AN IMPERIAL LOVER

Pierre le Grand.

An Imperial Lover

BY
M. IMLAY TAYLOR
AUTHOR OF “ON THE RED STAIRCASE,” ETC.

CHICAGO
A. C. McCLURG AND COMPANY
1898

Copyright
By A. C. McClurg and Co.
A.D. 1897
All rights reserved

CONTENTS.

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.”