THE REBELLION OF THE
PRINCESS

OTHER BOOKS
BY M. IMLAY TAYLOR

On the Red Staircase
The House of the Wizard
The Cardinal’s Musketeer
An Imperial Lover
A Yankee Volunteer
Anne Scarlett
The Cobbler of Nimes
Little Mistress Goodhope and Other Fairy Tales

The Rebellion of
the Princess

By
M. Imlay Taylor

M^c_. Clure, Phillips & Co.
New York
1903

Copyright, 1903, by
McCLURE, PHILLIPS & CO.
Published, March, 1903, R

CONTENTS

THE REBELLION OF THE
PRINCESS

I: THE MAJOR-DOMO’S WHIP

FROM my post at the window I could look down upon the court-yard of the palace of the Boyar Kurakin. Although it was early in May, it was a cold day in Moscow, and the sun shone obliquely into the yard, cut off as it was by the walls of two houses. The black mud of winter had not dried off the centre of the court, and there was ice in the corner by the water-butts, and ice hung, too, on the north side of the roof, under the eaves, like the ragged beard of the old man of the north, Moroz Treskun, or the Crackling Frost, as the moujik names him, while above, around the great chimney, a group of ravens were huddled together in the sun, preening their plumage and croaking now and then in a solemn fashion.

The boyar’s house was large, and shaped like a Greek cross, the kitchen and the servants’ quarters opening on the court, which was crowded now with the serfs, for the steward of the household was giving one of the varlets a taste of the whip. The doors and windows of the kitchen gaped wide, filled with curious spectators; some, I fancied, half in sympathy with the poor rogue who squealed under the lash, and others applauding the major-domo, whether from fear or love I knew not. He was a burly fellow with a red head and a short, red-bearded, fierce-eyed countenance, and had the serf by the waistband with one giant hand and with the other he laid the whip on his bare back, leaving a long welt across the brown flesh with every cut. The slave howled and writhed, the whip cracked, the spectators applauded or jeered, as fancy seized them, and then, quite suddenly, there was a diversion.

The water-butts were in the corner at the steward’s back, and a dwarf darted out from behind them, quick as a wasp, and cut at the major-domo’s calves with a leather thong and was back under cover before the big man could wheel around. And he, thinking that he had cut his own legs with the long end of his lash, and furious at the titter of the servants, laid it on the poor serf with redoubled venom until the blood ran. Meanwhile the dwarf executed a weird dance of triumph on the ice by the water-butts, mocking the steward in dumb show, and beating an imaginary victim, his thin cheeks blown out and his brows knotted, to the delight of his audience, thus furnished with a double entertainment. He was one of those wretched little creatures that haunted Moscow, the playthings and spies of the courtiers, and he was unusually small, even for a dwarf, with a strange pointed face, white and three-cornered, like a patch of paper, and with great ears shaped like the leaves of a linden standing out from his head as if upon stems; it was by these ears that I always knew him afterwards, even in the crowd of court midgets. Encouraged by the success and the private applause, the little wretch darted out again and repeated the performance of whipping the steward’s legs, while the men and women held their sides with laughter, because the fat beast danced and swore and lashed, like one beside himself.

But it was an ill jest for the rogue in his clutches, and, minded to end their sport, I shouted to him, in Russ, to look behind the water-butts for the wasp. The fat fool gaped at me in amazement, and the dwarf, darting from his covert, was running full speed for the kitchen before he spied him and made after him. But one of the men, willing to save the little beast, no doubt for the sake of the laugh, tripped the major-domo as if by accident, and down he went in the mud of the court-yard, bellowing and splashing like a whale.

I laughed until the tears came into my eyes, and whether he heard me, or thought I had some hand in it, I know not, but when he got to his feet, all bedaubed with mud and green slime, he shook his two great fists at me and shrieked defiance; at which I laughed the more. His face grew as red as his beard.

“Come down, you dog of a tinsmith!” he shouted, cracking his whip in the dirt. “Come down, and I’ll take the hide off your back!”

