me as an ambassador, for Peter
had openly called me an envoy of France, and, although I as openly
disclaimed it, the position was awkward. If I resented the neglect,
I would double and treble the difficulties of my situation and of
M. de Lambert’s. However, at the end of a quarter of an hour the
chamberlain returned to guide me through the throng to the czar. The
dancing had ceased, and the courtiers mingled with the dwarfs while the
wine flowed freely. It was difficult to walk through the crowded room
without being rudely jostled, and once I nearly stumbled over a dwarf
who was scrambling about on the floor after a jewel that had fallen
from some chain. Peter was talking earnestly to Sheremetief, but as I
approached, he dismissed those immediately about him, and received me
almost alone,--for the babel of tongues made it impossible to overhear
a conversation carried on in a low tone. The expression of the czar’s
face was still gloomy, and he greeted me with a certain hauteur that
suggested a remembrance of our last meeting and his defeat at the hands
of my wife. He measured me from head to foot, apparently noting every
detail of my disordered dress and the pistols at my belt.

“You are welcome, M. l’Ambassadeur,” he said deliberately, “although
you come booted and spurred and armed grimly for so festive an
occasion.”

“I crave your Majesty’s pardon,” I replied; “the urgency of my errand
must be my apology for this untimely and unseemly appearance.”

He looked at me with well-feigned surprise.

“Your errand is urgent, then, sir,” he remarked coolly; “in that case
this is scarcely the time or place for it. However, the sooner it is
heard, the sooner it is over.”

“Your Majesty’s permission is scarcely as gracious as I hoped to
receive,” I said coldly, “but I am compelled to trespass upon your
patience. One of my suite, M. de Lambert, has been missing since early
morning, and all my efforts to discover him have been unavailing. I
received his passports and intended to act upon them, in accordance
with your Majesty’s wishes; but he almost immediately disappeared, and
I fear that he has met with foul play.”

Peter listened to me with close attention, not by the movement
of a muscle betraying any feeling upon the subject, and his dark
eyes searching my face, which I strove to render as immovable and
inscrutable as his own.

“This young man, M. de Lambert,” he said slowly, “is, I hear, something
of a wild gallant; therefore, M. le Vicomte, it seems to my poor
judgment that you make too much of a trifle. He is, doubtless, absent
on some business of his own, and will shortly reappear. I see no reason
for your apprehension of foul play.”

“Unhappily, your Majesty,” I replied boldly, “there are but too good
grounds for such apprehensions. He has but lately recovered from a
wound dealt by the hand of an assassin.”

The czar started slightly; it was apparent that he was ignorant of this
occurrence.

“It seems strange, M. l’Ambassadeur,” he said, “that an assassin should
attack one of your suite and you make no complaint to the authorities
or to me.”

“M. de Lambert was not seriously injured, your Majesty,” I replied
quietly, “and I did not desire to accuse a member of a family near your
person.”

“Speak plainly, M. de Brousson,” Peter exclaimed; “who was the man?”

I knew that I was treading on delicate ground, but I delivered my blow
calmly. “It was Yury Apraxin, the protégé of M. Zotof,” I said with
deliberation.

The czar flushed a deep red, and for an instant his eyes shot fire. He
recalled the scene at Mentchikof’s house, and for a moment, I believe,
thought that I intended to insult him; then he controlled his passion
and leaned towards me, clenching the arms of his chair with a grip that
made the cords stand out upon his hands.

“What quarrel had he with M. de Lambert?” he asked in a low voice, but
with an emphasis that was ominous.

I had assumed an air of innocence and candor. I looked straight back
into his passionate eyes, which were like those of the untamed king of
beasts.

“M. de Lambert has deeply admired M. Zotof’s beautiful niece, doing
homage to her beauty and purity, as we all do, your Majesty,” I replied
easily; “and M. Apraxin, having been betrothed to mademoiselle,
resented M. de Lambert’s admiration for his _fiancée_.”

The czar’s brow grew like a thunder-cloud; he knew nothing of Apraxin’s
early betrothal, and I began to enjoy the situation keenly. He uttered
a fierce exclamation, and I saw his lips twitch.

“Najine Zotof betrothed!” he said under his breath, and then added:
“Upon my soul, M. l’Ambassadeur, I thank you for your tidings. It
seems that my own people do not often speak truth to me. Apraxin--the
marplot boy! Did your friend run him through for his pains?”

“No, your Majesty,” I replied quietly; “my man ran to M. de Lambert’s
aid, and Apraxin fled like a caitiff.”

“Two Frenchmen, and yet he was not killed!” the czar exclaimed
furiously; “where were their swords?”

“The night was dark, your Majesty, the ground slippery, and Frenchmen
are not used to fight foes who strike in the back,” I said coolly.

Peter bit his lip. “You may bless your fortune that you are a
foreigner, M. de Brousson,” he exclaimed with passion; “I have borne
much from you. If you had been my subject, I would have had your head
long since.”

“That belongs to the King of France,” I replied with composure, “and I
trust it to your Majesty’s generosity.”

“The king my brother has to thank my forbearance that you carry it back
to him,” he retorted tartly. “You are an old fox, M. l’Ambassadeur; but
you always carry matters with a high hand.”

“Your Majesty compliments my wit too much,” I replied courteously; “but
I crave now your permission to prosecute a thorough search for M. de
Lambert.”

The czar made a gesture of impatience. “I am tired of the name,” he
exclaimed; “prosecute your search by all means, and let me hear no more
of him. He has his passports, let him use them; Moscow is no place for
him.”

“Will your Majesty order one of your officers to furnish me with the
means to continue my search?” I asked, pressing my point.

The czar frowned, and I saw that he hesitated. No doubt, well aware
of M. de Lambert’s arrest, he found himself in an awkward situation.
However, he called an attendant, and, scribbling a few lines on a
paper, despatched him, and then turned to me. He had risen from his
chair and stood there, among the gay costumes of his court, a massive
figure in the uniform of a German ship-captain, without an ornament or
an order.

“You will find an officer with the proper credentials at your disposal
in the ante-room, M. l’Ambassadeur,” he said curtly; “use what speed
you may. Find this Frenchman and send him across the border, or it may
be necessary for me to hasten his departure;” and with these words he
turned his back upon me, and, walking through the throng of dwarfs, who
fell back at his approach until he had a wide path across the _salon_,
he passed out and closed the door. A chill fell upon the assemblage,
and men stared at me as if I were some ill-omened visitor. I found
myself the center of observation as I made my way to the entrance by
which I had come, and went out unaccosted by any one, which made me
suspect that the court knew something of the seizure of my friend,
and that there was peril. I was not reassured, and had accomplished
nothing. I hurried through the ante-rooms to the farther one, where I
found an officer of the Preobrazhensky regiment waiting for me, and,
for a moment, thought that foul play was intended; but he addressed me
with deference and showed his orders to obey my instructions. We went
out together, and began a tedious and of course fruitless search for
M. de Lambert. It was an easy matter for the imperial officer to take
me to every spot but the right one, and I felt that I would have given
much to read the lines that the czar had scribbled upon that slip of
paper. A weary search it was, from place to place; the Russian always
courteous, inscrutable, unruffled, and ignorant--as only a man can be
whose business it is to be sublimely stupid.




CHAPTER XX.

THE FAITHFUL SPY.


IN asking for an officer to assist in my search for M. de Lambert,
I had hoped to force the czar’s hand, and to obtain some direct
information as to his intentions toward his captive, but I had failed
in this, and the Russian was of no assistance to me; on the contrary,
he became such a burden that after a few hours I signified my readiness
to dispense with his services, and saw him depart with feelings of
deep relief. He left me at the door of my own lodgings, and I went in
to inquire for tidings, only to find that there were none, and that
Pierrot had Tikhon still in custody. I was not willing to let him go
until I had absolute proof of the truth of his information, and so
left him to the tender mercies of my equerry. It was late, but I found
Zénaïde waiting for me with an anxious face, having spent the night
in watching, all her fears alarmed by M. de Lambert’s disappearance,
for, though a brave woman, she was always sensitive to anxieties for my
personal safety, and she understood only too well the intrigues of the
court.

“Where have you been?” she asked as she helped me to lay aside my cloak
and sword. “Have you any good tidings?”

“None,” I replied gloomily, “and I have seen the czar.”

“It is, then, as we feared,” she exclaimed; “he has been arrested?”

I inclined my head. “So Tikhon tells me, and I believe he speaks the
truth. The czar was in an evil humor and determined to baffle me. It
is a sorry affair, and if something does not occur to mend it inside
of twenty-four hours, I must even send a messenger post-haste to
Versailles.”

Zénaïde’s face grew grave, and she stood looking at the fire
thoughtfully. “A sorry matter, indeed,” she said after a moment, “and
it makes me shudder when I think of what may happen to M. de Lambert
before we can do anything for him. Poor Najine!”

“I do not believe that the czar will attempt to harm him,” I replied;
“the King of France is no weak foe, and I have endeavored to impress
them here with the personal importance of Guillaume de Lambert.”

Zénaïde shook her head. “You do not know Russia yet, Philippe,” she
said, “or you would not lay that unction to your soul. I thought
that you understood better the passionate, impulsive nature of Peter
Alexeivitch.”

“Ay, madame,” I said, “I know the Russian, but I know also that
the name of Louis of France is a power, and Peter never forgets
altogether, even in his love fever, his quarrel with Charles of
Sweden. If he affronts the king my master, how can he foresee the
result in Saxony? The German princes are only too anxious to partition
Augustus’ patrimony, and with a new alliance what could not Charles XII
accomplish? Poland would be lost, not only to Augustus, but to Peter,
and with it the Neva. No, no, Madame de Brousson, the czar dare not
openly insult Louis de Bourbon.”

Zénaïde shrugged her shoulders. “You do not understand Peter,” she said
with decision; “he is in love, and he will allow his impulses and his
jealousies to rule him exactly as if he had been born a peasant. The
czar is very genuine, and I believe I admire him for it. If he is a
king, he is also a man, and when the depths of that soul are stirred,
there is a mighty tempest.”

“By Saint Denis, madame!” I exclaimed, “I shall begin to be jealous of
his imperial Majesty. I never knew before how much you admired him.”

She smiled. “Yes,” she said thoughtfully, “I believe I do admire him;
I believe that I am even sorry for him. He was married to an ignorant,
bigoted woman who belongs to a past for which the czar has no sympathy.
There could have been no affection between them, and he can have
little hope in the czarevitch. In a manner, I have been converted to
your opinions. Peter has deep feelings and a certain simplicity; I
believe that he sincerely desires to be loved by Mademoiselle Zotof. I
can see just how her beauty, her wit, her spirit appeal to him. While
I sympathize with her, and while her love for M. de Lambert is natural
and sweet, yet I am not without regret--I confess it--that she cannot
be Czarina of Russia.”

“Upon my word, Zénaïde,” I said dryly, “you should plead the czar’s
cause. To me he seemed without so fine a perception.”

“A violent man, Philippe,” she replied gently, “but with some
magnificent qualities, and, after all, the son of Alexis the most
Debonair and Natalia Kirilovna, a beautiful and ambitious woman and a
generous and benignant man; had he not the birthright to a noble soul?
And how much more lovable than--”

I held up my finger in warning. “Have a care, madame,” I said.

“Nay, Philippe,” she replied, “I will say it--than the king our master.”

“Treason,” I said lightly, “high treason. It will become my duty,
madame, to report you at Versailles.”

As I spoke, Touchet came to the door to announce that a stranger
desired to see me at once on urgent business.

“Bid him come here,” I said, and then added, “Nay, I will go down--”
But Zénaïde interrupted me.

“No, no,” she exclaimed, “let him come here. If his errand is honest,
he can face the light, and we have had too much of conspiracy. The next
move will be against you, and I will not be put off--I understand my
own people better than you do, and I am your best defence.”

“He asked me to give this token to your Excellency,” Touchet said,
handing me a ring.

It was my own which I had given to the Swede, and I bade Touchet bring
him in at once.

“Your fears were groundless, Zénaïde,” I remarked, smiling; “you are
over-anxious.”

“It may be, but I cannot let you run any risks,” she replied gently,
laying her hand upon my arm. “There are but two Philippes in the world
for me, you and my boy, and I cannot afford to lose either of them.”

Looking down upon her fair and anxious face, I kissed her.

“We are a couple of fools, madame,” I said, “and I hear the feet of
Touchet and the Swede upon the stair.”

“By your leave I will stay,” she said, retiring to the alcove by the
chimney, as the door opened to admit my visitor.

It was Lenk, and I was anxious to hear his tidings, for I was confident
that he had found some means to locate M. de Lambert, and my surmise
proved correct.

“You are welcome, Lenk,” I said, “for I doubt not that you have some
information.”

“I have, M. de Brousson,” he replied gravely; “it is as I thought. He
was betrayed by Apraxin into the hands of the czar’s officers, and is
imprisoned in the Kremlin.”

“That is what Tikhon, Prince Dolgoruky’s equerry, has already
confessed,” I said; “but where is he confined?”

“In a cell behind the old torture-room.”

I started. It was a grim place in which to incarcerate an innocent man
and a Frenchman. I felt the blood burn in my veins; it was an insult to
France.

“Is it possible to communicate with him?” I asked quickly.

Lenk shook his head. “No, it was only by accident that I was enabled to
locate him, your Excellency,” he replied, “and no one else would have
been so fortunate.”

I looked at him curiously. “You have honeycombed the court secrets, I
see,” I remarked quietly; “how is it that you obtain such information
and yet go about unsuspected and unapprehended?”

He smiled. “Is it possible that you have been so long in the courts
of Europe, monsieur,” he replied, “and yet do not know that treachery
is common, that no man is safe in the hands of his friends? There are
many, too, who betray through folly. The brain of a fool is like an
egg: you can draw out the contents, without breaking the shell.”

I looked at him attentively. I saw that I had been deceived in him, and
that there was a shrewd nature behind that broad blunt countenance, and
that those small light eyes were keen with intelligence. His face was
like a mask, and served his purpose well.

“Tell me,” I said after a pause, “how is this cell situated in which M.
de Lambert is confined? Can it be reached? Can a rescue be planned?”

“Impossible, your Excellency,” he replied at once; “it is an
interior cell, and is in charge of the Preobrazhensky guards, alike
incorruptible and indomitable. We must devise some other way.”

I paced the floor in silence. I was at a loss what to do or say. The
situation was gloomy, and I began to entertain serious fears for my
unfortunate friend.

“Where is Apraxin?” I asked at last.

“At the house of Zotof,” the Swede replied promptly. “I traced him
there. It was his messenger who induced M. de Lambert to leave your
quarters in the morning.”

I could not myself imagine what had induced M. Guillaume to be again
deceived by the villain, but for the time thought little of it, only
endeavoring to find a way to unravel the difficulty.

“We must have Apraxin,” I said decidedly, “and at once.”

“That will be no easy matter,” the Swede remarked calmly; “he is a
miserable knave, and on the constant outlook for trouble.”

“Nevertheless we must have him,” I exclaimed; “we must find a way to
secure him without bloodshed.”

“I am willing to undertake the errand, M. de Brousson,” the spy said
quietly; “but I cannot hit upon a way to catch him as readily as I
would like.”

Zénaïde came suddenly out of her retirement. She had understood my plan
at once.

“I have it,” she said eagerly; “we must use his own methods. We must
decoy him into an ambush.”

“Of course,” I retorted with a shrug; “but how, madame?”

“Wait but a moment,” she replied quickly, “and I will show you the
way;” and she hurried from the room, her face flushed with excitement.

I looked after her in surprise. “I cannot see the way so easily,” I
said.

“Madame will show us,” the Swede replied calmly; “a woman’s wit has
often cut the knot when all else failed.”

“I trust that it will be so in this case,” I said, although I could not
imagine what was my wife’s plan.

In a moment she came back with something in her hand.

“Behold the key to the difficulty,” she said triumphantly, holding out
a bit of pale blue ribbon.

I stared at the ribbon and at her in silence, and, seeing my
bewilderment, she laughed merrily.

“You grow dull, Philippe,” she said chidingly; “it is mademoiselle’s
favorite color. It fell from her robe upon my floor, and I saved it
with some inspiration that it would serve a good turn. Send it to M.
Apraxin with a message. They know not yet where to find Najine, and are
eager for tidings. Trust me, he will fall into the snare as easily as
did M. de Lambert.”

“Madame is right,” the Swede declared with sparkling eyes; “he will
jump at a token from mademoiselle, and I know a lad who can take it
unsuspected and get into Zotof’s house.”

“Apraxin is a greater fool than I think him, if he follows that bit of
ribbon,” I remarked grimly; “however, it is worth the trial, and we
have no time to lose. Therefore, Lenk, send your messenger with speed;
but stay--where shall we bid the fellow come?”

We all stood thinking for a moment, and then, again, madame found a
solution for the problem.

“Bid him come to that quiet street behind the palace of Mentchikof,”
she said; “then he will think, quite naturally, that Mentchikof has
been trying to abduct mademoiselle, and that she sends to her relative
to rescue her, despairing of other aid.”

“Your wit is excellent, madame,” I said; “this may prove a clever
trick. As for you, Lenk, send the message, and Pierrot and Touchet
shall help you to secure him; but it must be without bloodshed.”

The Swede smiled. “Have no fear, your Excellency,” he replied;
“assassins do not love an open fight, and it will be three to one.”

“He may come reinforced,” Zénaïde said; “he would scarcely come alone.”

“I differ from you,” I rejoined. “Zotof will not commit himself to
open support of Apraxin while the czar feels as he does toward the
scapegrace,--for not even his share in securing M. de Lambert will
excuse his rash offence in his Majesty’s eyes.”

I went on to give Lenk some specific instructions, and to thank him for
his aid, which was indispensable, although dangerous, for the help of a
Swedish spy would ruin us if it were discovered; but a desperate game
must be desperately played.

The Swede had just left the room when there was a sound of voices in
the hall, and Madame de Brousson, who had been listening at the door,
turned to me with a startled face.

“I cannot be mistaken,” she exclaimed; “it is Najine!”




CHAPTER XXI.

NAJINE.