I laughed again; for the life of me, I could not be angry with the wretch. His burly figure and his impotent rage only aroused my contempt, and I heeded his threats and his gestures as little as I did the mirth of the kitchen behind him. I know not how long he would have continued his pantomime, if it had not been for another attack of his inveterate enemy. While he was shouting at me I saw the ravens rise suddenly from the roof with a whir of black wings, and the dwarf came dancing along on the very verge of the eaves. He had evidently dropped from the windows of the terem, the women’s quarters, which there, as usual, occupied a separate upper story of wood, which overlooked the flat roof of the wing. The little creature executed a fandango over the steward’s head and then suddenly let fly a pebble, with such accurate aim that he took the fat man fairly under his left ear. He was alive to dangers now, however, and, discovering his foe, started for the kitchen-door with a bound, while the dwarf, waiting only for him to disappear, came sliding down over the edge of the roof, and swinging by his long arms he dropped, with marvellous agility, on the ledge of the window below, and from there, swinging again, monkey-fashion, on the window of the lower story, he finally dropped into the yard, amidst a burst of applause from the serfs. Meanwhile, the major-domo, arriving at last at the window over the roof, looked out in baffled fury, and seeing me still at my post, cursed me in Russ and two or three other dialects. “O meat for dogs!” he bellowed, “’tis through some signalling of yours, and I’ll pay you for it! I will—by the beard of the Saint Nikolas of Mojaïsk! May the black god smite you!”

I shrugged my shoulders and left the window in disgust. So he called me meat for dogs and a tinsmith; that was the cream of the jest! By Saint Denis, a tinsmith—I, Jéhan de Marle, Marquis de Cernay, an officer of the household troops of Louis XIV., King of France, and cousin to the Duc de Richelieu! Yet, after all, the varlet had some reason for his gibe, for did I not figure in Moscow as the apprentice of Maître le Bastien, the goldsmith of Paris? Ah, and thereby hangs a tale!

Twelve months before, my evil star took me to Paris for Easter. I had been in Normandy, on my estates, and had served in the Palatinate. Before that I won distinction, under the very eye of the king, at Ghent and Ypres, and the saying at court was that no service paid out of his sight, while in it there was such a scramble that Spinola bit the royal finger—when he saluted the king’s hand—to make his mark among the herd of sycophants. But, as it happened, the king noticed me without the bite, though afterwards I paid for the recognition.

It was then scarcely three years after the Peace of Nimequen; France was on a pinnacle of glory; Strasburg had fallen without a shot, and Catinet had entered Casale. King Charles the Second of England had taken his wages with some grumblings, and retired from the war, and the Prince of Orange had been forced to yield to the Estates of Holland and conclude the peace; the King of France held a line of towns from Dunkerque to the Meuse, and Spain was disarmed. Louis had maintained the war against Europe and was victorious; “singly against all,” as Louvois said. It was a season of glory and joy for every Frenchman, and especially for every French soldier.

But what of it? What if fortune seemed to smile, and the rewards of courage were within my grasp; what of it? I say. My evil star took me to Paris, and all the world was at the festival. Mme. de Montespan, the king’s mistress, was at dagger’s point with Mme. de Maintenon, who was the governess of her children and the rising star, as all the world knew; for “the Star of Quanto,” as they called Mme. de Montespan, was near to setting, though she could still afford to lose and win again, four millions—in one night—at basset.

There also was M. le Vicomte d’Argenson, taken by his evil star—a deadly evil one it proved—to Paris and to me. He was cousin to Mme. de Montespan, and as black-hearted a knave as ever wore a velvet coat and clean ruffles at court, and that, as I would have you know, is saying much. Ah, well! monsieur and I were in Paris, and ’twas Easter week, and Mme. de Montbazon gave a ball at the Hôtel de Montbazon. It was one of the most magnificent fêtes in Paris; wine flowed in the kennel of the Rue de Bethisi, so they said, and madame gave a silver lily to each of her guests, while Vatel himself was superintending in the kitchen. The lily for the young Duchess of Burgundy was of gold set with pearls and diamonds. The world was there, great and small, and one little maid from Provence, a dependent of the Princess de Condé, country-bred and honest, as I chanced to know, although she had an old hag of a mother who would have sold her soul to make a fine match for her daughter, and had even been to that great man, Bontemps, the king’s chief valet, to inquire about the possibilities of securing a rich husband. But that is neither here nor there.

It all happened at the very height of the ball, and it was thus I lost my silver lily. I was on the grand staircase, and at the landing was M. d’Argenson, with a throng of rufflers, waiting for the king. And, at the moment, as ill luck would have it, the little maid from Provence, Mlle. Lamoignon, came up the stairs, her face aglow with pleasure and looking, as I thought, not unlike a Provençal rose herself. Satan being in the heart of M. le Vicomte, doubtless it was his prompting that made the man go out, before us all, to meet the child and try to kiss her; at which she cried out, resisting with all her might, and the beaux on the landing laughed. M. d’Argenson, being in liquor and angered, I take it, by the titter behind him, turned on the girl and grossly insulted her before us all. I was but two steps above them and, quick as a flash, I caught monsieur by the shoulders, and flinging him back against the wall with one hand, with the other I slapped my glove in his face. D’Argenson was a mixture of bully and coward, and had his sword out in a trice, and was at me, the others crying to us that the king was coming. But I caught his rapier and, breaking it across my knee, flung the fragments over the balustrade with a gibe, and he, with the face of a fury, cursed me, standing on the same step, while little mademoiselle cowered under my arm like a frightened pigeon.

“Monsieur will pay for it—with blood!” screamed M. le Vicomte, growing purple above his cravat.

“Pish!” I retorted, laughing in his face. “Jéhan de Cernay cares not for vermin.”

“Coward!” he said, and struck me on the side where mademoiselle cowered, so that I could not ward off the blow, and it slanted on my cheek.

Then the devil rose in me; I thrust her away, and catching him about the waist, flung him headlong on the stairs, just as the ushers in the lower hall began to shout, “The king, the king!”

M. de Mazarin and M. de Besanvel, my friends, hustled me off out of sight, and there was pandemonium on the staircase! Mme. de Montbazon furious and in tears because of the fracas, Mlle. Lamoignon hysterical, and M. le Vicomte, with a bruised head and a black eye, shrieking for vengeance. To make a long story short, the next morning I received monsieur’s cartel at my lodgings, and being privately warned by M. de Mazarin that the king was angry and I might look for the provost-marshal, I lost no time in choosing the hour and the weapons. We fought that day in the Place Royale with swords. What would you? I was accounted one of the best swordsmen in France, and I had the advantage of being indifferent. M. de Besanvel was with me and M. de Palisot with him. So far my evil star shone propitious and sparkled, for monsieur’s nerves were unstrung and his head sore.

I remember the scene quite well. The spring was forward; it was Thursday in Easter week, and the trees were feathery with green and the violets bloomed. ’Twas afternoon, and long shadows fell aslant the green turf and the sun was warm. Monsieur, stripped of coat and waistcoat, confronted me in a white ruffled shirt and trousers of blue satin, with ruffles of point de Venise, and silk stockings and red-heeled slippers. I saw his bloodshot eyes and his purple lips, and we crossed swords, while M. de Besanvel engaged M. de Palisot. It was not long; I spitted him at the second round—my famous thrust over the guard—and I saw him die without regret—vermin!

That was the end of it. We left him in the arms of the surgeon and M. de Palisot, who got but a scratch from Besanvel, and I rode post-haste from Paris with his majesty’s provost-marshal at my heels—and all for a girl I did not know. Saint Denis, such is life!

It seemed that Mme. de Montespan, the handsome she-devil, was hot for my ruin, and would give the king no rest; so Paris would not hold me, nor Normandy, nor France. In this dilemma I bethought me of Maître le Bastien, the goldsmith, then on his way to Moscow, summoned thither by Prince Basil Galitsyn. Maître le Bastien was my father’s friend and mine, and one whom I had benefited in more ways than one; to him therefore I went. Was not a journey to Russia and, mayhap, an adventure or two, better than a dull exile over seas? To protect Maître le Bastien from trouble, I travelled under an assumed name; I had the passports of his apprentice, Raoul,—who fell ill of the small-pox, the week before we left Paris,—and no one suspected my disguise unless it was the little varlet, Michaud, who hated me from the first. Thus out of Paris, and its envy and favour, I dropped into the northern capital, and found it less interesting than I had hoped—which shows that a man sees but an inch beyond his own nose.