MADAME DE BROUSSON and I stood looking at each other in silence. What
miracle was this? In another moment there were steps upon the stair,
and Najine rushed into the room followed by her woman, both of them
cloaked and travel-stained. Mademoiselle ran up to me, and, throwing
back her hood, showed a pale face and eyes shining with excitement.

“Oh, tell me that it is not true!” she cried incoherently; “tell me
that I am deceived, that Guillaume is free!”

I looked at her in astonishment; by what witchcraft had she learned of
her lover’s imprisonment? Reading in my face and in my hesitation a
confirmation of her worst fears, she stamped her foot upon the floor
with an outburst of anger that sent the blood to her cheeks.

“How could you permit it? You, an ambassador! How dare they molest him?
He has done no wrong,” she cried.

“Bear with me, mademoiselle,” I replied soothingly; “it was scarcely my
fault, and you must remember that in the eyes of the czar he has done
grave wrong.”

She looked at me amazed, not at first understanding, and I smiled.

“M. de Lambert loves you, mademoiselle,” I explained quietly, “and that
is a sufficient sin in his Majesty’s eyes.”

She flushed, and her glance kindled. “Then he must imprison me also,”
she exclaimed, “for I, too, am in error. Why should I not be likewise
arrested? I love M. de Lambert.”

“Would that he could hear you and see you now, mademoiselle!” I
said, for never had she looked more beautiful than in her passionate
excitement; her spirited face aglow with emotion, and her blue eyes
almost black in their dilation. At my words she recollected her
position and blushed, her dark lashes suddenly veiling her glance. She
was charming. Zénaïde, seeing her confusion, took her hand and drew her
down upon the seat beside her.

“My dear,” she said kindly, “tell us how you learned so quickly of M.
de Lambert’s misfortune.”

“Through Neonila,” she replied; and told us briefly that her woman had
left word with a faithful relative of their probable refuge, and he
had sent instant tidings of M. de Lambert’s fate, learned at once from
one of Zotof’s serfs. Najine had acted with her usual impulsiveness,
turning a deaf ear to the warnings and remonstrances of her aunt.

While she was talking to my wife, I went out, in time to detain the
Swede until I could arrange matters with her, for doubtless she could
help us in the execution of our scheme, and returning I unfolded it.
Her first thought was one of passionate indignation against Apraxin,
whom she despised. Indeed, it was probably the sting of her scorn that
spurred him on to many of his acts of treachery and revenge.

“A sullen boy,” she said with her quick disdain; “I was betrothed to
him as a child, but would never have married him.”

“We must have this boy, though, mademoiselle,” I remarked, “and, if it
can be, without bloodshed. Mayhap, you can devise some way to compass
our design.”

She sat thinking for a while. “I will write a line to accompany the
ribbon,” she said at last; “nothing is easier, and it will convince
him. He is not clever, only cunning. Give me a bit of paper, madame,
and a pen, and the deed is soon done.”

I had both at hand, and passed them to her; but she paused with the pen
suspended in mid air and looked at me with sudden reproach.

“What a traitor you make me, monsieur!” she exclaimed; “here am I
striving to decoy Apraxin into a trap!”

“Treachery begets treachery, mademoiselle,” I replied; “and he intended
death, while we--” I laughed and shrugged my shoulders.

She remained thoughtful, with her hand suspended above the paper; then,
bending over, she wrote her message and pushed it toward me.

“It is done, M. le Vicomte,” she said gravely. “I have done for M. de
Lambert what I would not do for myself; I have written an untruth--or
that which is the same as an untruth. But no harm must come of it, even
to a traitor, and I must go with the Swede and your equerry.”

“We will both go, mademoiselle,” I responded cheerfully, “and I
apprehend no mischief, for I do not think your quondam _fiancé_ loves
an open fight.”

Her lip curled scornfully. “He is a coward,” she said; “he was always a
coward. I never knew him, even as a lad, to fight his equal, but always
some puny boy who could not strike again, or the child of a serf.”

“And yet,” I remarked thoughtfully, “he dared the wrath of the czar.”

“He must have been flushed with wine,” mademoiselle replied
disdainfully; “indeed, I heard my uncle say so.”

“I do not think your uncle loves him,” I said.

“He never did,” she rejoined; “Yury was called my aunt’s nephew and was
her favorite. She spoiled him as a child, and even now would champion
his cause if she did not see a vision of a greater climax to her
ambition. She could not understand my dislike for the miserable boy.”

I looked at mademoiselle and smiled. How hard Madame Zotof must have
found it to put a curb upon that proud young spirit, and how eternal
must have been the clash between them!

I took her missive to the Swede, and sent him upon his errand. The
hour appointed for the tryst was at daybreak, as the night was now far
advanced, and it would be impracticable to attempt a meeting before
the morning. We all chafed at the delay, but it was inevitable, and we
were forced to be content with the progress we had made. Najine sat
with us over the fire into the small hours before my wife persuaded her
to rest after her long and rapid journey. She was the personification
of youth and vigor, determined, energetic, vivacious. I saw clearly
the attraction that had won the heart of the czar. Here was a complete
contrast to the ignorant and bigoted Eudoxia; to the unfaithful German,
Anna Mons; a contrast even greater, too, to the beauty and passion
of the Livonian peasant girl. Here was a young woman, beautiful
and charming, with a ready wit and a pure mind; spirited, gay,
quick-tempered; the very woman to attract and hold the fancy of a man
like the czar. I watched her as she sat at my fireside in her simple
garb, the cloak laid aside and the outlines of her graceful figure
clearly defined, her proud head setting so handsomely on her shoulders,
and the color varying on her cheeks as the light varied in her dark
blue eyes. My wife and I were opposite to her and observed her, both
fascinated by the picture that she made. Zénaïde had always been almost
entirely French, by instinct, by education, by inclination, in spite of
her Russian birth; but mademoiselle was wholly Russian, and interested
me as a type of another nation. She told us of her journey back from
Troïtsa, of the hard riding and the dangers of being discovered by some
of Zotof’s household or his friends, for she had no doubt that by this
time her guardians knew of her flight to her aunt.

“You have a brave spirit, mademoiselle,” I said quietly; “it was a long
and lonely journey, and you had no escort but your woman.”

She looked at me and smiled. “I am a soldier’s daughter,” she replied
proudly; “I have never known what it was to be afraid.”

“_Bien_, mademoiselle,” I replied; “and soon, if all goes well, you
will be a soldier’s wife.”

She blushed prettily, and laughed. “I must endeavor to be brave enough,
M. le Maréchal, to be worthy to be the wife of a soldier of France,”
she said sweetly.

I made her an obeisance. “France is honored, mademoiselle,” I said,
smiling; “but truly, I know no braver man than this same Guillaume de
Lambert, and the only fault I find in him is that of young blood, too
great an impetuosity.”

“I remember the day, Najine,” laughed Zénaïde, “when Philippe de
Brousson was as headstrong as any boy that he can name, and so
impetuous that there is many a long chapter of the accidents which
befell him. He has grown grave now, and preaches to the young upon the
faults in which he himself excelled. Take heart, mademoiselle, M. de
Lambert will yet emerge triumphant.”

“I do not doubt it,” Najine replied with spirit; “a brave man deserves
success.”

I smiled at their confidence. The Kremlin was a grim place, and M.
de Lambert was behind strong bars and in the power of a man whose
resolution was iron, and whose natural generosity was frequently
obscured by those bursts of passion which swept all before them.
However, it would have been not only useless but ill-advised to intrude
my doubts upon Najine’s sanguine mood, and I remained silent. Indeed,
I had ample food for reflection, for I found the situation becoming
hourly more complicated. I had believed that she was safe with her aunt
and that I was free of that responsibility, but she had returned upon
my hands, in time, it was true, to aid me, but also at the moment when
her presence under my roof would be the keenest embarrassment. Yet
where to send her I knew not, and she appeared to be unconscious of
the difficulty that her arrival created. I slept but little, and rose
with the first peep of dawn, determined to accomplish something on that
day, if it was within human possibility. In spite of her fatiguing
journey, mademoiselle was up nearly as early, and she and her woman
were ready to attend me at the appointed hour. Taking both Pierrot and
Touchet, we proceeded at once. The spot appointed for the meeting was
a narrow lane behind the palace of Mentchikof, flanked on one side by
the blank wall of the kitchen wing, and on the other by the low wall of
a courtyard belonging to a deserted building. This court opened upon
the lane by a postern, which was never closed because of the rusted and
broken hinges; and it was behind this door that I intended to conceal
my party, while mademoiselle and her woman were to come apparently from
the side entrance of Mentchikof’s house, thus disarming the suspicion
of her cousin, who would probably enter the lane from the north. The
signal appointed for his approach, two low whistles, was to summon
Najine from her hiding-place behind the buttress of Mentchikof’s
palace, while I could approach unseen when Apraxin became engaged in
conversation with her. It was a trap, and it was a question whether he
would be fool enough to enter it or not. Mademoiselle, who knew him
well, was confident of success, but I was less sanguine. On reaching
our destination, we were met by the Swede with the report that his part
of the compact had been successfully executed, and nothing remained but
to take our places and wait for the development of the plot. It had
been arranged that Najine should engage him in conversation and draw
from him, if possible, a confession of his part in the arrest of M. de
Lambert.

It was a raw morning, and the sky was dark with heavy clouds; now and
then a few flakes of snow fell, and then a keen gust of wind blew
them away. We stood shivering under our heavy cloaks in our place of
concealment. I was nearest the postern, and from my position commanded
the spot where mademoiselle and Neonila waited. It seemed a long time
before there was any indication of the approach of our victim, and I
began to think that he had been keen enough to suspect a trap and to
avoid it. But at last there was a low whistle, followed by another,
and Pierrot, climbing up, looked over the wall; by getting his eyes
above the level of the top he could see the north end of the lane, from
which, as we had expected, the signal came.

“Is it he?” I asked in an undertone.

Pierrot made a sign in the affirmative.

“Alone?” I inquired again.

Pierrot dropped from his place and came to me softly.

“He has but one attendant,” he whispered; “and they advance with
caution.”

I made a sign to him to be still, and we stood watching and listening.
Mademoiselle at the first whistle had come from her shelter, and
walked along the lane, followed by her woman, until she reached the
postern; there she halted, so that we could both see them and hear
the conversation which ensued. Seeing only the two women, Apraxin was
relieved of his anxiety, and advanced boldly to meet her, leaving his
man a little in the rear. At his approach, Najine slightly raised her
veil, meeting him with some embarrassment, which was really due to her
hatred of the part that she was compelled to play.

“I thank you for coming so promptly,” she said quietly. “I scarcely
hoped that you would receive my missive.”

“You have given us much anxiety and trouble, Najine,” he exclaimed
sharply, with a note of authority in his tone; “how is it that you
fly to the house of that Frenchman Brousson, and reappear at that of
Mentchikof? It is time that you rendered an account of your conduct.”

Mademoiselle gave him a haughty glance. “I did not come here to account
to you, Yury Ivanovitch,” she replied coldly, “nor do I think you have
any right to reproach me; that belongs to my uncle.”

“Come, come, Najine,” he said easily, “do not pick a quarrel with me.
I have come to take you to your uncle, and I doubt not that he will be
so overjoyed at your return that he will require no account from you;
therefore let us lose no time.”

He made a movement to take her hand to lead her away, but she repelled
him with a petulant gesture.

“Nay,” she said steadily; “I will not give you my hand until you
can prove worthy to touch it. I have heard evil things of you, Yury
Apraxin. A man who would stab another unawares is a coward and an
assassin.”

He started at her words, and his face flushed darkly.

“On my word!” he exclaimed passionately, “you have a shrew’s tongue in
your head, fair relative; if you were a man, I would resent it.”

Najine laughed bitterly. “Doubtless,” she said dryly, “since I am the
weaker of the two. A fair fight I could forgive, but I am sorry that a
friend of mine can plan assassination and betray an innocent man into
the hands of his enemies!”

Apraxin looked at her with a sneer on his face.

“I marvel at your boldness,” he said mockingly, “I would expect a
modest maiden to hold her peace instead of quarrelling for the love of
a Frenchman who doubtless has a sweetheart at home. For shame, Najine!
you are a disgrace to your family, running about Moscow in search of
this malapert coxcomb of a foreigner. It is well for you that he is
safely out of your way,” he added with his unpleasant laugh.

Mademoiselle had flushed and paled during his speech, and I saw that
she was quivering with anger and excitement, but she did not forget
her rôle.

“You have murdered him,” she cried with affected despair. “I will
denounce you to the czar.”

Apraxin laughed outright. “Have a care, Najine,” he said. “I have not
murdered him, but the czar will.”

“What do you mean?” she cried with an agitation more real than
affected. “The czar has given him his passports; it is you who have
detained him.”

“Not so, mademoiselle,” Apraxin replied, mocking her. “I helped him
into the hands of the czar’s officers; that is all.”

“You mock me,” she said bitterly; “he would not follow you.”

Apraxin laughed again; he was enjoying his triumph to the full.

“Nay,” he replied gayly, “he did not follow me, fair damsel, but I
sent a lad to him with a message telling him that he must come to
the refectory of the Miracle Monastery for certain tidings on which
depended your safety. There I led the imperial officers, for the
captain of the watch had told me that his instructions were to take M.
de Lambert, if he came within the Kremlin, and to imprison him to await
his Majesty’s pleasure; so what more had I to do? It was easy; and
monsieur, like the fool he is, fell into the snare.”

“You are a traitor!” mademoiselle cried passionately, “and deserve a
traitor’s recompense.”

It was the signal. M. Apraxin’s back was toward me, and he was
practically alone with Najine, for both her woman and his attendant
had withdrawn to quite a distance. I walked out and laid a heavy hand
upon his shoulder, while with the other I drew the pistol from his
belt. Taken unawares, he started back and tried to throw me off, but
in a moment the Swede had him upon the other side, and we disarmed
him. Pierrot ran after his man; but the fellow, a miserable caitiff,
had taken flight at the first alarm, and showed so clean a pair of
heels that Pierrot was forced to give up the chase and returned very
short of breath, for he was no longer young or fleet of foot. After the
first violent struggle Apraxin yielded with sullen acquiescence, and
walked between us down the lane. The scuffle had been brief and almost
noiseless, so that no one saw us as we left the spot. Mademoiselle and
her woman stood aside for us to pass, intending to follow with my two
equerries. Our prisoner cast a glance of hatred at her as he walked
past.

“Traitress!” he cried between his teeth, “this is your revenge!”

Poor Najine! her cheek flushed scarlet, for she despised her task.




CHAPTER XXII.

AN INTERVAL OF SUSPENSE.


AS soon as Apraxin was secured, I went to the palace of Mentchikof,
knowing that I had no time to lose; my captive’s attendant would bear
the tidings of his seizure to his uncle, and there would be some
decisive action at once, on one side or the other. The czar’s feeling
toward Apraxin might tie Zotof’s hands for the moment, but it was
probable that the servant had recognized mademoiselle and would report
her presence to her uncle. I reached Mentchikof’s house at an hour
when he was not receiving visitors, but after a little parley with the
porter, was admitted and only waited a few minutes in the ante-room
before being summoned to the favorite’s presence. He had just risen,
and he received me in his own apartment, which was as luxurious as the
bed-chamber of an emperor. He had heard enough of my conversation with
the czar on the previous evening to be aware of my troubles, and was
therefore prepared to listen to my complaint. I told him briefly of
the course of events and of the successful capture of Apraxin. I was
tolerably frank with him, knowing that I needed both his good-will
and his assistance, for he was the only one on whom I could rely for
any material aid. I concealed only the presence of Najine, for I was
anxious to leave her out of the affair and, if possible, to hide the
fact that she was at my lodgings. Mentchikof listened to me with keen
attention, and I saw, at once, that he was striving to see some way
out of the labyrinth. Mademoiselle’s headstrong conduct and her open
aversion to the czar’s suit were both points in our favor, for Peter
was one to resent keenly the ridicule that they naturally threw upon
his course.

“It is a delicate matter, M. le Maréchal,” Mentchikof remarked
thoughtfully. “The czar has undoubtedly imprisoned M. de Lambert. He
probably ordered his arrest in one of those moments of ungovernable
passion when he takes little account of what he does, but, having taken
this rash action, it is difficult for him to recede from it.”

“That is true, monsieur,” I replied gravely; “but such action involves
an offence to France, and that is a point that his Majesty will do well
to consider.”

Mentchikof, who was, before all else, a Russian, resented my tone at
once.

“You know very well, M. de Brousson,” he said haughtily, “that the czar
my master is too proud and passionate a man to count the costs, even if
Russia had cause to fear.”

I did not desire to offend him, and let his reply pass unnoticed.

“His Majesty should however consider the injustice, M. Mentchikof,” I
said courteously. “M. de Lambert is an innocent man, and as a foreigner
has a claim upon your forbearance.”

“I recognize the justice of what you say, M. l’Ambassadeur,” he replied
calmly; “but the czar is human, and M. de Lambert has offended him.
Perhaps, you or I in like case would be even less merciful.”

I smiled. “That may be, monsieur,” I said, “but you or I would seek
redress with our swords. Prison walls are safe, but it seems a poor
revenge.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “A safe one, M. de Brousson,” he replied
coolly; “a sword-thrust and six feet of earth are cold satisfaction for
a man in love.”

“That is true,” I said, smiling; “but prison walls are equally hard for
M. de Lambert, therefore I crave your assistance to liberate him. I had
thought of taking Apraxin to the czar and demanding my friend’s release
from the custody into which Apraxin has betrayed him.”

“Taking the ground that his Majesty is ignorant of the conduct of his
guards?” Mentchikof asked. “I see, monsieur. That is the only possible
way of touching the matter. I have no doubt that the czar is ignorant
of Apraxin’s share in it, but we cannot tell what effect it would have
upon him. The czar despises Apraxin, but he may, for the time, pass
that over. On the other hand, the introduction of the fellow’s name may
bring forth a burst of passion that might end in the reverse of your
wishes. And again, Apraxin may eventually injure the cause of Zotof and
of--his niece.”

“I have foreseen all that, monsieur,” I replied gravely, “yet it seems
the only hope. It is more probable that the czar will be seized with
disgust of the whole affair when he finds that Apraxin regards Najine
as his betrothed, and betrayed M. de Lambert to get rid of a successful
rival.”