I had been in Moscow now nearly a year, and the Czar Feodor was just dead and the two factions—the Naryshkins and the Miloslavskys—were quarrelling to the knife over the succession to the throne, and the quarrel was all the more bitter because it was a family one. It came about in this way. The Czar Alexis the Débonair married first a Miloslavsky, by whom he had several children, among them the Czar Feodor, his successor, but just dead; then Alexis had married a second wife, the young and beautiful Natalia Naryshkin, who became the mother of a boy and a girl. At the death of Feodor his natural successor would have been his own brother, Ivan, but Ivan was weak-minded and blind, and the Patriarch and the Naryshkins stirred up the populace to elect Natalia’s boy, Peter, a lad of nine. But the victory, though apparently easy, was destined to bear black fruit, for behind Ivan, the idiot, was his clever and daring sister, the Czarevna Sophia, who wanted the throne herself, and supporting her was her clever cousin, Ivan Miloslavsky, and Prince Basil Galitsyn, one of the most enlightened of the young Russian statesmen. And the balance of power seemed to be for the time with the Streltsi, or national guard, the only military organization of Russia, and both parties were intriguing with the soldiers, who, dissatisfied with their officers, their pay in arrears, and some of their hereditary privileges threatened by political changes, were ripe for mischief. Trouble growled deep and loud in the lanes and alleys of Moscow; in the palaces and the hovels of its three towns were whisperings, and terror, and intrigue.

But little I cared for all this, and time hung heavy on my hands, for I had many dull hours, and it was in one of these that I watched the dwarf torment the steward, and found the scene amusing.

I was still pacing the workshop in an idle mood when Michaud, the apprentice, found me.

“Monsieur,” he said, with his air of knowing more than he chose to tell, “two ladies are below, determined to see the master.”

“Of what sort, Michaud?” I asked; “old or young, fair or fat?”

“How can I tell, monsieur,” he replied, with a shrug, “they are hooded as close as an ugly nun.”

I laughed.

“Maître le Bastien shall not have all the fun,” I said; “let them come up, Michaud, and not a word to tell them I am not the master goldsmith.”

He gave me an odd look and went out, and presently I heard his step again on the stairs, and with it the rustle of skirts and the sound of soft laughter.

“So!” I said to myself, “the jest is not all on one side.”

II: THE MINIATURE

MICHAUD opened the door and stood back to admit my visitors, casting another look of intelligence at me. But the two did not enter at once; instead, there was much ado, whispers and suppressed laughter in the hall, one hanging back and one pushing forward, until my curiosity was alive, and I stood waiting with my eyes on the door. At last, with another ripple of laughter, they came in; two slight figures, muffled in the long, straight Russian cloaks, fur-edged, with conical hoods over their heads, their features as completely concealed as any nun’s of Port Royal. Determined to play my rôle of goldsmith to the life, I had hastily picked up a mallet and a bit of beaten gold, and, with these in my hands, I made a becoming obeisance. Both the cloaked figures responded, and here at once I noted a difference between them which no similarity of dress could disguise: the taller of the two inclined her hooded head with the air of a queen, the smaller one nodded at me with a suggestion of infinite good humour. They remained silent,—struck dumb, no doubt, at their own daring,—and we three stood confronting each other without a word. It was evident that the pause might be eternal, and I heard Michaud shuffling his feet outside the door; the rogue was listening. I had learned to speak Russian fairly well and I called it to my aid.

“How can I serve you, madame?” I said, awkwardly enough, I suspect, for the shorter girl tittered, while the taller one silenced her with a gesture, and addressed me in excellent French.

“You are a goldsmith, monsieur,” she said, in a clear voice, her accent sweet rather than harsh. “I would have this locket opened.”

As she spoke she held out a gold locket and chain which she had been hiding under her cloak. A glance told me that it was of great value, and a rare piece of workmanship, encrusted with precious jewels, and shaped like a pear. I took it gingerly, knowing no more of a goldsmith’s trade than an unborn babe, and fairly caught in my own trap. Whether she saw my awkwardness or not, I could not tell, but she drew back a little, seeming to examine me with curious eyes. I suddenly remembered my hands, when I became aware that both girls were looking at them; my signet was on my right hand, and their sharp eyes had discovered it, beyond a doubt; but what of it? They knew nothing of French heraldry—or as little as I knew of them, and I was more anxious than ever to peep under those hoods. Meanwhile, in spite of my busy thoughts, I was trying in vain to find an opening in the trinket. It showed not a crevice, but lay in my hand, a marvellous golden pear, gleaming with rubies and diamonds and sapphires, and with a crest that I could not decipher on its lower end.

“It baffles you, monsieur,” remarked the taller maiden, a trifle coldly.

The perspiration gathered on my brow; what, in the name of the saints, could I do with it? And I was figuring as a master goldsmith with the abominable thing lying sealed in my hand. The smaller nymph began to shake with laughter again under her cloak.

“’Tis magic, Daria,” she said, with the merriest laugh in the world, her hood slipping back enough to disclose the rosy, roguish face of a girl of sixteen or seventeen, with a pair of eyes as blue as the sky.

“I will have it open for all that,” retorted her companion imperiously. “Monsieur, there is a secret spring.”

“Precisely, mademoiselle,” I replied, with a bow, “so secret that ’twill not confide in a stranger.”

At this both laughed a little, but I saw that mademoiselle the imperious was growing impatient, and, in desperation, I turned the locket over and over, and as I did so my eye caught sight of the Russian Imperial arms on the small end of the pear, where a golden clasp represented the stem. In twisting the trinket thus in my fingers I must have pressed a spring, for lo! the pear fell apart and mademoiselle clapped her hands.

“The problem is solved,” she cried, while both of them craned their necks to look at the two pieces.

These already riveted my attention; in one side was a lock of hair and in the other a miniature that no one in Moscow could mistake, flattered though it was. It was the face of the dead Czar’s sister, her serene highness Sophia Alexeievna. There was an exclamation, either of surprise or pleasure, from one of the girls, and as I cast a covert glance at them I discovered that both hoods had been slightly displaced, and I saw the features of the taller of the two. Saint Denis, what a face! Young, beautiful, with the spirit of an empress; the dark eyes, keen and brilliant, the lips and cheeks deeply coloured, the brows sharply defined, the forehead like milk. My glance was so searching and so earnest that mademoiselle looked up and, encountering it, flashed me a look of such hauteur as I had never before seen in the eyes of woman, but she disdained to draw her hood. Meanwhile, the smaller and merrier beauty had given away to delight at the adventure.

“Take out the portrait, monsieur,” she said; “I have one here to put in its stead.”

“Nay,” interposed Mlle. Daria. “I will have none of it, Lissa; the jest has gone too far.”

“Daria, Daria!” cried the other, forgetful of me, “thou art afraid! thou, Daria Kirilovna!”

“I am not!” cried mademoiselle with defiance, tossing her head; “but I despise the trick.”

“Oh, sweetheart, thou——” Lissa broke off under a lightning glance from the dark eyes, for Mlle. Daria had remembered me.

But the merry damsel was not to be silenced; plucking at her companion’s cloak, she drew her off into the corner and whispered, and laughed, and entreated, apparently between jest and earnest, while I pretended to examine the miniature, all the while cudgelling my brains for a solution of this escapade, so rare was it for girls to be out on an adventure in Moscow, and girls too, of rank, for no one could doubt that who looked at them and heard them speak. Meanwhile Daria had been melting under the persuasion of the fair manœuvrer, and she came back slowly across the room, permitting rather than encouraging Lissa, who now took the lead.

“Prithee, monsieur,” she said,—she too, spoke French, though with a strong accent,—“take out that portrait for us and substitute this.” As she held out her hand her companion made a sudden motion as if to snatch the bit of ivory from it, but restrained herself and let Lissa hand me a miniature.

Then I understood mademoiselle’s hesitation, for the face limned on the ivory, more or less faithfully, was her own. Suppressing my surprise, I put it down on a table and began the delicate task of lifting the other miniature from its setting, and a task it was for my awkward fingers. With no knowledge of such baubles, and as little dexterity as a bear, I fully expected to break the picture in pieces, but, as luck would have it, either the ivory was already loose in its setting, or I again hit upon some secret spring, and out fell Sophia, just escaping annihilation by falling on Maître le Bastien’s taffety cloak that lay on the table. But now was the rub, for I had no notion of how I should set mademoiselle’s face in the room where Sophia’s had been, and both girls hung on my movements with breathless interest. I took up the bit of ivory with a gingerly touch and cautiously dropped it into the gaping setting, and lo! success beyond my wildest hopes. It seemed to sink into place, as if by magic, and Mlle. Lissa clapped her hands with delight.

“Good goldsmith!” she cried, beaming upon me. “What a fair exchange!”

“Hush, Vassalissa!” commanded Mlle. Daria; “for shame!”