Mentchikof rose, and walked up and down the room for a few moments,
thinking deeply. The matter was close to his heart: it involved his own
hold upon the affections of his master; it threatened the destruction
of some of his dearest hopes and schemes. I watched him keenly,
wondering a little what thoughts were in his mind,--if he was picturing
his own success or his defeat; if he saw before him the triumph of his
rivals, the obscurity of Catherine Shavronsky, and his own ruin, for
the loss of favor would mean the total collapse of his fortunes. He was
an extravagant man, and his debts were colossal, while his credit was
tottering at the caprice of the czar’s favor. His hold upon Peter’s
affections was strong, his influence had been almost unbounded; but
the favorite of royalty keeps his place by but feeble tenure, and if
the czar followed the impulse of his passion for mademoiselle, a new
party would inevitably come into power, and Mentchikof’s arrogance
would be remembered and revenged. I regarded him with interest. A man
richly endowed in person and in mental qualities; handsome, brave,
magnetic; possessed of a winning address and a pungent wit, and withal,
a gallant soldier and a shrewd statesman,--he was a man to captivate
and hold the fancy of almost any one who approached him, and I did
not condemn Daria Arsenief for her infatuation; all the court knew
that she was devoted to Alexander Mentchikof, and I had heard it said
that Peter desired that he should marry her, while he was yet either
unwilling or not ready to comply with his master’s wishes. He paced the
room now for five minutes or more, and I did not interrupt his revery,
willing to allow him full time to mature his own plans; but before he
spoke again, a little page brought him a message from Mademoiselle
Shavronsky, asking if she might join us, as she desired to see the
Vicomte de Brousson. For an instant Mentchikof looked annoyed, and
then, recovering himself, sent for her to appear. When the page reared
with his message, he looked at me and smiled.

“Catherine must needs manage this herself,” he said dryly; “womanlike,
she believes that she can always find the end of the tangled skein.”

“A woman’s wit is keen,” I replied, “and it may be that she will see a
way that we cannot discover.”

“It may be,” he rejoined with a shrug; “but she has already done
mischief enough to her own affairs, and yet she is a clever woman--a
woman worthy to rule,” he added to himself.

As he spoke, the door opened and Catherine Shavronsky came in, attended
only by a little Russian girl. Catherine’s face was pale, but more
composed than when I had last seen her, and she responded to my
greeting graciously. She was attired in some plain dark robe, and her
figure looked less massive than usual, and there was something almost
girlish in the simple earnestness of her manner.

“You have tidings, M. le Maréchal,” she said directly; “I trust that
they are better than the last. Is M. de Lambert at liberty?”

I shook my head.

“What?” she exclaimed, “in prison still? Has no one appealed to the
czar?”

Mentchikof cut short her inquiries by informing her briefly of my
errand and my failures and successes. She listened with impatience,
evidently regarding us both as laggards, and she was restless to
achieve some better fortune. When he had finished speaking, she turned
upon me suddenly with a searching look.

“Where is Najine Zotof?” she asked sharply.

For the moment I was taken by surprise and returned her look blankly. I
had no desire to communicate to her mademoiselle’s hiding-place. She
read me through and through with those keen dark eyes of hers, and her
full lips curled with a contemptuous smile.

“Do not try to deceive me, M. l’Ambassadeur,” she said dryly; “the
fine-spun excuses of the court will not pass with me. You know where
mademoiselle is; why does she not come forward and plead for her lover
herself? If I were M. de Lambert, I would not value such faint-hearted
loyalty.”

“You take a strong view, mademoiselle,” I replied gravely; “it is a
difficult point to decide whether or not Mademoiselle Zotof’s presence
would injure her cause.”

“Try it,” she exclaimed warmly. “I know the czar. She can do more than
fifty diplomats for her lover. I tell you frankly, M. le Vicomte, that
if I were in mademoiselle’s place I would appeal to his Majesty at
once. I would not lose a moment. I would trust to his generosity--his
natural kindness. His Majesty is always approachable, and to no one
does simple devotion appeal more strongly. He is the czar, but he is
also human.”

Mentchikof had listened in silence, observing her animated features,
impressed no doubt, as much as I was, by the impetuosity of her manner.
When she ceased speaking, he turned to me gravely.

“Catherine is right,” he said; “the czar is more likely to show mercy
to Mademoiselle Zotof than to M. de Lambert--and you could not make
such an appeal. Najine can do so, and it may help in a hundred ways;”
and he looked at me with a meaning smile.

And I, remembering his threat of a few weeks ago, stood irresolute.
Could I trust these two, or was it a scheme to injure mademoiselle?
They certainly would not plan to place her in the czar’s way if they
believed that it would encourage his passion for her; but what did they
intend? I looked at the two faces, and for the time felt thoroughly at
sea. Their motives were apparently innocent, but how far could I trust
Mentchikof? How far Catherine? Ah, that was the question! Unable to
decide at the moment, I temporized.

“And how could she make this appeal?” I inquired calmly, glancing from
one to the other.

“She can go direct to the palace and make the petition when the czar
gives audience to all complainants,” Mentchikof replied. “It would be
ill-advised for her to make it in private; his Majesty might easily put
such an appeal aside, but a public one would attract attention and--in
a word, you understand, M. l’Ambassadeur, he has no real reason to keep
a member of your suite in prison.”

“To be frank, M. Mentchikof,” I said, “your plan strikes me as
feasible; but, after all, it is like playing at dice, and it is a throw
in the dark.”

Catherine had been silent for a little time, but now interrupted us
again.

“I have a scheme, Alexander,” she said with excitement; “let her come
here to-night!”

“True!” he exclaimed, “that would be best. The czar comes here
to-night,” he added to me, “for the first time for weeks. Let
mademoiselle make her petition to him; she will have the better
opportunity, for Zotof will not come.”

I saw the advantages of the opportunity, but I saw also some perils,
and was not eager to acquiesce. Mentchikof read my hesitation and
smiled.

“M. l’Ambassadeur,” he said graciously, “I pledge you my word, as a
soldier and a gentleman, that Mademoiselle Zotof shall be safe in my
house. Not even his Majesty shall violate my hospitality.”

I bowed gravely. “I thank you, monsieur,” I replied with dignity,
“for the assurance. I will communicate with mademoiselle: I am, not
unnaturally, reluctant to assume the responsibility. The young lady is
the niece of Zotof, and I have no right to interfere with her actions;
but my anxiety for M. de Lambert is so keen that I shall not lose the
opportunity to appeal to her for assistance.”

“You will do well, M. l’Ambassadeur,” he replied, with a reflection of
my dignified courtesy, “and I trust that she will find the czar’s humor
propitious.”

“I trust so,” I replied quietly, “for I should regret extremely
being forced to call upon my government to take cognizance of this
matter,--an action which will be inevitable if I cannot obtain M. de
Lambert’s release in a short time.”

Mentchikof’s cheek flushed; he resented instantly the covert thrust,
but restrained his temper.

“We will hope for a happy issue, M. de Brousson,” he replied haughtily,
“and I doubt not that we shall succeed, if Mademoiselle Zotof is
sincere in her desire to release her lover.”

“Do not doubt her sincerity, monsieur,” I returned calmly, “and I
will do my best to achieve a happy result, and will communicate with
mademoiselle as soon as possible;” and with a few more formal words, I
withdrew.

Leaving the apartment, I walked slowly down the long _salon_ beyond,
and had my hand on the door at the farther end, when I heard the rustle
of a woman’s skirt behind me, and turned to find Catherine Shavronsky
at my elbow. She had never looked more charming; her face, though pale,
was animated, and a roguish smile curved her beautiful lips and kindled
the fire in her large dark eyes. She stopped a little way from me, and
held up her finger with a gesture of mock rebuke.

“Alas, M. l’Ambassadeur!” she said archly, “how will you be able to
find mademoiselle? The czar cannot find her, Madame Zotof cannot find
her, and you--you do not know where she is. How can your message reach
her? Ah, M. le Vicomte--M. le Vicomte!”

She stood there laughing, and shaking her finger at me. I made her a
profound bow.

“Mademoiselle,” I replied, smiling, “you forget for whom she will be
summoned. Love will find out the way!”

And with that I went out at the door; but she came and stood upon the
threshold, and called to me as I went down the corridor.

“That cannot be, M. l’Ambassadeur,” she cried, “for they say that love
is blind!”




CHAPTER XXIII.

A FAIR PETITIONER.


I WAS far from satisfied with the thought of bringing mademoiselle to
Mentchikof’s house, but when I unfolded the plan to her and to Madame
de Brousson, they overruled my scruples. Najine was eager to embrace
any opportunity to aid her lover, and my wife saw the advantages of
the situation in the same light that they had appeared to Catherine.
So it was that between the women I found myself of small consequence,
and was forced to yield to their wishes. It was arranged that I should
first introduce the testimony of Apraxin, and that then Najine Zotof
would appear to make her own appeal. Meanwhile Apraxin was a prisoner
at my quarters, and a sullen scapegrace I found him. His indignation
against Najine knew no bounds, and I think that the little love he had
for her, in those hours, turned to resentment. As I had anticipated,
his attendant carried the tidings of his capture to M. Zotof, and in
the course of the day I received a sharp message from him that my
treatment of his relative would be reported to the czar; to which I
replied that I should myself inform his Majesty of my action and of
the cause of it,--a message which I thought carried confusion into the
enemy’s lines, for I heard no more that day, and M. Apraxin remained
biding my pleasure in my upper room, although in truth I had no relish
for my task of jailer, and would have been glad to find another way out
of my embarrassments. The impossibility of reaching M. de Lambert made
me doubly uneasy. I had a genuine affection for the young man, and felt
responsible for his safety. I did not go to the Kremlin that day, but
even in the city the tidings had spread that the czar was to go again
to the house of Mentchikof. Straws show the way of the wind, and it
was easy to see the unhappiness of the sycophants who had deserted the
favorite in his temporary obscurity. It is these miserable creatures
who find the changing tide of court favor such a cause for tribulation,
and overturn each other in their eagerness to arrive first at the gates
of the fortunate. I was amused when I approached Mentchikof’s house
in the evening to find the court, that a few days before had been
deserted, full to overflowing with these poor butterflies that had
flown at the little cloud of imperial displeasure and now returned.
They were not, however, admitted. For some reason the favorite chose
to have but a few present at the arrival of the czar, and when I
entered the ante-rooms I found but a small attendance. Peter and his
suite had already arrived, and a few of the imperial guards were at
the doors. When I reached the _salon_, I found the czar surrounded
by a larger party than I had at first supposed to be present, but
there was no one there of the faction favorable to Zotof except the
Field-Marshal Sheremetief. Madame Golovin, both the Arsenief sisters,
their aunt Madame Tolstoi, and Mademoiselle Shavronsky were all at the
farther end of the apartment, holding a little court of their own,
while the czar was in the midst of his immediate friends, Mentchikof,
Repnin, Sheremetief, and a dozen more. I saw at a glance that Peter
was in an excellent humor. When I entered, he was standing with his
hand on Mentchikof’s shoulder, and was laughing heartily at some jest
that he had made at the favorite’s expense. As I advanced, the czar
saw me, and there was a change--slight and almost imperceptible, but
still a change--in his expression. Doubtless, I was unwelcome enough
at the moment, and it may be that his keen wit instantly suspected a
concealed motive in the occasion, for he could not have been ignorant
of Mentchikof’s dealings with me and with M. de Lambert. However, he
received me with courtesy, and at once asked a direct question in his
usual blunt fashion.

“Well, M. l’Ambassadeur,” he said, “have you found M. de Lambert?”

“I have not, your Majesty,” I replied, “but I have certain information
concerning him.”

A peculiar expression gleamed in his eyes for an instant, but he smiled.

“You speak gravely, sir,” he said lightly. “What is the information?”

I was standing directly before the czar, in the midst of many
spectators, and I answered him deliberately.

“I am glad,” I said suavely, “of this opportunity to inform your
Majesty of the outrage that has been perpetrated upon one of my suite.
M. de Lambert was seized by a palace guard, betrayed into his hands by
M. Zotof’s relative, M. Apraxin.”

There was a pause, and I saw the lightning in the czar’s glance, and
Mentchikof stirred uneasily. The mine was fired, and we awaited the
explosion.

“You must have been misinformed, M. l’Ambassadeur,” Peter said after a
moment. “It is impossible that one of my guards could have dealt with
that fellow. Produce your proofs.”

“Your Majesty,” I replied quietly, “M. Apraxin admitted his share of
the transaction in my presence this morning, and he is at this time
within call.”

The czar bit his lip. He was in a peculiar position, and I think
regretted his folly in having meddled with M. de Lambert.

“Be kind enough, M. le Vicomte,” he said, “to produce M. Apraxin, whom
I supposed long since departed from Moscow.”

This was the order that I had hoped for, and I despatched Pierrot to
bring him, with a couple of Mentchikof’s followers to prevent his
escape. In the interval before his arrival, the czar refused to be
entertained, waiting with impatience for the coming scene. That he
was violently angry at Apraxin’s interference, I did not doubt, but
just what he intended to do it was difficult to imagine. His mood had
changed, and his face was deeply flushed. He walked down the room to
a chair near where the women stood, and, seating himself, leaned his
head upon his hand and stared gloomily down the length of the _salon_,
but with eyes that did not seem to notice the gay courtiers who filled
it. The change in his mood affected the humor of the assemblage, and
there was a general cessation of conversation, and every eye was
turned towards his face. It was, perhaps, half an hour before one
of the ushers announced that Apraxin was under guard in one of the
adjoining rooms, and the czar immediately ordered that he should be
brought before him. There was a little ripple of excitement when
Zotof’s protégé entered and was marched down the room between two of
Mentchikof’s men. His expression was as sullen as usual, and he made
but a slight obeisance as he paused opposite the czar. Peter eyed him
with angry contempt.

“I find that instead of being where you ought to be, in Archangel,
Apraxin,” the czar said sharply, “you are here, and meddling with one
of M. de Brousson’s party.”

He paused as if expecting a reply; but Apraxin made none, maintaining
his attitude of sullen silence. The czar looked at him fiercely.

“Have you a tongue?” he demanded.

The blood rose to Apraxin’s hair.

“You are the Czar of Russia,” he said passionately, “but I am not your
slave, but a freeman! By what right am I arrested by the Vicomte de
Brousson, and dragged from place to place without any formal charge?”

“You were brought here by my order,” the czar replied sternly, “and you
will do well to answer the questions that I put to you with civility,
or we will presently find the means to give you a lesson.”

The czar meant the secret-chancery of Preobrazhensky, and Apraxin knew
it, for I saw the color recede from his cheek and the look of a hunted
animal show in his eyes.

“Briefly, Apraxin,” Peter continued, “by whose order did you betray M.
de Lambert into the hands of the imperial guard?”

For a moment Apraxin was silent, and then he spoke with more manhood
than I had anticipated.

“Your Majesty,” he said, “I am a nephew by adoption of Madame Zotof,
and was affianced in boyhood to her husband’s niece, Najine Zotof. She
has lately departed from the house of her uncle, and fled to that
of the Vicomte de Brousson, the secret envoy of France; encouraged
in her disobedience, and aided by her lover, M. de Lambert. For that
reason, and for no other, I did endeavor to seize him, and succeeded
in delivering him into the hands of an officer of the guard charged by
your Majesty to arrest him.”

The mine had exploded, and the czar flushed crimson, while his eyes
flashed. He had evidently trusted to the discretion of his officer and
had been betrayed. I stood discreetly silent, but I caught the eye of
Mademoiselle Catherine and saw that she was keenly anxious.

“Upon my faith,” exclaimed the czar, with passion, “it is like your
impertinence to charge me with being your accomplice. Officer, remove
the prisoner.”

As Apraxin was led out, Peter turned upon me sharply.

“So, M. l’Ambassadeur,” he said, “mademoiselle is at your house?”

“I do not now deny the charge, your Majesty,” I said quietly.

His lip curled scornfully. “You would have me believe that she was not
there before?” he exclaimed.

I returned his gaze quietly. “It is difficult to know what to believe
about the matter, your Majesty,” I replied dryly.

As I spoke, there was some confusion at the further end of the room,
and the czar glancing in that direction, his reply to me was stayed
upon his lip. I turned with an intuition of the cause, and saw the
crowd part, leaving a wide aisle down the center of the long _salon_,
and through this walked Madame de Brousson and Mademoiselle Zotof. My
wife, who was yet a beautiful woman, moved along with easy dignity,
her fine figure and rich dark robes making her a sharp contrast to
Najine, so slender in her pure white garment, untrimmed save for the
sable that edged it as it fell about her feet, and the sable about
her shoulders making her white neck look yet more white. Her face was
pale, but her eyes darkly blue and fearless in expression. Her whole
appearance and manner were extremely maidenly, and yet she advanced
without embarrassment. As she approached, Peter rose, and the nobles
about him drew back a little, so that he stood quite alone and faced
mademoiselle, a strange expression on his face. That he was astonished
was manifest enough, but he was also strongly moved and looked at her
without a word. Zénaïde paused beside me, and whispered that they
had just received evil tidings, that M. de Lambert’s life had been
attempted, and that he was in great peril. Troubled as I was at the
information, I almost forgot it in my eagerness to watch mademoiselle
and the czar. She addressed him in the quaint Russian fashion.

“I come to you, little father, as a suppliant,” she said in a low
voice, but in the silence it was audible to all; “I have a suit which
is too pressing to brook delay, and I crave indulgence.”

“I am fortunate to see you, Najine,” the czar replied slowly. “Of late,
not even your uncle could find you.”

Her pale cheeks flushed, but she looked up bravely. “Your Majesty
must pardon my faults,” she said earnestly; “so sure am I of your
goodness--of your kingly generosity, that I have come to ask a favor at
your Majesty’s hands.”

Whether he suspected her motive or not, I could not tell, but he looked
at her keenly.

“What is this favor?” he asked gravely; “have I been a hard master to
you that you fear to ask it?”

“No, sire,” she said gently, her eyes fixed earnestly upon his face;
“but when a boon is near the heart, it is difficult to ask. I beg a
man’s liberty--his life, for they tell me it is in danger.”