But Lissa would not be suppressed.

“And is it not?” she cried mischievously. “Ah, bah; what a fright!” and she pointed derisively at Sophia’s portrait. “Come, come, Daria, let us have our frolic while we may!”

“Exactly so, while we may!” retorted Daria grimly; “but afterwards, my dear,” and she smiled a little.

“The deluge,” replied Vassalissa, laughing. “Ah, good master goldsmith, give us the trinket that we may get into the ark.”

But here was the difficulty; I could not fasten the miniature in place, nor could I for the life of me close the locket. The pear was twain and like to be so, as far as I could see, to the end of the world, and Mlle. Daria began to cast suspicious glances at me. I think, for the second time, she doubted that I was a goldsmith.

“Time presses, monsieur,” she said imperiously; “let us have it, as speedily as may be.”

I was red in the face and almost out of temper, but I saw no escape.

“Mademoiselle must leave it with me,” I replied as blandly as I could; “it will take time to secure the portrait and reclasp the locket.”

“Impossible!” said Daria; “we must have it now, monsieur; the matter is imperative.”

I saw that she was uneasy, and I thought that Vassalissa was a little alarmed; both girls pressed forward eagerly.

“We must have it!” they protested.

I took the bull by the horns. “Certainly, mademoiselle,” I said with a bow, “but it will not be completed or fastened,” and I held out the two pieces of that ill-starred pear with a malicious smile.

They looked at each other and at me for a moment with blank faces, and then they broke out with irresistible, delicious, rippling laughter.

“What on earth shall we do?” cried Vassalissa; “the deluge and no ark! Monsieur, we have a fable that when the Evil One, in the form of a mouse, gnawed a hole in the ark, Uzh, the snake, saved the ship by thrusting his head into the place. Find us a snake therefore, good goldsmith, or our ark will surely sink. Mend us the pear, or——”

“Pshaw!” interrupted Mlle. Daria, with an imperious gesture, “what difference? I care not a straw! Finish it, monsieur, and send it to me at your leisure.”

“Daria!” sharply ejaculated her smaller companion, suddenly grown cautious.

And Daria bit her lip and turned crimson.

“Mademoiselle may trust me,” I said, drawing myself up to my full height, which compelled them both to look up at me.

She gave me a swift, penetrating glance, and her face, by nature haughty, suddenly relaxed and a smile, like sunshine, shone on it.

“I do, monsieur,” she said, with her queenly air. “You will send the locket, by a safe hand, to the house of the Prince Voronin, to be delivered only to me—the Princess Daria.”

Her companion fairly gasped, her blue eyes big with amazement, at mademoiselle’s daring.

“I will bring it with my own hand,” I said, with a profound bow.

And, as I spoke, there was a sharp knock at the door. Vassalissa started with a little shriek of nervous excitement, but Daria laughed.

“’Tis old Piotr,” she said.

As she spoke, the door opened and a tall, grey-haired Russian, wearing the dress of a boyar’s retainer, stood on the threshold.

“We have been here too long, little mistress,” he said in Russ, respectful, but impatient; “’tis neither safe nor wise.”

“Bear with us, Piotr,” said his mistress graciously; “’tis but a half hour under a whole moon; may not the children play?”

He shook his head, glancing with evident affection at the tall, girlish figure.

“Time waits for no man, Daria Kirilovna,” he said gravely, “and the morning is wiser than the evening.”[A]

“I come, I come!” she retorted, and with a gesture of farewell to me, she left the room, followed by Lissa, who cast a mischievous smile at me, and a doubtful glance at the trinket in my hands as she went out.

III: THE BOYAR KURAKIN

LEFT alone with the trinket, I forgot it in my meditation on the two girls, or rather, if the truth be told, on the one—the Princess Daria. Such beauty, such spirit, such dignity; the combination was rare, and in a Russian, brought up no doubt under the iron rule of some old Russian dragon of propriety, it was little short of a miracle. How came this perfect flower to bloom in a waste of snow? And how came she and the merry one on this strange expedition? There was some mischief afoot, but I could not fathom it, cudgel my brains as I would. They both seemed too young and too artless to be engaged in any very profound intrigue, and yet the portrait of the czarevna was an unusual possession to cast lightly and publicly aside; publicly, I say, because I was a stranger to them and might be, for all they knew, quite unworthy of trust. And how did they escape the vigilant watchfulness of a Russian household, where the women were kept in almost Oriental seclusion? It was true that the Czar Alexis the Débonair had modified the customs of the court in this respect, by the freedom he had allowed his young wife, Natalia Naryshkin, the mother of the newly elected Czar Peter. Yet it was undoubtedly an escapade for two Russian girls to visit the workshop of a stranger and a Frenchman, for the nation had no love for the French, and indeed a deep distrust of all foreigners.