“A man’s life and liberty?” the czar repeated sternly; “you choose a
strange time, Najine Alexeievna; and is there no one else who can plead
for it to me?”

The color swept up to her hair, and she suddenly kneeled at his feet.

“No one can plead as I can, little father,” she said almost inaudibly,
“because to no one else is his life so dear.”

“Ah!” the czar ejaculated sharply, his brows bending in a dark frown
and his lips twitching; “and who is this prisoner, madam?”

“Guillaume de Lambert, an officer of the household troops of the King
of France,” she replied in a clear voice.

“There is the Ambassador of France,” said the czar coldly, pointing at
me; “why not let him prefer this suit?”

She was still kneeling, and looked up at him with an earnest appeal in
her blue eyes.

“Turn not a deaf ear, your Majesty,” she exclaimed with feeling. “M. de
Lambert is an innocent man, and it is your duty to do justice to the
innocent, for are you not an anointed king? Judgment and mercy belong
to you, little father, and it is to your honor to show justice to the
foreigner. He has been betrayed into prison; they tell me that his life
has been attempted. Show mercy, sire, and set him free.”

The czar looked at her keenly, strong emotions contending in his
passionate face.

“You plead with eloquence, Najine,” he said, still coldly. “Of what
interest is this young man’s fate to you? Answer me freely, if you hope
for mercy for him!”

Najine looked up into Peter’s dark face, and her lips quivered.

“Your Majesty,” she replied in a low voice, but every ear was strained
to catch her words, “I ask his liberty--because I love him.”

The czar drew a deep breath, and the _tic_ convulsed his features.

“You speak boldly, girl,” he said sternly. “Are you not ashamed?”

Najine rose and stood before him, her face as white as her robe, but
her eyes shone like two stars.

“I am not ashamed, sire,” she answered proudly, “to love a brave and
loyal gentleman.”

Peter uttered an exclamation under his breath, regarding her with an
expression in which anger and admiration were mingled. Never before had
any woman faced him with the declaration of her loyalty to another man,
and it must have made a strong impression upon him. It was a strange
picture. The nobles about him had drawn back until the two stood in the
center of a large space, the massive figure of the czar overshadowing
the slight form of mademoiselle, but there was a simple dignity in the
pose of her young figure that was striking. Peter was silent for some
moments, and then spoke with bitterness.

“By my faith, Najine Alexeievna,” he said, “I did not know that you
were asking a bridegroom at my hands!”

The blood rose to her hair, but she answered him in an unfaltering
voice.

“Oh, little father,” she said, “I ask his liberty--his life!”

“And if I refuse, what then?” the czar asked sternly, his dark eyes
searching her face and his lips closing in a hard line.

She turned pale and cast a bewildered glance at me, and I saw that
her courage was sorely tried, and fancied that she was distressed by
the tidings that she had heard before coming there. She took a step
forward, and held out her hands with a gesture that was pathetic in its
appeal.

“I dare not think of your Majesty’s refusal,” she said; “I will not
believe it.”

At this point she was reinforced; with a swift movement Catherine
Shavronsky passed through the circle of spectators and knelt at the
czar’s feet. He started, glancing from one woman to the other in
amazement.

“What is this?” he exclaimed sharply; “I did not come here to hold a
tribunal of justice.”

“But of mercy, little father,” Catherine said quietly. “I kneel here
to second mademoiselle’s appeal. M. de Lambert is a stranger, he can
claim our forbearance. It is your kindness that has abolished forced
marriages, and made happier unions a possibility. Your Majesty has
always been good to the young. Here, then, are two lovers, separated
by misfortune--is it not a royal prerogative to give them happiness? I
also ask a boon: the life--liberty--happiness of a French soldier of
the czar of all the Russias--of Peter the magnanimous!”

She had touched upon a delicate point, but the czar controlled his
emotion. He stood looking at the two women as if he were mentally
contrasting them, and the whole court looked also and marvelled, for
they were singularly beautiful and singularly unlike. Catherine’s
beauty was of the feline type, and coarser but more striking than
Najine’s; hers was refined and charming and spirited, and her face was
clouded with anxiety, while Catherine’s was kindled with excitement.
Mademoiselle stood, while the Livonian continued to kneel until the
czar took her hand and raised her to her feet, and then, turning to the
other petitioner, spoke with affected carelessness.

“Your request is granted, Najine,” he said; “I cannot resist so much
eloquence. Mentchikof, let the captain of the guard release M. de
Lambert at once and deliver him to M. de Brousson.”

Najine took a step forward, and, kneeling, kissed the czar’s hand; and
the blood left his cheek, and his face was as white as her own.




CHAPTER XXIV.

A DUEL WITH SWORDS.


MENTCHIKOF lost no time in executing the czar’s order, and signaled to
me to follow him as he left the _salon_. I made my way out as rapidly
and quietly as I could, and reached the ante-room in time to find him
transmitting the order to one of the guard.

“M. de Brousson will accompany you,” he said to the officer as I
entered; and then, calling me aside, he added: “Make what haste you
can, the czar’s mood may change. He yielded because of the peculiarity
of his position, and Najine Zotof’s appeal before so many touched his
pride, but he may repent his order at any moment. Get the young man out
of the country, and also the young woman.”

“I see the wisdom of your advice, monsieur,” I replied; “but the last
is not so easy.”

“I know it, M. de Brousson,” he said in a low voice; “but I tell you
that the imperial mood is tempestuous, and--in a word--he loves Najine.”

“I see that,” I admitted gravely, “but the matter is difficult;
nevertheless, with your aid, I will do what I can.”

He walked with me to the stairs, and then, pausing, laid his hand upon
my arm and looked into my face with those keen eyes full of quiet
meaning.

“Marriage, M. l’Ambassadeur,” he said in a low tone, “speedy and secret
marriage, is possible, and it alone will cut the knot.”

We were practically alone; a few attendants were below, at the foot of
the stairs, and three or four guards lingered in the corridor observing
us with curious eyes, but no one could overhear our conversation. I
looked at the favorite searchingly.

“And the risk to mademoiselle?” I said slowly.

He snapped his fingers. “It would not amount to that!” he replied.
“His Majesty will forgive her--after a while; but for the present,” he
laughed, “a pair of fleet horses, monsieur; I will look well to the
pursuers and the pursuit.”

He took a signet ring from his finger, and placed it in my hand.

“I trust it to your honor, M. le Maréchal,” he said significantly; “use
it, whenever the name of Alexander Mentchikof may speed your errand,
and remember that the imperial mood will change.”

And with this caution he parted from me, and I went out into the night
attended by Pierrot and the captain of the guard. We turned our steps
immediately toward the Kremlin, walking rapidly and in silence. I did
not need Mentchikof’s assurance to convince me that there was no time
to lose. I had read the czar’s mood almost as easily as the favorite,
and knew that he was unwilling to betray to the whole court that he,
the czar, was jealous of a young French soldier with no fortune but his
sword and the favor of the King of France. That Peter was intensely
angry at Najine’s open avowal of her loyalty to her lover was manifest
enough, and I did not doubt his speedy repentance of his consent to
release his prisoner. Meanwhile I had the order which would give M. de
Lambert freedom, and a few hours in which to get him out of the city;
but how to accomplish this was not so clear unless I found him in a
more yielding mood than usual, or I could prevail upon mademoiselle to
facilitate matters. I trusted to Madame de Brousson’s wit and courage
to bring Najine safely away from Mentchikof’s house, but how long she
could evade Madame Zotof was another question. I hoped much from the
fact that Najine would find her position so difficult that it would be
more simple to follow Mentchikof’s suggestion than to face her uncle’s
displeasure. The favorite’s signet was on my finger, and I reflected
that he had shown more confidence in me than I felt in him, for I was
doubtful of following his advice.

When we reached the Kremlin, the imperial officer took the lead and
conducted us to the Miracle Monastery; here we were admitted to the
refectory, and Pierrot and I were left while the soldier had a long
private conference with a gentleman of the imperial household, and
finally departed with him, requesting us to remain there half an hour.
Impatient as I was, I had no choice but to await his return, and
occupied the time with some reflections upon the folly of taking a
young gallant on a diplomatic errand, and resolving that I would never
again find myself in so unhappy a position,--for I resented the covert
affront to France without seeing any way to avenge it. M. de Lambert
had been guilty of rash indifference to the imperial amour, and I could
scarcely expect the czar to respect his person as a member of a French
embassy. My meditations were interrupted by Pierrot, who had been
trying all the doors to reassure himself as to their intentions towards
us.

“Do you think they will return, monsieur?” he asked significantly.

“I think so, Pierrot,” I replied dryly; “one can never be sure, but I
do not think there were any instructions except those that were given
in my presence.”

He shook his head gravely. “They have been gone some time,” he
remarked, and looked at me with manifest doubt of the wisdom of a
longer wait upon their pleasure.

But at this moment we heard steps without, and the officer throwing
open the door entered, followed by Guillaume de Lambert, whose face
looked pale and haggard with anxiety, but lighted up at the sight
of us, and he met me with an exclamation of joy. I was too anxious,
however, to get him out to waste time on words, and, thanking the
officer for his services, I hurried M. de Lambert off, and it was not
until we were in the street that I permitted him to speak.

“This has been an outrage,” he exclaimed fiercely; “I have been mewed
up and half starved in a regular dungeon, and I believe that they had
designs on my life.”

“So we have been told,” I replied dryly; “but it seems to me, M. de
Lambert, that you have been to blame. You walked into the snare all too
easily, and mademoiselle has won your freedom at the cost of a personal
appeal to the czar.”

He stopped short. “Mademoiselle?” he said in a tone of wonder; “she is
at Troïtsa.”

“Pardon me, monsieur,” I returned quietly, “she is in Moscow. Tidings
travel rapidly, and she was informed of your misfortune, and came--on
the wings of love, and her personal appeal to Peter obtained the order
for your release.”

“Alas!” he exclaimed, “I am unfortunate, since it is I, after all, who
brought her back to the czar. I would rather be deprived of my liberty
than purchase it at such a price.”

“You are a thankless man,” I said; “few could have had so lovely a
woman to plead for them. Now that you have your liberty, you must make
good use of it;” and I told him briefly of the perils of the situation
and the possibilities of evading the czar.

Mentchikof’s proposal of a speedy marriage met with instant approval,
as I had anticipated, and he was all impatience to urge it upon
Najine. In a few words he told me of his capture, which fitted in with
Apraxin’s story of it, and he gave a clear view of the discomforts of
a Russian prison; yet he had been treated with tolerable moderation
although in solitary confinement. His worst fear had been of an attempt
to poison him, since he had not anticipated any actual violence on
account of his nationality. On the whole, the rumors which had reached
Madame de Brousson and Najine had evidently been exaggerated; but he
had had but little food, and had been kept in rigid imprisonment, which
would have speedily accomplished the work without the aid of more open
measures.

As we approached my lodgings, we both scanned them eagerly for
indications of Madame de Brousson’s return; but when we reached the
door, found that she was still absent, and there was nothing to do but
wait. We entered one of the lower rooms, and Pierrot went at once for
food and wine for our returned prisoner, while I laid aside my cloak
and sword and sat down by the fire. M. de Lambert was still standing by
the table, when the outer door was suddenly opened, without a summons,
and we heard a quick step in the hall, and in a moment Apraxin rushed
into the room and confronted M. de Lambert. I looked at the intruder in
amazement; he was without hat or cloak, and his disordered dress told
of a recent struggle, and he carried a naked sword in his hand. How had
he escaped the guards? He looked at M. Guillaume with furious eyes.

“So!” he exclaimed, “I find you at last! You have evaded me and baffled
me at every turn, but you shall fight me now.”

M. de Lambert gave him a cold glance, measuring him with a contemptuous
face.

“I do not fight with assassins and traitors,” he replied with cutting
scorn.

Apraxin took a step forward, and struck at his face with his open hand.

“You are a coward!” he exclaimed.

M. de Lambert caught him by the throat and flung him back against the
wall with a force that made his sword fly from his hand; then Guillaume
folded his arms upon his breast and looked at him with a smile.

“If you need further chastisement,” he said coldly, “you can have it.”

Apraxin had recovered himself, and, picking up his sword, made a
desperate lunge at his antagonist, and I sprang to my feet.

“We have had enough of this,” I exclaimed; but M. de Lambert had taken
my sword from the table.

“Nay, M. le Maréchal,” he said, “permit me to settle with this fool;”
and he parried another blow that Apraxin aimed at him.

I stood and looked on. M. de Lambert was an expert swordsman, and
I saw that Apraxin was no contemptible adversary; but he was wild
with jealousy and passion, and attacked his antagonist with blind
fury, while M. Guillaume was cool, and, although he had felt his
imprisonment, his nerve was steady. Apraxin made fierce thrusts and
quick blows, while M. de Lambert was graceful, dexterous, wary. They
were nearly matched in height. The Frenchman had the greater breadth of
shoulder and depth of chest; the Russian was more lithe and cat-like
in his motions. Guillaume was fair, with light brown locks, wildly
dishevelled, for his powdered peruke had fallen off; Apraxin’s face was
white, and his hair blue black, and there was eager hatred in the tense
expression of his features. He began the fight with furious eagerness;
then, finding his antagonist composed and fearfully skilful at fencing,
he began to husband his strength and watch for an opportunity to strike
under M. de Lambert’s guard. He was a good swordsman and used the point
to advantage, but he was unsteady with passion, and I saw the wrist
falter more than once when he tried to drive a blow home; and while
Guillaume was still collected, the beads of perspiration gathered thick
on his assailant’s brow, and I saw his eyes dilate and his nostrils
stretch and quiver as he labored for breath. M. de Lambert was on the
defensive, parrying the other’s eager blows and watching him with an
unfaltering eye until the Russian began to waver and struck wildly.
So hot grew the fight that their swords flashed in a circle of light
and I could scarcely follow their play. Suddenly Apraxin made a mad
lunge at his antagonist’s heart, and M. de Lambert, parrying it with a
quick movement, gave him a blow that stretched him on the floor. But
he sprang up like a tiger, and flew at his adversary’s throat; for a
moment they grappled and wrestled, then M. de Lambert, lifting him from
his feet, threw him the third time and knelt upon his breast.

“The fellow is mad,” Guillaume said, his own breath coming short, for
the struggle though brief had been fierce.

The last fall was severe, and Apraxin had lost consciousness, and after
a glance at him M. de Lambert rose and threw water on his face.

“I hope I have not killed the fool,” he said gravely; “he fought like a
demon.”

I joined him, and together we made some efforts to revive him, but with
poor success; he had struck the back of his head and lay quite still.

“This is unfortunate,” I remarked thoughtfully; “we do not want him
here. He must have escaped from Mentchikof, and to Mentchikof he must
be returned.”

I stood reflecting upon a proper course of action, and was relieved
to see signs of returning animation in the fellow. At this instant
Pierrot announced that the carriage had come with Madame de Brousson
and mademoiselle, and a plan flashed upon me.

“Go out to meet them, M. de Lambert,” I said at once, “and say nothing
of this. I will send Apraxin back to Mentchikof in the carriage with
Pierrot and Touchet; there is no other way of evading unpleasant
consequences. Happily, your chastisement was so thorough that he is not
likely to want another.”

There was no need for more words, for M. de Lambert went out to meet
Najine, and Pierrot helped me to raise Apraxin. As soon as we heard
madame and mademoiselle pass on up the stairs, we called Touchet, and
we three managed to place the half-conscious youth in the carriage,
and I despatched them to Mentchikof with strict injunctions to convey
the prisoner into the house in a secret manner and explain the matter
to Mentchikof alone and so relieve me of the embarrassment of this
troublesome boy. I could trust their devotion, and watched the carriage
roll away in the darkness with a sigh of relief.

I was out of one difficulty, but there was another in the upper
room, and a far more delicate one, since there was a woman in it, and
that woman young, beautiful, spirited, and ill to guide; was ever
man in more perplexing situation? I looked up at the skies, which
were clouded, and I sighed; truly, the annoyances of life are many. I
entered the house and, barring the door, walked slowly and thoughtfully
up the stairs. It rested with me to get M. de Lambert away; to rescue
mademoiselle’s happiness; to outwit Zotof; and, last not least, to
defeat, disappoint, and baffle the czar! What were my weapons? Najine’s
love for Guillaume de Lambert, his devoted courage, my own wit, and
Mentchikof’s signet ring.




CHAPTER XXV.

NAJINE AND HER LOVER.


ON reaching the head of the stairs, I opened the door upon a pretty
picture. Madame de Brousson had discreetly left the lovers alone, and
they were standing together before the fire, M. de Lambert’s arm around
Najine, and the firelight shining on their faces. They started at my
unexpected entrance, and her cheeks were rosy with blushes as she saw
the smile in my eyes; but she came up to me, and clasped my hand in
both hers.

“I have to thank you, monsieur,” she said, “for all you have done for
me and for M. de Lambert.”

I laughed softly. “Nay, mademoiselle,” I replied gently, “M. de Lambert
owes more to you than to any one, and I trust that he has properly
thanked you.”

She laughed a little at this, and glanced mischievously at her lover.
“I believe he is grateful, monsieur,” she said archly.

“Jesting aside, mademoiselle,” I went on gravely, “we have no time to
lose; M. de Lambert must leave Moscow to-night.”

She started and glanced sadly at her lover, and he looked back at her
with eager interrogation.

“Alas!” she exclaimed, “so soon! Do you believe it necessary, M. le
Maréchal?”

“Mademoiselle,” I replied, “do you yourself believe that the czar is
likely to stand by his action to-night?”

She was silent for a moment, and then shook her head. “I cannot tell,”
she said sadly; “he is a passionate and changeful man, and acts, I
fear, too often on the impulse of the moment.”

“Mademoiselle,” I replied, “I have the assurance of Alexander
Mentchikof that the czar may change at any moment. M. de Lambert must
leave Moscow at once, and for all time, if he would be safe; and you
must bid him farewell unless--”

I paused and glanced at Guillaume.

“I have told her,” he said, “and she raises a thousand objections to
the haste and the danger.”

“I thought you a brave woman, mademoiselle,” I remarked.

“It is not for myself,” she cried with feeling; “it is for him.”

I looked from one to the other. “Ah, mademoiselle,” I said quietly, “I
see how it is. I will leave you to M. de Lambert’s persuasion; but time
presses, and I shall presently return;” and I went out to find my wife,
for I saw that Najine was on the point of yielding, and that her lover
would be a far more effective argument than my best eloquence.

I found Zénaïde waiting with impatience for the return of Pierrot. She
had arranged everything in her own mind, and was full of impatience to
carry out her designs.

“They must be married at once,” she said with decision; “every hour
counts, and Najine has selected this time to hesitate and increase
our embarrassments, while I have been looking for Madame Zotof at any
moment.”

I smiled. “A more terrible infliction than the czar,” I admitted; “but
mademoiselle will yield. We must go straight to the Kremlin, find a
priest, and have the knot tied.”

“There will be a difficulty about the priest,” Zénaïde said.

I showed her Mentchikof’s signet, and explained briefly his cautions
and fears.

“The signet will probably help us,” she said thoughtfully. “Meanwhile
we must prevail upon Najine to consent at once.”

As she spoke, there was a hasty tap upon the door, and I opened it to
admit Pierrot.

“Monsieur and madame,” he said hurriedly, “the Zotofs are coming. I
left Touchet with the carriage at some distance that they might not see
us approach, and I have put out the lights at the front of the house.”

“Wise Pierrot,” I said, “put out all the lights that show at the
windows;” and then I turned to my wife for suggestions.

“It is, as I thought,” she said; “the czar intends that Madame Zotof
shall undo all that he has done. We must get mademoiselle and M. de
Lambert out by the rear door.”

“Will that be possible, Pierrot?” I asked.

“If no time is lost, monsieur. They will first try the front door, and
it is possible that they may believe that we have already departed.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “Not while Madame Zotof is of the party,” I
said.

Zénaïde had already gone to hasten mademoiselle’s decision, and I
followed. At the first note of danger Najine’s spirit awoke, and she
was as quick to act as we could desire. I saw by M. de Lambert’s face
that he had overcome her scruples to a hasty marriage, and I felt that
we could now proceed without further delays. In a few moments both
women were cloaked and hooded for the street, and preceded by Pierrot
we crept down the stairs to the door at the rear. We were half-way down
when we were startled by a loud knock at the front.

“They have come!” exclaimed mademoiselle beneath her breath, pausing to
listen.

“The more reason for haste,” I said, taking her hand and leading her
forward. Then I called to Pierrot, “Is there any one at this entrance?”

He was listening at the door, and in a moment opened it and looked out.
“Safe as yet, monsieur,” he said.

We hurried down and out, for there was now quite an uproar at the
front door. We stood a moment listening, Najine’s hand in mine.

“We must run for it!” I exclaimed. And we all ran down the lane like
a party of children, and reached the carriage without hindrance. As
soon as we were seated within it, the horses started at a round pace,
and I laughed as I thought of Madame Zotof beating upon my door for
admittance.

“Have a care, monsieur,” Zénaïde said warningly; “do not laugh too
soon.”

“You think my mirth premature?” I replied thoughtfully; “it may be so,
but I saw so plainly Madame Zotof before that door. I beg your pardon,
mademoiselle, but your aunt’s energy is amusing.”

“They will follow us to the Kremlin,” she rejoined quietly. “My aunt
never gives up.”

“A worthy quality, mademoiselle,” I remarked, “and madame may follow
as soon as the marriage is consummated. She cannot prevail against the
church.”

“In any case, madame will not prevail,” remarked M. de Lambert,
quietly; “Najine has consented to be my wife, and I trust that I am
able to fight her battles as well as my own.”

“There is no doubt about your ability to fight your own, monsieur,” I
remarked, laughing to myself as I thought of his duel with Apraxin; but
neither Zénaïde nor Najine understood my reference, and I felt M. de
Lambert stir uneasily, probably afraid of alarming his _fiancée_. I
laughed the more, knowing how she admired her lover’s prowess and how
little she esteemed the vanquished, for she had a spirit that despised
all cowardice and meanness. In spite of my anxieties, I found much
food for amusing reflection,--the embarrassment of the czar, finding
mademoiselle as a suppliant for her lover; the mad folly of M. Apraxin,
and the fury of that shrew Madame Zotof. Meanwhile we had been driving
rapidly, and in a quarter of an hour the carriage stopped within
the Gate of the Redeemer, and, leaving the women in charge of M. de
Lambert, I went to find a priest whom I could trust with this delicate
affair. After a little inquiry I was directed to the Cathedral of the
Assumption, and, returning for the others, we went there together, and
I found the priest whom I sought. It was, however, not an easy matter
to induce him to perform the ceremony; our nationality, the haste,
and the hour--it was now long past midnight--aroused his suspicions,
and he looked long and searchingly at mademoiselle’s muffled figure.
It was certain that I would never have prevailed over his scruples
without Mentchikof’s signet ring. The sight of it had an immediate
effect upon him, and shook his resolution; he dared not offend the
all-powerful favorite, and in ignorance of the extent of the risk
involved, he finally yielded a reluctant consent to my persuasions,
and went into the center of the church for the ceremony. Najine was
agitated, and clung to my wife for support and encouragement, realizing
that it was a decisive step, and that she was imperilling her lover’s
liberty and perhaps his life, for if the czar’s mood changed it might
be the simplest way to make her a widow. M. de Lambert’s own face was
pale, but with emotion rather than anxiety, and he stood beside his
bride, the picture of a gallant soldier. Mademoiselle had thrown back
her hood, and I thought, as I looked at her in the light of the tapers
that they held in their hands, that I had never seen a bride more
lovely in all the splendid attire of the court, than this young girl
in her long gray cloak that fell from throat to feet, the fur-lined
hood thrown back, and her face fair and pale as a white lily against
the gloom of the vast interior of the cathedral. There were no lights
behind us, only those before the altar; and they served to increase the
darkness of the nave while illuminating the splendid golden iconostase,
blazing with precious jewels around the faces of Madonnas; above was
the great dome, about us were the mighty pillars with their images of
saints and martyrs, rising one above another, while on every side from
the golden background loomed the dark forms of pictured angels and
archangels; and on the pavement beneath our feet had knelt, generation
after generation, the Grand Dukes of Muscovy and the Czars of all the
Russias.

My wife and I and our attendants stood a little apart to witness the
ceremony, while the white-haired priest united the lovers. Softly
intoning the service, he placed two golden crowns upon their heads
and, clasping their hands in his, led them three times around the
great taper that he had lighted in the center of the church, and which
shone like a star. I looked at the picture that they made with strange
reflections: here was a young and beautiful woman willing to forego
the splendors of a throne to become the wife of a French soldier,
preferring his love to a power that might have been almost absolute
with the czar; for I had seen enough to be convinced that Peter loved
Najine with all the strength of his fierce nature, and that she could
have swayed him as no other woman ever would. How strange is the course
of destiny! Here was a woman who might have been Empress of all the
Russias and she preferred to be the wife of a gallant gentleman of the
French King’s household. After all, was not her choice wise? For her
undoubtedly, but for some women impossible. There are souls that covet
the slippery heights of power, that long to rule the destinies of men,
and there are women to whom a lot of domestic obscurity would mean
bitter unhappiness. I could not imagine Catherine Shavronsky content
with such a fate; she would fight for power, while she lived, and
wade through the mire of personal degradation to obtain her goal. No
cost would be too great, no sacrifice too supreme, for her consuming
ambition. Such were my thoughts while I stood listening to the solemn
words that made Najine Zotof the wife of Guillaume de Lambert,--strange
reflections, no doubt, yet I believe that my wife’s were nearly
identical, only that she had a woman’s quick sympathy for the young
girl’s emotion; a woman’s appreciation of her purity and truth, which
not even the most splendid temptations of a court could sully or
corrupt. As for the two lovers themselves, they were too absorbed in
each other, too devoutly attentive to the priest, to be conscious
of any world outside their own, and I saw Zénaïde’s eyes moist with
sympathy as she watched them. The last words of the benediction spoken,
M. de Lambert turned to us with radiant eyes, and Najine threw herself
into my wife’s arms with a little sob of deep emotion.

“I owe all to you, monsieur,” M. de Lambert said warmly, as he clasped
my hand; “I have been a rash fool, and without you would have failed
miserably.”

“Nay,” I replied, smiling, “you were no fool in the one quarter where
wisdom was most desired, monsieur; and you owe much, too, to Madame de
Lambert.”

He smiled at the name, and glanced at Najine, who turned now to me with
her own sweet manner, thanking me for all my kindness to her until I
was myself embarrassed, feeling that I scarcely deserved so much, and
so turned it aside with a jest.

“Nay, madame,” I said, “do not thank me too much for making you the
wife of a poor man, when,” I added in a low tone, “you might have been
an empress.”

She looked up at her husband with a glance of proud affection.

“Not so, M. l’Ambassadeur,” she said with spirit. “I owe you the more
thanks, since no queen could be more happy than the wife of a brave and
loyal man.”

M. de Lambert bent his head gracefully and kissed her hand. “I am more
fortunate than an emperor,” he replied.

“You are both more fortunate,” Madame de Brousson said quietly; “a
loyal heart is richer than a crown, and you are happier in each other
than either emperors or kings.”

Meanwhile the priest who had performed the ceremony was eager to be
rid of us, and, knowing the perils of delay, I too became impatient,
and urged upon M. de Lambert the necessity of immediate departure. We
had previously decided upon the road that they should travel, and I
sent Touchet to Mentchikof with a verbal message that would inform him
that the deed was done, and nothing now remained but to get the pair
off as speedily as might be. Events had crowded upon each other, but
it was now near dawn, and it was necessary for them to leave Moscow
while the darkness remained. Mentchikof had furnished me with a pass
that would open the gates for them, and I had previously arranged a
change of horses for M. de Lambert, anticipating the necessity of his
departure, whether he married mademoiselle or not. The priest hurried
us out of the cathedral, and Zénaïde and I rode with them a little way
to a spot where we could leave the carriage and go to our quarters with
Pierrot, while Touchet was to overtake them with the woman, Neonila,
and attend them on their hurried journey to France. Najine parted from
my wife with tears, for, after all, she had been sorely tried, and was
young and estranged from her kindred, and about to go to a strange
land to begin a new life far from family and friends; yet so great and
so trusting is the love of woman that it will endure all things and
believe all things for him who has won it. It touched both Zénaïde and
me to observe M. de Lambert’s tender appreciation of her fears and her
regrets, for he had that fine gentleness that belongs to the greatest
courage,--the tenderness that is a part of a noble spirit. When my wife
bade Najine adieu, she turned to him with grave admonition.

“Be considerate of her, monsieur,” she said warmly, “for she is leaving
her guardians, her country, her friends, for your sake alone--and there
is no richer gift than a good woman’s heart.”

M. de Lambert took my wife’s hands in his, and pressed them to his lips.

“Madame,” he replied, with a thrill of strong emotion in his voice,
“I love you for your own goodness and, most of all, for your love for
Najine. Fear not that I shall fail in appreciation, for, madame, I
value her love above all the riches of this world, as the one gift
without price.”

With these words we parted from them and stood watching the carriage as
it rolled away with Najine’s fair face outlined dimly in the darkness.
They went off together into the night upon a perilous and uncertain
journey, but as happy in their confidence as the most fortunate of
married pairs; and my wife and I watched and listened, and then we
looked up and saw the clouds drifting away and the stars shining. It
seemed a happy omen.




CHAPTER XXVI.

MADAME ZOTOF.


MADAME DE BROUSSON and I walked slowly toward our quarters, attended
by Pierrot. As we approached the house, I heard Zénaïde laugh softly.

“Now we must face Madame Zotof,” she said in an amused tone. “I have no
doubt that she is waiting for us.”

“Unless she has gone in search of us elsewhere,” I replied.

“She is there, I think,” Zénaïde said quietly; “I can see some persons
at the door. Madame has the patience of obstinacy.”

“I trust that it is only madame,” I remarked gravely; “it is a long
time for her to wait, for the dawn is breaking in the east.”

“You will find that it is she,” Zénaïde returned.

In a few moments her words were verified. There were three figures
at the door; and as we approached, a woman came forward, and we were
greeted by madame’s high voice.

“So you have come at last, M. l’Ambassadeur,” she exclaimed shrilly.
“M. Zotof is searching the town for you, but I simply waited here. Who
is that with you?”

“It is I, Madame Zotof,” Zénaïde replied pleasantly. “I did not expect
visitors at this early hour, but I will endeavor to receive you with
appropriate courtesy.”

“I thank you,” madame replied with mocking suavity. “I remember yet the
cordiality of your last reception, Madame de Brousson, but I am even
forced to trespass upon your hospitality once more.”

Remembering that I had protested against the former visit, I smiled a
little, especially when I thought that they had not dared to force an
entrance, although they must have been full of impatience and furious
at the delay. Pierrot had entered at the rear, and coming through
the house opened the door for us. The gray light of early dawn was
breaking through the darkness without, but within the tapers were still
burning, and their radiance seemed dingy and yellowish in contrast to
the growing light at the windows, from which Pierrot was removing the
shutters. Zénaïde led the way up the stairs, and, entering the small
_salon_, laid aside her mantle and turned calmly to Madame Zotof.

“And now, madame,” she said quietly, “I am at your service.”

“I come on the old quest, Madame de Brousson,” she replied haughtily;
“where is my niece?”

Zénaïde smiled. “Not here certainly,” she returned, with a glance at
the vacant room.

“That is the old story,” Madame Zotof exclaimed with impatience. “She
is never here; yet I know that she went with you to Mentchikof’s house,
and there made herself notorious by an appeal to the czar in the behalf
of M. de Lambert. It is time that she came to me and behaved as becomes
a modest maiden.”

“Mademoiselle is incapable of any but modest and maidenly behavior,”
Zénaïde replied with spirit; “you are scarcely just to her.”

Madame Zotof laughed scornfully. “I have the longer acquaintance,
madame,” she said, “but I ask you with all courtesy to inform my niece
that I await her pleasure, and it will be well to add that the czar
desires that she shall return to her guardians.”

Zénaïde cast a quick glance at me of mingled amusement and dismay.

“Frankly, Madame Zotof,” she rejoined, “I cannot deliver your
message, for mademoiselle is not here. She did indeed accompany me to
Mentchikof’s house, but she is no longer with us.”

“However, you know where she is, madame,” Madame Zotof exclaimed with
impatience; “it is useless to deny it.”

“At this moment I really do not know where she is,” Zénaïde replied
calmly, determined to delay the other woman’s discovery of the secret
as long as possible; but a sudden inspiration came to Madame Zotof, and
she turned sharply upon my wife.

“Where is M. de Lambert?” she demanded.

I felt that it was time for me to interfere.

“M. de Lambert has been but lately liberated by his imperial Majesty’s
commands,” I said, “and I have to inform you, madame, that your nephew,
M. Apraxin, came here and made a murderous attack upon him.”

“And was it not provoked, M. l’Ambassadeur?” she exclaimed; “did you
not entrap him for the sole purpose of inflaming the czar against him,
and so blinding his Majesty to the true state of affairs?”

“You heap one accusation upon another, madame,” I replied gravely. “M.
Apraxin betrayed M. de Lambert into the hands of the guard, and I only
desired to obtain his liberty. Your kinsman’s repeated attacks upon him
were unprovoked and unmerited.”

Madame’s temper was rising, and she looked at me with flashing eyes.

“You take high ground, M. l’Ambassadeur,” she said cuttingly; “you are
injured, you are badly used, but you forget altogether M. de Lambert’s
pursuit of my niece in the face of my opposition and of Zotof’s, and
you forget your own encouragement of her unmaidenly disobedience. It
was natural that Yury Apraxin should be deeply incensed against this
foreigner, and I do not blame him.”

“You do not blame a man for striking another in the back, madame?” I
repeated with feigned surprise. “I should have looked for more justice
at your hands.”

She bit her lip. “You choose to misunderstand me,” she replied
petulantly. “I am not responsible for the passionate anger of a boy,
but I do insist that the provocation was extreme. M. de Lambert had no
right to seek my niece against the wishes of her guardians.”

“And yet, madame,” I said suavely, “I remember the days when I, like M.
de Lambert, believed that you favored his suit.”

I was referring to the period before the czar turned his eyes in the
direction of mademoiselle; and madame, understanding the covert taunt,
flushed crimson with anger.

“We waste words, M. de Brousson,” she said; “all this does not tell me
where M. de Lambert is, and I have a right to ask to see him.”

“You have a right certainly, madame,” I replied, smiling when I thought
of their new relationship, “and I am sorry that I cannot gratify your
desire to see him. M. de Lambert has been unfortunate enough, as you
know, to fall under the czar’s displeasure, and it was not desirable
for him to remain longer as a member of my party. Therefore he has
departed.”

She stood a moment looking at me, her thoughts coming too rapidly for
her to entirely grasp the situation, although she began to see it with
growing distinctness. Her face was crimson, and her breath came short.

“He has departed?” she repeated vaguely. “M. de Lambert has left
Moscow? You do not mean that he has gone on his way to France?” she
added, with almost a scream.

I smiled and bowed gravely. “Yes, madame,” I said quietly, “M. de
Lambert is now on his way to Versailles.”

“That Frenchman has gone--has left Moscow?” she cried; and then she
went to my wife, grasping her arm almost with violence. “Woman,” she
exclaimed fiercely, “where is my niece?”

Zénaïde shook off her hand with a haughty gesture.

“I must tell you plainly, madame,” she said, “that I am not responsible
for your niece. Mademoiselle Zotof is able to act for herself.”

“You are both trifling with me,” madame cried with passion. “There is
some mystery behind all this--and I will have my niece. You shall not
defy me--you dare not!”

Zénaïde turned a glance upon her that was at once cold and contemptuous.

“Dare, madame?” she repeated with hauteur; “it would be strange indeed
if I feared the anger of Madame Zotof.”