But what of it, after all? I reflected, was it not better to remember the two pretty faces, the slender hands, the soft voices, the ripple of merry laughter? Saint Denis! ’twas worth something to have seen them! And I would see them again unless Jéhan de Cernay had assumed a coat of quite another colour from the one he had worn in France. As for Daria, she might well be a princess; she looked it, and no queen was ever more worthy a crown.

How she had graced even Maître le Bastien’s workshop, and transformed the old room into an enchanted palace! I looked about it now with a shrug; since she had left it, it had returned to its usual aspect, and was a workshop again and no more.

The house that Prince Galitsyn had given to Maître le Bastien stood in the Kitai-gorod, with the bazaars on one side, humming with life, like so many beehives, and on the other the palaces of the boyars, the official nobility of Moscow; and yonder were the golden domes and minarets of the Kremlin. The house itself was much like the others in Moscow—built of logs, the interstices stuffed with tow, and the roof also of wood; it was no marvel that there had been great fires, leaping from town to town, within the walls, and carrying terror and destruction with smoke and flame. Underground we had cellars for storing liquors and ice; and above these, on the ground floor, were the kitchen, refectory, and offices, while on the second floor were always the living rooms; the Chamber of the Cross, or private chapel, being in the centre, and a narrow stair led to the apartments above, usually set aside for the women, in a separate story of the house, and called the terem.

It was on the second floor that Maître le Bastien had his workshop, in a long room that had served as a nursery and playroom for the children of the Russian family who had previously occupied the dwelling. The windows faced north, and the room was well lighted and spacious, but very different from the goldsmith’s famous workshop on the Pont-au-Change, where all the lovers of his art in Paris flocked. I have seen Louvois there, and Luxemburg himself, with his hump and his pale face, and Monseigneur, dull and pompous, and the little Duchess of Burgundy with Mme. de Maintenon, then called the widow of Scarron, and the court ladies, Mme. de Mazarin and Mme. de Richelieu, and hundreds of others, and sometimes the great king himself. It was Le Bastien who made the famous bracelet for Mme. de Montespan, and Le Bastien who designed the great candelabra for the king’s table. It was the silver vase that he had made for Louis that he was to copy now for Prince Galitsyn to give, so it was whispered, to the Czarevna Sophia, she whose portrait lay on the folds of the old taffety cloak. The goldsmith had received other orders in Moscow, and had been making some models, too, that he purposed carrying back to France, so the workshop was not without its objects of interest, though bare enough compared with the marvels of that room on the Pont-au-Change.

Here in one corner was a candelabrum that was nearly finished for the Czar Feodor, when his majesty died so suddenly. It was a graceful piece, a full cubit in height, the figure of Hecate bearing a torch; it was to have been in solid silver, ornamented with gold. Near it was a bracelet of Russian amethysts, set in a design of clusters of grapes, the leaves of gold, studded with emeralds—so closely that they sparkled with green. Beyond was a salt-cellar, undertaken also for Prince Galitsyn, a shell upheld by two mermaids—in gold; but the most conspicuous object was the great vase, three cubits in height, of silver, with bas-reliefs of gold; on one side Venus and Mars, on the other Pluto and Persephone, and below a group of sirens formed the pedestal, their uplifted arms holding the vase, while around the top of it—which opened like the petals of a flower—was a marvellously fine design of Cupids at play. Though it was before my eyes all day, I often examined it and watched the work grow under the master’s skilful fingers, and I doubt not I should have been staring at it when Maître le Bastien returned, if it had not been for the fascination of that jewelled pear that I could not put out of my mind. And I was back at the table again, with the thing in my fingers, when the goldsmith entered the room.