Madame felt the retort keenly, for she knew that Zénaïde was a Russian
and a Ramodanofsky, one of a family beside which the Zotofs were as
mushrooms. Happily, at this moment I heard steps without, and Pierrot
came to the door to usher in M. Zotof. He was flushed and panting
from the ascent of the stair, and I saw at a glance that he had heard
bad tidings; but, unlike madame his wife, he was always inclined to
propitiate, and, I think, had a natural distaste for a quarrel. He
responded to my greeting with civility, although I fancied that he was
somewhat embarrassed by the recollection of his former visit. Madame
Zotof did not give him time or opportunity to speak, but commenced her
attack upon him at once.

“M. de Lambert has left Moscow,” she exclaimed, “and they will not tell
me where Najine is.”

He started at her first words, and cast a quick glance of interrogation
at me.

“Is it true that M. de Lambert has left Moscow?” he asked gravely.

I bowed my head. “He obeyed the order of his Majesty the Czar,” I
replied with composure.

“And my niece has gone with him?” Zotof exclaimed. “I assume this,
because I have learned that you were all together at a late hour last
night.”

Madame interrupted him with a storm of abuse, directed against him for
his stupidity, and against her niece, whom she did not spare, putting
no curb upon her shrewish tongue, and astonishing even her husband, who
stood staring at her as if her mood passed his slow comprehension. But
my wife checked her with a gesture of disdain.

“Have done, madame!” she said in a tone of authority. “Your language
is an injury to your niece. Najine did indeed leave Moscow with this
Frenchman, whom you detest, and she was attended by her woman; but she
left it as the wedded wife of Guillaume de Lambert.”

“His wife!” screamed madame, furiously. “I do not believe it; it is
false!”

Zénaïde made her a curtsy. “I thank you, madame,” she said mockingly;
“your courtesy to me passes all reason. You intrude upon me at most
unseemly hours; you search my house; you insult my hospitality, and now
accuse me of falsehood! I am overwhelmed with your kindness.”

Zotof turned to me. I think, for the moment, he was too astonished to
resent my share in the affair as intensely as did his wife.

“My niece wedded to M. de Lambert!” he exclaimed; “where, and at what
hour?”

“In the Cathedral of the Assumption, monsieur,” I replied courteously,
“past midnight, and in my presence, so that I can bear witness to the
ceremony.”

He crimsoned with rage. “This passes my endurance, M. l’Ambassadeur,”
he exclaimed furiously. “It shall be immediately reported to the czar.
My niece shall be brought back to Moscow, and M. de Lambert shall
answer for this! You presume too far upon the forbearance of the
Russians. We have endured much, but this exceeds all. My niece will
find that this marriage avails nothing.”

I looked from one to the other with unruffled composure, finding it
difficult to suppress a smile when I saw madame’s furious face.

“Come, monsieur and madame,” I said persuasively, “we were all younger
once, and we all know that love plays strange tricks. Would it not
be better to forget and forgive? The deed is done; M. de Lambert and
Najine are man and wife in the eyes of the church, and it is not for
you or me to bind or loose those whom the church has united. They are
on their way to Versailles--see! the day has dawned--the sun has risen
on their married life; of what avail is violence? If you drag them back
to Moscow and excite the czar against M. de Lambert, it will indeed
bring wretchedness, but what else? I know mademoiselle--I beg her
pardon--Madame de Lambert, and neither prison nor death will prevail
against her loyal and devoted spirit--and she is his wife!”

I think that my words had some effect upon M. Zotof, for he heard me
to the end, but to madame they were sown upon the wind. Before I had
finished she had her spouse by the arm and was drawing him toward the
door; but she stopped long enough to fling another bitter reproach at
me, and never looked more perfectly the shrew than at that moment.

“It is well for you to use fine words now, M. l’Ambassadeur,” she
exclaimed, “when you have so far succeeded; but the time will come when
you will regret this interference--the czar shall know the truth.”

“You forget, madame,” I retorted calmly, “that I am not a subject of
the czar.”

But she took no further notice of me, checking her husband as he was
about to reply.

“Waste no more time, Zotof,” she exclaimed in a shrill tone; “there are
fleet horses yet in Moscow. You are a man, and can pursue this runaway.”

And she hurried him from the room and from the house. We could hear her
belaboring him with her sharp tongue all the way down the stairs, and
even in the street below the windows. Zénaïde stood watching them as
they departed, and turned to me with anxiety on her face.

“Do you think there is danger of their overtaking M. de Lambert?” she
asked.

I shook my head. “It is not probable; he has the advantage of a fair
start, and all is arranged for the relays of horses.”

“Why did you tell them that he was going to Versailles?” she went on,
still troubled; “I thought to hear you mislead them.”

“And so I did,” I replied, smiling; “they go, indeed, to Versailles,
but by a circuitous route. Mentchikof and I planned it all. They go
direct to Poland, and so through Sweden to France.”

“And they will pursue on the straight road to France?” exclaimed
Zénaïde, with relief.

“Exactly, madame,” I replied gently, “and meanwhile much time is lost,
for they will quarrel twenty times upon the way to the czar.”

My wife laughed softly. “Poor M. Zotof,” she exclaimed, “I find it in
my heart to pity him. Madame his wife will never forgive him for his
negligence; and what torture to live with that woman’s tongue!”




CHAPTER XXVII.

THE CZAR’S EQUERRY.


I WAS resting after my night of continued effort and anxiety when there
was another interruption. Pierrot came to me with a troubled face, and
announced the arrival of a messenger from the czar.

“He will take no gainsaying, monsieur,” he said; “I made a hundred
excuses, but he must see your Excellency at once.”

I rose from my couch with a sigh, and Pierrot helped me to dress.

“Imperial messengers are unfortunately always importunate,” I remarked
wearily; “and I have no doubt that this fellow has pressing business,”
I added with a smile.

Pierrot’s face changed a little, too, and I think he enjoyed the
situation.

“They had a fair start, monsieur,” he remarked quietly, “and M. de
Lambert knows how to carry matters through.”

I laughed. “In love affairs he is at least conspicuously successful,”
I said, “and he knows how to chastise a villain. How fared it with M.
Apraxin when you reached Mentchikof’s house?”

“He had recovered enough to curse us and groan, monsieur,” Pierrot
replied gravely; “he was badly bruised, I think, but he was also
furious.”

“Not more so than any man would have been in like case,” I said; “he
had been knocked about until there was but little breath left in him. A
miserable knave he is, too, and deserved it all. By the way, Pierrot,”
I added with a sudden resolution, “where is Prince Dolgoruky’s man
Tikhon? I had forgotten him.”

“I have him yet, monsieur,” Pierrot replied, with his usual
imperturbable calm; “he is below, in the ironed room, and I have seen
to his comfort.”

I laughed a little. “The rascal deserved punishment,” I said; “but
it seems to me that he has received a fair portion. You must let him
go, Pierrot; he can do no harm now, and a longer detention will only
increase the ill-will of the prince his master, and I have enough of
that already, without going on to accumulate it.”

“I will let him go immediately, M. le Vicomte,” Pierrot replied
quietly; “but I think he richly merited all he has received and more.
He is but a spy and a coward, in any case.”

“We must show mercy if we expect it, Pierrot,” I said gravely, “and
Tikhon will surely reap his own reward. A man who has no higher aim
than to be another’s spy and tale-bearer and hired assassin soon
finds his compensation. If he does not die by a pistol-shot or a
knife-thrust, he will presently get his head into a halter; therefore
let him go with a light heart.”

My toilet being now accomplished, I left my bedroom, and, walking
leisurely through the ante-rooms, entered the _salon_, where the
imperial messenger awaited me with great impatience. He was a young man
by the name of Shein, a relative of the Boyar Shein, whom I knew to be
close to the person of the czar; he was chafing under the delay which
on my part was intentional. He greeted me with the respect due to my
person, but came immediately to the substance of his errand.

“M. de Brousson,” he said, with an air of importance, “I am charged
with a message from his imperial Majesty the Czar, bidding M. de
Lambert, a gentleman of your suite, to be present at the palace this
morning by ten o’clock to receive certain instructions and commands
from his Majesty.”

I listened with a composure that ruffled the young fellow, who was
elated with the importance of his errand. Without immediately replying,
I seated myself in the great chair by the hearth, and, looking around
at him, allowed him to see that I was so little disturbed by the order
that I could take time to reflect upon my reply.

“Your master should have sent this message twelve hours ago,” I
remarked calmly. “His Majesty had impressed upon me his desire that
M. de Lambert should leave Moscow, and, acting solely from deference
to his wishes, I endeavored to fulfil his commands to the letter;
therefore this order is unhappily too tardy for me to respond to it
with the alacrity that I should desire to show to any command of the
czar.”

Shein looked at me anxiously. “Do you mean, M. le Vicomte, that the
bird has flown?” he asked eagerly.

“I should scarcely refer to M. de Lambert in that language,” I replied,
smiling; “but I do mean that he left Moscow in obedience to the czar’s
wishes.”

The young man looked thoroughly nonplussed and badly frightened. He saw
that they had been outwitted, and saw too, probably, the inevitable
consequences. Knowing so well Peter’s violent nature, I remarked
Shein’s open consternation with extreme amusement.

“He must come back immediately,” he exclaimed, assuming an air of
tremendous importance; “he can be overtaken. By which road did he
travel, monsieur? It behooves me to know, that I may obey the czar’s
orders, which are absolutely imperative and permit no evasion.”

I shrugged my shoulders, aware that my unshaken composure was
exasperating the boy beyond endurance.

“M. de Lambert is on the road to Versailles,” I replied, telling him
half the truth, and suppressing the other half with keen enjoyment of
the probable bewilderment of the pursuers. “You had best return to the
czar, M. Shein,” I added calmly, “for fuller instructions. Pursuit at
this late hour would be fruitless and foolish; I do not believe that
his Majesty would authorize it.”

The boy bit his lip, and frowned at me with a perplexed countenance.
He was not entirely convinced that I spoke the truth, and scarcely
knew what course to pursue. It was evident that he scarcely dared to
return to the czar with empty hands, and he fretted under my cool and
smiling glance. I was amused even while I felt it cruel to torment an
inexperienced youth; he stood in the middle of the room, fingering the
hilt of his sword and moving uneasily.

“Take my advice, M. Shein,” I said gravely: “return to his Majesty for
instructions. The loss of an hour can harm you but little, and many a
wiser man has met with disaster by running too wildly upon a thankless
errand. The royal mind is large, and grasps so many schemes that there
is constant shifting; the wind may set in another quarter by the time
that you return from a fruitless errand, and you will earn no thanks.
A wise man trims his sails to the breeze; take the advice of one who
has piloted through many a stormy sea at court: neither neglect your
instructions nor exceed them,--either course is dangerous. You are a
young man, M. Shein, be warned.”

He shot a glance at me of mingled anger and doubt, and it was manifest
that he began to waver in his original determination. There was no one
more uncertain in temper than Peter, and the young man saw evil results
on either hand. However, after a little hesitation he evidently decided
that nothing was gained by delay and turned to leave the room, but on
reaching the door, paused suddenly and addressed me.

“I was also instructed, M. l’Ambassadeur,” he said, “to inquire if
Najine Zotof was still under Madame de Brousson’s protection.”

I shook my head, smiling at the thought of my late interview with
Madame Zotof.

“Mademoiselle is no longer with us,” I replied with frankness; “she
left us at a late hour last night.”

“And is with her guardians?” he asked persistently.

“You must ask Madame Zotof,” I said calmly.

He flushed with anger at my indifference to his importance.

“I ask for his imperial Majesty,” he declared haughtily.

But I only continued to regard him with a smile. “I understand that,
M. Shein,” I replied composedly, “but I cannot perform miracles even
for the czar. I cannot produce mademoiselle when she is not with us;
neither can I tell you where she may be at this moment.”

He had his hand upon the door, but made me an obeisance.

“I have discharged my errand, your Excellency,” he said gravely, “and
shall return to the czar and report the result of my endeavors.”

“You will do well to do so before going on a thankless errand,
monsieur,” I replied cheerfully.

“I am not sure of the wisdom of that, M. l’Ambassadeur,” he retorted
tartly; “I only trust that it may not be my painful duty to return here
shortly with more stringent orders.”

There was a veiled threat in his words and look, and I rose from my
chair.

“You are young, M. Shein,” I said haughtily, “therefore I will treat
you with forbearance; but you forget that you address a marshal of
France.”

“And you forget also, M. l’Ambassadeur,” he replied, “that I am the
messenger of his Majesty the Czar of all the Russias.”

“On the contrary, I remember, young sir,” I said curtly, “else I should
scarcely have listened with such patience to your questions, which were
at once fruitless and impertinent.”

The young fellow flushed deeply, and I was half sorry that his
arrogance had merited such a rebuke, for I saw that he was burning for
that revenge which he could not obtain from my years and my rank.

“You have the advantage of me, M. le Vicomte,” he said gravely; “you
rejoice in personal impunity.”

“Pshaw!” I replied with more good-humor, “you should respect my years,
M. Shein. Go upon your errand, and remember that young men must endure
something before they learn the lessons of life.”

But my forbearance did not restore his good-humor, and he withdrew
with a flushed and angry face, which, however, only amused me, for he
was, after all, a harmless enough young man, and merely elated with
the importance of his errand and the imperial confidence; for those
close about the person of the czar felt for him an almost exaggerated
reverence and affection.

After Shein left me, I sat for some time reflecting on the
probabilities of M. de Lambert making good his escape; the chances were
all in his favor. It was true that he had only a few hours’ advantage,
for I knew that the Zotofs would lose no time, but I had taken pains
to mislead them, and they would probably start upon the road to
Versailles, while M. de Lambert and his bride were travelling rapidly
to Poland, and he had the additional advantage of having his passports
on his person. What had been intended as an insult would probably be
an assistance: such are the happy accidents of fate. I had arranged
that a message should be sent to me at the first stop for a change
of horses, and while I was thinking of the matter, Pierrot brought
me word that the men had arrived with a message from M. de Lambert.
They had reached the first post in safety and without pursuit; so far
all was well. The messenger had seen them start out with fresh horses
before leaving to bring the tidings; they had therefore the advantage
of several hours, and would probably outstrip all pursuit. These were
good tidings, and I felt that I had cause to rejoice, but knew that
I should presently have a second message from the czar which might
be of quite another character. In the mean time I received word from
Mentchikof that he desired to see me, and, knowing that this might mean
a fresh complication, I lost no time in obeying, rather glad of the
opportunity to be rid of his signet ring, which having served its turn
was becoming a burden to me. It was a bad day when I went out, and, the
wind striking my face, I lowered my head and hurried on unattended. The
streets were slippery, and more than once I nearly lost my footing,
but, at last reaching Mentchikof’s palace, I was glad to find the
warmth and glow of the fire in the great hall. Leaving my cloak below,
I went up the stairs and was at once admitted to the presence of the
favorite.




CHAPTER XXVIII.

A SON OF MISFORTUNE.


MENTCHIKOF was standing in the center of the great _salon_ when I
entered, and I was, at the moment, impressed by the conspicuous figure,
and afterwards mentally contrasted it with that other his master.
Peter’s favorite was one of those handsome men who attach great
importance to their dress; and this morning he was arrayed for the
court and was a gorgeous picture, from his white silk stockings and
white satin breeches and lace-trimmed brocaded waistcoat to his coat
of violet velvet. Peter had created several orders, and half a dozen
glittered on Mentchikof’s breast, with the blue ribbon of Saint Andrew.
His full white peruke was curled and perfumed, and his hands covered
with splendid rings; he was the perfect picture of a courtier, and his
naturally charming manners fitted him for the place that he held, and
was to hold in the future, as the personal representative of the czar;
although the spoiled favorite of fortune, he was also keen, brilliant,
profoundly ambitious. If the scandalous rumors of the court were true,
and he was indeed the son of a pastry-cook, he had reason to be proud
of the singular ability which had enabled him to reach the pinnacle of
success. He met me with cordiality, embracing me three times, in the
Russian fashion.

“So far all goes well, M. le Maréchal,” he said, smiling; “the bird has
safely flown, and I believe will evade pursuit, although old Madame
Zotof and her corpulent spouse are upon the track, but happily upon
the wrong track. As for his Majesty, you and I will presently have a
bad quarter of an hour, but I think Najine’s appeal for M. de Lambert
mortified the imperial vanity so much that he is likely to restrain his
ardor.”

“Nevertheless, your Excellency, I have but just rid myself of the
equerry Shein, who was sent by his imperial Majesty to my quarters to
arrest M. de Lambert and also, I fancy, mademoiselle.”

“Ah, sets the wind in that quarter?” Mentchikof exclaimed; “then,
as I anticipated, he repented very quickly of his lenity. Prince
Dolgoruky and a dozen more are probably at work; yet, nevertheless, M.
l’Ambassadeur, ours was a _coup d’état_, for with mademoiselle safely
out of the country he is likely to forget her. We have little to fear,
for kings can afford to be fickle.”

“His Majesty does not so impress me,” I replied thoughtfully; “his is a
mighty personality, and I have sometimes been amazed that Najine should
prefer a young French soldier to Peter Alexeivitch.”

Mentchikof smiled that slow, brilliant smile that made his dark eyes
light up and showed his white teeth.

“Women are strange creatures, M. l’Ambassadeur,” he said slowly; “they
are governed largely by impulse, and ruin their own best-laid schemes
by some outburst of feeling. Najine Zotof saw before her, not Peter as
you and I see him,--a great man, a soldier, a statesman, a reformer;
she saw only the cold-hearted husband of Eudoxia Lopukhin, the lover of
Anna Mons.”

I started; how had the man read Najine’s heart so perfectly? Najine,
who would not have spoken to him of any feeling of hers, who looked
upon Catherine Shavronsky as a bold woman of the court! How far those
keen eyes of his must have seen into the young girl’s mind; how quick
must be his understanding to recognize, at a glance, her repugnance
to the czar’s violence and his sensuality! I replied to him, however,
without betraying my surprise at his intuition.

“Women like mademoiselle are governed by their hearts, I think,
monsieur,” I remarked; “she loved Guillaume de Lambert, and a loyal,
simple nature like hers is not to be corrupted even by the dazzling
temptations of a throne. There are other women who are neither so
simple nor so devoted.”

Mentchikof laughed. “You mean especially Catherine Shavronsky,” he said
frankly; “truly, monsieur, she is made for the hour. A remarkable
woman,” he added thoughtfully; “of the humblest origin and yet moulded
on grand outlines. She is ambitious, but she is generous; she is
beautiful, but also strong-minded--if the czar--well, M. le Vicomte, we
will not forecast the future--yet look at the state of the empire. The
czar has divorced his wife, and there is only the Czarevitch Alexis,
a boy of thirteen,--and between you and me, M. l’Ambassadeur, not a
hopeful boy; morose, bigoted, small-minded, like his mother,--and
next in succession are the children of the late czar Ivan, himself
an imbecile. In case of his Majesty’s death,--which the saints
delay!--what would it be to Russia to have a czarina of intellect and
force and several children in the direct line of succession? No one
sees this more plainly than Peter himself; and if--”

Mentchikof paused and glanced at me obliquely. I smiled without
replying. I understood him, but my mind reverted to the stories of
the days of the great Henry, when Gabrielle d’Estrées quarrelled with
the Duc de Sully because her son could not be baptized as a child of
France, and Henry then was without legitimate heirs, and I recollected
the “fat bankeress of Florence,” and the birth of Louis XIII. After
all, the child of the despised queen had reigned in France, and I
wondered a little if they could set aside the son of Eudoxia. My mind
had then no conception of that frightful tragedy that was to clear the
path to the throne for the child of Catherine Shavronsky. With strange
thoughts I drew Mentchikof’s signet from my finger, and gave it to him
with an acknowledgment of my indebtedness for his ready assistance.

“I am, nevertheless, glad to be rid of the signet,” I added, smiling,
“for it has burned upon my finger as a symbol of responsibility.
Without it I should have found it impossible to secure a priest.”

“And it will go hard with the priest if the czar finds him,” Mentchikof
said dryly; “however, the imperial displeasure may pass away when it
appears how completely Najine has evaded all efforts to detain her.”

I was not so sanguine as he, for I feared a possible capture of the
wedded lovers at the frontier; but he was carried away with the success
of his diplomacy, and foresaw probably, too, the return of Mademoiselle
Catherine to favor. I saw that he had sent for me mainly to rejoice
at our apparent good fortune, and he did not regard Peter’s probable
displeasure now that mademoiselle was removed from his sight. Judging
from his relief at her departure, I concluded that he had attached
grave importance to the czar’s passion for her, dreading the influence
of the faction who supported Zotof. It was natural that a man who had
so long enjoyed the sunshine of royal favor should fear its eclipse,
and he was one to make enemies who would scheme for his overthrow. From
him I learned that Apraxin was slowly recovering from the effects of M.
de Lambert’s chastisement, and had been ordered into temporary exile at
Archangel by the czar, which seemed to me a light punishment for the
cowardly knave; but, no doubt, the Zotofs had interceded for him.

At parting, I sent a message of congratulation to Mademoiselle
Shavronsky, and Mentchikof laughed.

“So,” he said, “you are wise, M. l’Ambassadeur, and know which way to
look for the rising sun.”

“Nay,” I replied smiling, “I but do homage to a beautiful woman,
monsieur.”

But I left him still laughing at me and in a humor of confidence,
seeing no doubt before his mental vision success and triumph.

When I quitted the palace, I found it still storming, and the streets
so slippery that I made my way with care. I passed Zotof’s house, and
smiled a little as I looked at it, for its deserted aspect suggested
the absence of its inmates, and I fancied them in hot pursuit upon one
road while the fugitives were speeding along upon the other. Which
would progress the more rapidly? One on the wings of love, the other
upon those of wrath; a common spectacle in life, and not without a
lesson in it. So absorbed was I in thought that on turning the sharp
angle of the courtyard wall, I was startled at coming suddenly upon a
group of men who were standing about two combatants. A street brawl,
and I was passing, for I saw that one of them was tipsy, when suddenly
I heard a cry of “Let him go, you villain! what right have you to
fight a Russian?” and then a shout, “A foreigner--a Swede! a Swede!”
I stopped and looked back. The stouter of the two wrestlers had the
other, who was intoxicated, down in the mud; but the exertion had torn
off the victor’s hat and cloak and I recognized Gustavus Lenk. As I did
so, the Russians set upon him and dragged him off his adversary.

“A Swede, I tell you!” cried one fellow loudly, in answer to a doubt.

“He is no Russian, at least,” replied another, “and has no business to
whip an honest man.”

“Take him to the guard,” cried a third; and they fell upon him with
violence.

They were common brawlers and ignorant men, and I saw my opportunity
to requite the spy’s kindness and save him from a fate that would be
inevitable if he fell into the hands of the authorities.

“Stand back!” I exclaimed in a stern voice, stepping in their midst and
laying my hand on the Swede; “you will have to account for this brawl.
This man belongs to my suite.”

My appearance and manner were sufficient to dash their impudence, but
they were sullen and inclined to stand their ground.

“Who are you?” one of the leaders asked boldly; “this fellow has fought
an honest man, and ought to go to the provost.”

“I will examine into this matter, sirrah,” I retorted sharply; “it is
not for you to argue with your betters.”

“He shall not go,” the knave persisted, holding the Swede, “until I
know who you are who dare to take a man from the officers?”

I looked at him with a mocking smile. “Sir justice,” I said, “I am the
Vicomte de Brousson, a marshal of France.”

He let go his hold on the Swede and fell back abashed, for he was an
ignorant knave and feared some punishment for his audacity; but I was
too eager to take advantage of my opportunity to get the Swede safely
away to waste words upon him. He muttered an apology, but I cut him
short.

“Learn the deference that is due your superiors,” I said sharply, and,
signing to Lenk to follow me, I hurried him out of reach of the crowd.

“What folly is this?” I asked, as soon as we were out of sight; “have
you not learned wisdom enough to avoid street brawls?”

“The fellow was tipsy, M. le Vicomte,” the Swede replied ruefully, “and
set upon me about some trifle, but I am again indebted to you, for if
I had fallen into the hands of the guard, nothing would have saved my
neck.”

“Your neck!” I remarked dryly; “you would have tasted the joys of
the torture-rooms at Preobrazhensky, and after this you are not safe
here another day. That knave let you go because he dared not gainsay
me, but I saw the ire in his eyes and he will be revenged, and the
drunken hound you whipped will be also, and how can you conceal your
nationality?”

“I was about to leave the city, in any case,” he said thoughtfully,
“and I must leave sooner than I intended, for, as your Excellency says,
there will be no safety for me in Moscow.”

“I cannot understand,” I said with impatience, “how a man like you can
be so easily betrayed into folly. A street brawl, and you a secret
agent of Charles of Sweden! I cannot do much for you, it is not
consistent with my honor, but I owe you much for M. de Lambert’s sake;
therefore come to my lodgings, hide there until nightfall, and then
leave Moscow. This much I will do, and no more.”

“It is enough, M. de Brousson,” he replied quietly, “and I thank you.
You have been twice the means of saving my life, and I believe that you
know I do not forget.”

I glanced at his face thoughtfully. “Lenk,” I said gravely and kindly,
“you are of too honest stuff for your profession,--you a Swedish spy!
There is no profession more contemptible. Is there no higher service in
the gift of Charles of Sweden for an honest man?”

The spy’s face flushed crimson, and his lips quivered.

“M. le Vicomte,” he said slowly, in a tone of deep emotion, “to you I
owe much, and from you I forgive the taunt, though it is bitter. I am a
ruined man, and I have an aged mother;--the fortunes of our family were
destroyed by the malice and deviltry of an enemy, and I was without
means to keep my mother from want. The king offered money--a large sum,
enough to keep her gray hairs from destitution--for this service here.
M. de Brousson, poverty is cruel; a man who is penniless is blasted in
the world’s regard; he is without the weapons to fight the battle of
life; he must needs fawn upon the hand of power; he must eat the bread
of humiliation; he must bear insults, curiosity, misrepresentation,
and all the world’s contumely. His shabby dress brings him scorn; his
empty purse denies him bread; his broken spirit falls far below the
effort that commands success. Such was I--and I sold my honorable
employment--I laid down a soldier’s sword and took up a spy’s mask--to
feed my mother!”

There were tears in the young fellow’s eyes, and his face from the
crimson of embarrassment was white with shame. I turned and took his
hand.

“My boy,” I said, “take up the battle of life,--cast behind you your
shame, forget the sting of poverty. Take your sword and carve out a new
future. To the noble soul there is always the star of hope. Go to your
king and serve him openly, and forget--live down the past.”

He bent his head and kissed my hand, and I felt his hot tears upon it;
from my heart I pitied him, and resolved that when we parted, he should
have cause to remember that Philippe de Brousson was neither ungrateful
nor ungenerous. More than once in my career I have seen young men
crushed by the cruel load of poverty that others fought with a better
heart. We are not all made in the same mould, happily; for if we were,
there would be too great a press upon the road to fame, and the less
hope for individual success. The trial that burns the dross from one
soul consumes another, and not all of us can look fate in the face or
laugh at destiny.

The walk to my quarters was concluded in silence, and on reaching our
destination I fortunately sent the Swede to the rear door, else he
would have stumbled upon the guest whom I found waiting, thus leaping
into the teeth of another danger; for when I opened my door I found
within the imperial equerry, M. Shein.




CHAPTER XXIX.

THE GREATEST ROMANOFF.


M. SHEIN was standing at the foot of the stairs, and there was an
expression of triumph on his face. After all, he was but a boy, and my
treatment of him had wounded his pride; doubtless, he rejoiced at this
opportunity to return to the charge. My own feeling at seeing him was
one of relief that I had sent the Swede to the other door; Shein was
not keen, but was observant enough to detect Lenk’s nationality in his
blond face.

“We meet soon again, M. Shein,” I remarked calmly; “I trust that you
have not waited long.”

“A quarter of an hour only, your Excellency,” he replied with an air of
importance. “His Majesty the Czar desires your presence immediately at
the palace.”

“I am at his Majesty’s disposal,” I said at once, “and will not delay
you a moment.”

Leaving him, I gave a few hurried directions to Pierrot in regard to
the Swede, and then, returning, went without further delay to the
Kremlin. I knew well the significance of the czar’s summons, and
prepared myself for the ordeal. I was not without some doubt as to
the safety of M. de Lambert and his bride; if by any evil chance they
were overtaken or betrayed, I could not judge what would be their
fate. My reflections were therefore of a nature that did not permit
me to converse with my young companion or even to feel amusement at
his evident triumph. He undoubtedly believed that I would have to give
a clear account to the czar for all the facts that I had practically
refused to give to him, and rejoiced thereat. When we reached the
palace, he conducted me to an ante-room off the czar’s private
apartments, where he left me to announce my arrival. In a few moments
I was admitted to Peter’s presence, and found him sitting in a large
chair by the fire. There were one or two attendants in the room, but
he dismissed them at my entrance. He was wearing the dress of a common
sailor, and his shirt was unbuttoned at the top and without a collar;
he had laid aside his peruke, and his dark hair was ruffled as I had
often seen it in his stormy moods. In an instant I contrasted him with
Mentchikof, in his splendid dress; but the czar’s huge figure had a
dignity of its own, which no garb could disguise; there was something
in his personality which was profoundly impressive. I advanced within
a few feet of him, and, making my salutation, apologized for my
appearance, for my boots were splashed from the miry streets.

“I crave your Majesty’s indulgence,” I said, “but I have been out the
greater part of the morning, and the weather is intolerable.”

“You are a Frenchman, M. l’Ambassadeur,” Peter replied, “and you are
too dainty for the storms of the north. However, you have been active,
it seems, or else I am grossly misinformed. I sent to your lodgings for
M. de Lambert, and learn that you have hurried him from Moscow; is this
true?”

“Your Majesty was urgent about his departure,” I replied calmly, “and
it was incumbent upon me to comply; therefore I sent him to Versailles
at once.”

The czar was leaning his face upon his hand so that it was shaded from
my observation, and I could not read his expression.

“This sounds well, M. le Vicomte,” he said gravely; “but, after all,
were you not endeavoring rather to defy me than to obey my wishes? And
where is Najine?”

Was it possible that the Zotofs had not applied to him for assistance?
I began to feel my way cautiously.

“At this moment, your Majesty, I do not know where she is,” I replied.

He laughed unpleasantly.

“Words, M. l’Ambassadeur,” he said, still shading his face. “Not many
hours since Madame Zotof came to me for help to recover her runaway
niece, and you claim--I assume--to know nothing of this?”

“Nay, your Majesty,” I returned boldly, “that I do not claim.
Mademoiselle Zotof had no great reason to love her aunt, and--”

He interrupted me with an impatient gesture. “You need not tell me that
she loves M. de Lambert,” he said harshly, “for she told us all that
herself. Her aunt charges her with having gone away with the Frenchman;
is it true, M. le Maréchal?”

“It is true,” I rejoined quietly; “failing to obtain her uncle’s
consent, she went without it.”

“And also without the ceremony of marriage, her aunt fears,” he said
slowly.

“Madame Zotof is cruel,” I exclaimed; “she knows better!”

“Ah!” he ejaculated in a fierce tone, “she was married--where?”

“In the Cathedral of the Assumption,” I answered.

He let his hand fall heavily upon the arm of his chair, and I saw
his face plainly, for the first time. It was twitching with that
unfortunate convulsion that distorted his features, making his eyes
horrible.

“By a priest of my church?” he asked sharply.

I bowed my head in assent, beginning to understand his mood and see the
dangers of it.

“What priest of mine dared to perform that ceremony without my
consent?” he cried passionately; and I saw that his violent mood was
threatening to overwhelm him, yet I regarded him with composure.

“I beg your Majesty’s pardon,” I said calmly, “but it is impossible for
me to give you the priest’s name.”

“Impossible!” he thundered, staring at me like an infuriated lion; “you
forget that I am the Czar of Russia.”

I made a profound obeisance. “I do not forget it even for a moment,
your Majesty,” I replied gravely, “neither can I forget my honor;” and
I folded my arms upon my breast and gave him look for look.

“And you dream of defeating my purpose by withholding the man’s name?”
he exclaimed with passion.

“Nay, sire,” I returned quietly, “I do not measure my strength with
yours, but I will not violate my honor or my word.”

“And yet,” he said fiercely, “you stood by and saw Najine Zotof marry
against her uncle’s wishes and without my consent, with no apparent
violence to your feelings.” His tone was full of contempt.

“Your Majesty,” I replied quietly, “I judged that you understood
mademoiselle’s sentiments after her open declaration for M. de Lambert,
and that in giving her his liberty you intended also to give her
happiness, since that seems to me the most royal prerogative of kings.
To be empowered by the King of kings to give joy to His creatures
appears, to my poor mind, the one supreme gift of His anointed.
Here were two young people who loved each other, and your Majesty’s
benevolence liberated him; it was the completion of your Majesty’s
generosity to unite them. I must crave pardon if I have fallen into any
error.”

The czar had listened with unusual patience, and was looking at me with
keenly observant eyes when I finished speaking.

“You are eloquent, M. l’Ambassadeur,” he said deliberately, “but you
see only one side of the question. You forget altogether the feelings
of Zotof and his wife, their aims and ambitions for their niece. Najine
is a wayward girl, and should have been compelled to obey her natural
guardians. It is in my mind to demand that the king my brother return
her to me as a rebel against my authority.”

There was nothing for me to say, so that I remained silent and observed
him closely, seeing that his mood was changing and that he was swayed
by deep emotion. After a moment’s pause he turned upon me abruptly, his
eyes flashing.

“What did she see in that boy to love?” he exclaimed with impatience.

I smiled involuntarily. “That is a difficult question, your Majesty,”
I remarked. “How can I divine what a young maid sees in her lover? The
poorest of us is likely to be loved by some woman.”

“All men but the king!” he cried passionately, rising from his seat and
striding back and forth before the fire,--“all men but the king! And he
must satisfy his soul with the fawning of the poor creatures who would
mount upon his shoulders; must quench his thirst with falsehood and
feed on treachery. He, of all men, cannot find one honest heart to love
him for himself; he, of all men, must live amidst deceit and flattery,
with the poisoner’s cup in his kitchen and the assassin’s knife by his
pillow. Yet all men envy him!”

He laughed a discordant laugh; nothing could be more passionately
bitter than his voice and manner. He paused and gazed at the fire, that
was burning low; his great figure looming enormous in the gloomy room,
and his head bowed; his breast was heaving with emotion, and his hands
were clenched. It was the storm of a great spirit, and I knew that I
saw the Romanoff face to face; a man with a man’s heart, imbittered by
his disappointment. What thoughts must have been in his mind,--he, the
autocrat, outrivalled in a young girl’s heart by a French soldier!

“All men envy the king,” he went on in a deep voice, speaking, it
seemed, to himself; “but, by our Lady, there is no beggar more
destitute of friends, no beggar more thirsty for the truth! Watched by
all men--at once their envy and their dupe; flattered by all--loved by
none! Failing to do the work of a god upon earth, he must die at last,
cursed by men and welcomed by devils as their vicegerent. Breathing in
life the essence of flattery--the greatest of men, the best beloved,
the most magnanimous; cursed, behind his back, as the chiefest butcher,
the most unjust of judges, the oppressor of the poor and the widow!
Accountable for all things in the sight of men and of angels; and,
after all, only human--alone, unloved--ay! hated, feared, betrayed. A
king on earth, a thief in Paradise!”

He seemed to have forgotten me. His breast heaved, and his strong face
quivered. Was this indeed the hour of a king’s reckoning? I watched
him with many thoughts crowding into my mind. I saw how deeply he had
craved Najine’s love, how much a good woman’s loyal regard would have
been to this tempestuous soul. For a time he stood silent, his eyes
upon the ground, and then, suddenly awakening from his revery, he
directly addressed me.

“M. l’Ambassadeur,” he said in a scornful tone, “you have the
reputation of having won a bride at the point of the sword--advise me.
Of what effect would be the separation of Najine from her new-made
bridegroom? She is a woman; doubtless she would forget him.”

I shook my head. “Nay, your Majesty,” I replied, “she is not of such
poor stuff. Hers is a loyal nature, pure and true. She would not forget
her husband, and--”

“And what?” he asked quickly, as I paused. “Speak with candor, M. de
Brousson.”

“And she would abhor the man who separated them,” I concluded briefly.

He started, and his cheek flushed darkly. “In plain words, monsieur
would say that she would abhor me,” he exclaimed.

“We do not so speak to kings, your Majesty,” I said gravely.

“No,” he replied harshly, “to kings all men lie. I sometimes think that
they also lie when they pray; for if they strive so hard to appear fair
to their sovereigns here, how much more so at the bar of Heaven! Pah!
false witnesses and knaves, I would give my right hand for the love of
one honest heart!”

“Doubtless, your Majesty has that of many,” I replied suavely; “and
from gratitude is born the purest regard.”

“You would suggest that I could merit her gratitude?” he said in a
strange voice; then he turned to me with a gesture of passionate
despair. “Man,” he cried, “I loved her!”

I stood amazed, and found no words. I felt myself as awkward as
the veriest boy. He had declared his unrequited passion, and yet,
undignified as it seemed, I had never seen him so imperial. All that
was violent and coarse was lost to sight. He stood there in his simple
dress, his dark hair disordered, his face pale, and his eyes burning.
It was the sorrow, the isolation, the passionate disappointment of
a great heart; for the Romanoff was, first of all, a man,--genuine,
simple, emotional.

“I loved her,” he repeated in his deep voice, “and she is another man’s
wife. I, the czar, craved the love of a simple heart, and it is denied
me. But,” he added with a sudden fierce change, “it is not yet too late
to tear her from her lover’s arms!”

“Your Majesty,” I said slowly, with what composure I could command,
“it would be a revenge unworthy of a king, and most unworthy of you.
Grief you can bring to her, if the saints permit, for not even you can
defy heaven. Earthly loss and desolation you might achieve for her, but
rather than her love, you would have her hatred. Czar of the Russias,
there is but One, and He is mightier than thou, the King of kings, who
alone can dispose the heart of man or woman. Let this young girl go
in peace with her husband, and so merit her blessing and her prayers,
which will be richer to you than the poor revenge of seeing her broken
in spirit and in heart, dreading your name as her greatest scourge; not
a loyal subject, but a slave.”

He was silent, and I saw that he struggled with himself.

“A man who can conquer his own heart,” I added, as if speaking to
myself, “is worthy indeed to be a king.”

He turned and stood with his back toward me, seeming to look out of the
window, and I was silent. There was no sound in the room except the
crackle of the log that burned upon the hearth, having fallen among the
embers; and I could hear, far off, the murmur of voices, the attendants
talking in the ante-room. What would come next? I could not conjecture,
but hoped much from his strange mood. I have never forgotten that
moment or the scene; the great chamber hung with costly silks, the
narrow Russian bed, the imaged figure of Saint Peter suspended above
it, and the gray light of a gloomy Russian day shining through the
windows. A solitary raven, beaten by the storm, alighted on the
window-sill and perched there, looking in and croaking ominously, like
some black-gowned and cowled preacher. And the czar--that man whose
personality was so great and so peculiar--treated me with the simple
familiarity that was one of his characteristics. It was a full quarter
of an hour before he turned and faced me; he was strangely pale, and
his dark eyes--except in his nervous paroxysms always beautiful--were
brilliant with emotion. He waved his hand with a gesture of dismissal.

“Go, M. l’Ambassadeur,” he said; “it is over. Najine shall go in peace.
Love and hate cannot touch my heart,” he added with supreme bitterness.
“I am not a man--I am the czar!”




CHAPTER XXX.

A FUTURE EMPRESS.


THE few weeks that followed were eventful. I received the long-expected
summons from France to return, for as yet the hour for a Russian
alliance was not ripe, and Peter was not held in high esteem until
after the victory of Poltava, which was yet to come. At this time
Charles XII. was in Poland intriguing with the Primate Radziejowski,
and intimidating the Diet at Warsaw. Augustus of Saxony had been
deposed, and Charles was engaged in selecting a sovereign for Poland
who would be his creature. It was already apparent that his choice
would be Stanislas Leczynski; and in the following July, in the field
of Wola near Warsaw, a few electors, surrounded by Swedish troops,
proclaimed Stanislas King of Poland. It was one of the comedies of the
King of Sweden, and the two dupes, Augustus and Stanislas, continued
their rôles, quarrelling for the Polish crown and being, in fact, mere
puppets, while Russia and Sweden wrestled for supremacy. Meanwhile the
Neva, precious to the heart of the czar, had been threatened by land
and sea, and there was the promise of sufficient occupation to keep
the northern princes out of the War of the Spanish Succession.

I was anxious to depart, for my own position at court was embarrassing.
Prince Dolgoruky and the faction opposed to Mentchikof were intensely
angry at my successful manœuvre, and M. Zotof and madame his wife were
feeding the flames. They had returned from their fruitless pursuit,
frantic with rage and disappointment, and both desired to wreak some
vengeance upon my devoted head. Indeed, madame lost no opportunity
of assailing me with her sharp tongue,--an annoyance which, while
failing of great harm, was yet offensive; however, I could endure it
with serenity since I had received the tidings of M. de Lambert’s
safe arrival in France with his bride. I did not lose the opportunity
to inform madame of her niece’s safety, and she replied that Najine
would doubtless soon be as glad to run away from France and her French
husband as she had been eager to leave her guardians. To which sally I
replied that it was a fair land, full of brave men and gentle women;
and madame, finding that the shaft was intended for her, darted a
glance of withering scorn at me, and swept on. In my heart, I was sorry
for the “prince pope,” for his wife cast all the blame upon him, making
him the scapegoat of the faction. Her protégé Apraxin was in exile,--a
miserable tale-bearer and spy, not worth the angry contempt that Peter
felt for him.

The Swedish spy was not a little troublesome to me; the day after my
interview with the czar, it was bruited about that there was a Swede in
Moscow on some secret errand. Doubtless the knave who had quarrelled
with him spread the report, and I found it difficult enough to keep
suspicion from my quarters, and more so to despatch the man in safety,
for he had found it impossible to get away at once. I owed him much,
and both Zénaïde and I felt a keen interest in him, so that we managed
to send him away at last under cover of darkness and with a full purse,
which had been increased by a contribution from M. de Lambert. I had no
desire to meddle with a Swedish spy, but the man Lenk had my pity, and
I gave him help with a free hand, although if he had been taken with my
money upon him it would have been a serious matter. The world is a hard
school, and the young man in a shabby doublet has the harder battle
because of its shabbiness. When we march up the road to the Eternal
City, will the gay coat of the cavalier precede the ragged shirt of the
beggar? Sometimes, methinks, I see the Angel with the flaming sword,
who keeps the Gate of Paradise, look strangely on the bedizened gallant
of the court, as upon one whose face he knows not. I am an old man
now, and I have stood on many a stricken field,--with Turenne, with
the Prince de Condé, with Luxembourg, Villars, Villeroi, Catinat,
and many more. I have seen thousands die, and, truly, the poor camp
follower makes as brave an end as the gallant gentleman. Nothing do we
bring into the world, neither take we anything from it; and the naked
soul before its Maker can give small account of the estates of earth.
An emperor and a slave are equal at the bar of Heaven; yet men still
contend for the kingdoms of this world, and the greatness thereof! And
what is the end but the grave and corruption?

In a few weeks it was manifest that there was a change at the Russian
Court. Mentchikof loomed up once more triumphant; the Austrian emperor
had lately made him a Count of Hungary, and two years later he created
him a prince of the Holy Roman Empire, and from that time honors and
emoluments were showered upon him. Almost immediately after Najine’s
marriage, Catherine Shavronsky was made conspicuous by the czar’s
notice, and there were rumors that she would be even more powerful at
court than Anna Mons; as yet no man dreamed that this Livonian peasant
who was to become Peter’s mistress would wear the crown of Russia,
that she would be untiring in her efforts, and never swerve until she
reached the goal of her ambition. I have often thought that those years
must have had their bitter humiliation for her; that she must have
hated that forlorn figure, the “nun Helen,” as the Czarina Eudoxia was
named, who stood like a shadow between her and the crown, even when the
czar acknowledged her children,--as bitter to Catherine in her triumph
as humiliation and exile must have been bitter to the unfortunate
Eudoxia behind her convent walls.

It was the day before we finally left Moscow that Catherine Shavronsky
sent for me, and I responded to her summons. Madame de Brousson and I
had taken formal leave of the czar, and our preparations were complete,
so that nothing remained but to leave Moscow on the morrow, and in
the evening I went to Mentchikof’s palace to hear what Mademoiselle
Catherine had to say. There was to be a fête that night, but when I
went, no one had yet arrived, and I was ushered into the empty _salon_,
and, while I waited, observed idly the splendid decorations of the
apartment, its magnificent hangings and long mirrors, which reflected
every object in the room. It was the house of a prince, indeed, and
I did not marvel that Mentchikof’s debts often overwhelmed him,
arousing even the czar’s displeasure. Yet in the years to come, when
he was Duke of Ingermannland and Prince of Izhora, with an immense
income and almost royal revenues from the many high offices that he
held, the favorite still ran into debt. He had few of Peter’s simple
tastes, although he had shared the czar’s hardy education; like all the
favorites of royalty, he was the victim of over-indulgence; yet he was
to owe his continuance in favor, more than once, to the intercession of
his own protégée Catherine Shavronsky, long after she had outstripped
him on the path to power; but she was generous enough never to forget
the debt that she owed him. “The journeyman pastry-cook,” as Mentchikof
was sometimes called in malice, and “the servant-maid” were to be the
powers behind the throne.

I had waited but a few moments, when the door opened at the farther
end of the _salon_, and Catherine came in alone. As she walked up the
long apartment toward me, I thought that I had never seen her more
queenly in her bearing. She wore a rich robe of some pale blue material
that clung to her figure and swept about her feet; her rich complexion
contrasted well with her fine dark eyes, and her smile was captivating;
in her light hair shone a single jewel, an opal that was radiant in its
varying hues, and on her breast was a miniature of the czar surrounded
with diamonds,--his gift, and a conspicuous token of his favor. Her
disposition was naturally amiable, and she had all the charm of youth,
and it was said that her soft voice had a peculiar attraction for
Peter. I made my salutation, and she responded with graciousness.

“You are welcome, M. le Maréchal,” she said, smiling. “I sent for you
that I might be assured of the safe arrival in France of Madame de
Lambert.”

“She is quite safe, mademoiselle,” I responded, “and also her husband.”

Catherine laughed. “Her husband,” she repeated slowly; “it seems
strange that we accomplished that marriage in the face of such
difficulties. It has been in my mind often, and you, M. l’Ambassadeur,
you saw the czar.”

She looked at me questioningly, and in an instant I divined her object.
She desired to fathom the matter, and to know just how much the czar
had cared for her rival; here, at least, I could be a match for her.

“I had the honor to bid his Majesty farewell but yesterday,
mademoiselle,” I replied gravely, “I leave Moscow on the morrow.”

“Ah! but I intended to say that you saw the czar immediately after
Najine’s flight and while his Majesty was still angry,” she said
simply, searching my face with her dark eyes. “Is it true that he
threatened to seize them, declare the marriage illegal, and throw M. de
Lambert into prison?”

I raised my brows in feigned surprise. “Mademoiselle astonishes me,” I
remarked; “I do not hear all these rumors.”

She cast an indignant glance at me, but smiled at the same moment.

“M. l’Ambassadeur, you never forget to be a diplomat,” she said archly;
“do you ever speak with candor?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “Frequently, mademoiselle,” I returned,
smiling also; “but an old fellow like me cannot wear his heart upon his
sleeve.”

“Alas!” she cried with feigned surprise, “have you a heart? It seems to
me that courtiers have none.”

“Nay, mademoiselle,” I said gravely; “but soldiers have, and I am a
soldier.”

“So is the czar,” she rejoined at once. “Truly, monsieur, do you think
he loved mademoiselle so deeply?”

She had assumed a coaxing manner, laying her white hand upon my arm;
but I am accustomed to woman’s wiles, and hardened my heart.

“How should I know, mademoiselle?” I asked her tormentingly, “being but
a weather-beaten veteran? Ask some fair dame of the court. Never saw I
yet a king who could not love.”

She stamped her foot impatiently upon the floor. “Ah, M. le Vicomte,”
she cried, “you mock me. You saw the czar alone--and in a moment of
passionate vexation: he showed his feelings to you, doubtless, and why
not admit it?”

“Mademoiselle,” I replied gravely, “when you have lived as long as I,
you will know that it is a perilous thing to know a king’s heart and
far more perilous to betray it. Moreover, you forget that to a soldier
his honor is as dear as his life.”

She looked at me a moment in silence, and then a smile broke over her
handsome, passionate face.

“Yet you have told me, M. l’Ambassadeur,” she said with a woman’s
triumph. “I know that he loved her--but she is gone!”

She paused, and stood there a picture of triumphant beauty; a woman
with the tigress in her nature, passionate, bold, ambitious; a peasant,
a slave, an empress to be. I have never forgotten her, her haughty
head erect, her eyes sparkling with emotion, her full red lips parted
and showing her teeth; young and handsome, and marked out by a strange
destiny to be the favorite, the mistress, the secretly wedded wife of
Peter the Great, and, at last, Empress of all the Russias.

She took a step toward a door near her, and I saw that, failing to draw
all the secret from me, she intended to cut short the interview.

“Najine is no longer here,” she said in a tone of exultation, “and
I owe much to you. The day of my evil fortune is past, and I will
remember always those who were kind to me. No man shall call Catherine
ungrateful. M. l’Ambassadeur, I kiss your hands!”

With these words we parted. From that day she continued to ascend the
path of ambition that was to lead her up the blood-stained steps of a
throne. The Livonian peasant girl died an empress.


THE END.




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  way warring against his reverence toward it.--_Literary World_,
  Boston.

  The stirring events in the time of Ahab have been well wrought
  together in this book. Micaiah is the hero; Obadiah is skillfully
  presented, and Elijah appears at intervals. We regard this as an
  excellent work, alike as a story, a study in character, and a picture
  of the time.--_Sunday Journal_, New York.

  The descriptions of the region are good, the different scenes well
  depicted and lifelike, and the lessons inculcated are helpful and
  natural.--_Public Opinion_, Washington.

  In the “Price of Peace” we have a new presentation of the character of
  Micaiah, who is the hero of Mr. Ackerman’s romance. The Bible gives us
  only a meagre glimpse of the man: here we learn to know him as a man
  of passions like unto our own, but wiser and greater than his fellows.
  The author introduces us to a period of rare interest, and we learn
  much of Elijah, Jehoshaphat, and King Ahab. More than all, our
  interest is awakened in the lovely Ruth, and we close the book
  regretfully in the thought of leaving her and the hills of
  Zebulon.--_Evening Bulletin_, Philadelphia.


THE CRUCIFIXION OF PHILIP STRONG.

BY CHARLES M. SHELDON.

12mo, 367 pages. Price, $1.00.

  The hero is a honest, forceful minister, who believes that he should
  not allow his church to be simply a social club. His efforts to stem
  the tide of luxury and of selfishness are told in a way that will hold
  the reader interested to the end.--_Chronicle Telegraph_, Pittsburg.

  It is more than a well-written and well-conceived story; it is a
  gospel, or, rather, the gospel of Christ presented in living form,
  coming in contact with human life, in all its phases and with the
  great problems that to-day agitate the mind of society.... If this
  powerful presentation of truth in story form does not produce a
  profound impression on the reading public, we shall be greatly
  disappointed.--_Lutheran Evangelist_, Dayton, Ohio.

  The story is one of intense vigor and pathos. It will secure a very
  wide reading, and it should make a deep impression upon every reader
  and produce lasting fruit.--_The Congregationalist_, Boston.

  An original and realistic story, both interesting and suggestive of
  earnest thought.--_The Beacon_, Boston.

  The story is often pathetic, sometimes dramatic, and always
  convincing. It is wholesome reading to all, and instructive to those
  who are led to wrongly believe that the church and its pastors do not
  make sacrifices for, and are not in sympathy with, the poor of the
  world.--_Chicago Record._

  The book abounds in powerful and convincing arguments for
  righteousness and truth, and the young preacher with the lofty ideals,
  though a pathetic figure in his loneliness, commands respect for his
  self-forgetfulness in a noble cause.--_Literary World_, Boston.

  A fine piece of realistic writing. The duty of the Christian and the
  Christian minister is clearly unfolded.--_Herald_, Chicago.


TALES FROM THE ÆGEAN.

BY DEMETRIOS BIKÉLAS.

_Translated by Leonard Eckstein Opdycke. With an Introduction by Henry
Alonzo Huntington._

16mo, 258 pages. Price, $1.00.

  The tales in this volume have a special value in that they reflect
  the Greek life, thought, and feeling of to-day. They have, moreover,
  a universal interest for their merit as works of literary art.
  They are simple, pure, and elevating. Though tinged now and then
  with melancholy, their melancholy is of the kind that, instead of
  depressing, buoys up and elevates the reader.--_Commercial Gazette_,
  Cincinnati.

  This dainty little book is composed of several tales based upon the
  life and customs of the inhabitants of the Ægean. It opens up a new
  and attractive field of interest, made all the more fascinating by
  the strength and vividness of the sketches, and the reality and truth
  portrayed in the characters, which the translator has carefully
  preserved throughout.--_Public Opinion._

  Each tale is dramatic, and has as distinct a plot as is compatible
  with short limits. There is no moralizing; the author is too eager to
  tell his story to stop for that. The book should find a wide welcome
  because of its novelty and high literary merit. It is admirably
  translated.--_Literary World_, Boston.

  The stories are delightfully told; humor and pathos in turn call forth
  our admiration; and we owe our thanks to the publishers for having
  introduced this new author to the English reading public.--_The Boston
  Times._

  The stories are fresh and striking, simple in style, elemental in
  their sympathetic appeal.--_Independent_, New York.

  The author portrays Greek life as it is with true poetic realism,
  and depicts the defects as well as the racial virtues of his
  countrymen. His stories are like so many dainty water-colors,--almost
  luminous in feeling, and possessing the indefinable attribute called
  “atmosphere.”--_Beacon_, Boston.


  _Sold by all booksellers, or mailed, on receipt of price, by_

  A. C. MCCLURG & CO., PUBLISHERS,

  COR. WABASH AVE. AND MADISON ST., CHICAGO.




TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:


  Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

  Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.