Le Bastien was a man past middle age, with a noble head and fine face, which wore habitually an expression of calm reflection worthy a great philosopher. The man was indeed an artist and a sculptor of no mean order, who yet carried on his trade of goldsmith, and was reported rich in Paris. His dress became his reputation, being rich though simple in style, of dark velvet with rare lace at his throat and wrists, and a chain of gold about his neck, a marvel of his own workmanship, and I noticed that he wore on it to-day the icon that Prince Galitsyn had given him. He entered with his usual dignified and composed demeanour, greeting me pleasantly.

“I fear you have had a dull day, M. le Marquis,” he said, with his accustomed formality, for in private he always gave me my title, though in public I was “Raoul,” the apprentice; I think it would have hurt the good man to infringe on a single rule of courtesy, even in the privacy of his own closet.

“Far from it, Maître le Bastien,” I replied with a smile; “I have been receiving your fair visitors, and hold here a hostage for their return,” and I held up the pear.

The goldsmith looked at me in some surprise, and taking the locket turned it over in his hand, examining it curiously.

“Whence came this, monsieur?” he inquired, with evident interest, “and what is this talk of fair visitors? We are not on the Pont-au-Change.”

I laughed, enjoying his sober perplexity.

“No,” I responded, “but not even on the Pont-au-Change did you ever have a fairer visitor, and a princess at that,” and I proceeded to relate my experience with a relish for the surprise that I knew I was giving him.

But all the while, he was examining the pear with the minute attention of an expert, and when I was done, he closed it with an ease that made me envy his skill in a trade that, if the truth be told, I held rather in contempt.

“Ma foi!” I exclaimed, “I would have been happy to have done that an hour ago; you know the trick of it by instinct.”

He shook his head, smiling. “I have seen it before,” he said quietly; “a good piece of workmanship, monsieur, and Italian in origin.”

It was now my turn to be surprised, and I knew he enjoyed turning the tables upon me.

“Perhaps you can give me its history,” I said drily.

“No, no, M. le Marquis,” he replied, laughing a little at my vexation. “I only know that I have seen it, and handled it in the palace of the Prince Galitsyn; he usually wears it around his neck.”

“Ah,” I exclaimed, “with the portrait of Sophia in it,” and I pointed to the miniature lying on the folds of Maître le Bastien’s cloak.

The good man snatched it up in some anxiety, examining the ivory closely for cracks or defacements.

“I suppose the Czar Feodor planned to marry his fat sister to the prince,” I remarked.

Le Bastien smiled. “It is considered beneath the imperial dignity to marry a daughter or a sister of a czar to a subject,” he said, “and, as foreign princes—with two exceptions—have not sought Russian wives, there are quite a number of single czarevnas.”

“Old maids must be thicker than ravens about the Kremlin,” I rejoined, still watching him as he examined Sophia’s picture.

“There are only twelve of them in the imperial family at present,” he replied, and laughed a little, as he put the miniature carefully away; “there are only twelve,” he continued, “and this one is more of a man than a woman; her appeal to the populace at the Czar Feodor’s funeral, the other day, has raised the very devil among the lower classes, and ’tis rumoured to-day that she has won over twenty-one regiments of the Streltsi to the Miloslavskys; only one is faithful to the little czar. Mischief is afoot, M. le Marquis; I hear the growl of the mob in the Zemlianui-gorod; I see trouble brewing even among the palace guards, and the Czarina Natalia is losing her nerve. The Naryshkins have snatched all the offices of state, and they are young and untried and unfit to meet the crisis.”

Le Bastien went to the window and looked out, the golden pear still closed in his hands.

“Hush!” he said; “what is that?”

We listened and heard, far off, shouting and beating of drums.

“The yelp of the canaille,” he said scornfully. “I hear that the Streltsi demand that some of their colonels shall be sent to Siberia, and others receive the pravezh. Trouble, monsieur, trouble of a bloody kind; I predict it, and I trust,” he added suddenly, looking at the trinket on his palm, “that this bauble has nothing to do with it.”

“Nonsense!” I ejaculated, with a shrug; “the frolic of two girls, monsieur, nothing more.”

But he shook his head. “I know a little of the Prince Voronin,” he said; “he is on the side of the Naryshkins, and a man of much prominence, belonging to one of the oldest——”

He got no farther, for the door was opened without ceremony and a tall Russian stood on the threshold. The stranger’s dress, which was long and girded at the waist, was of deep crimson, brocaded in gold, and was edged with sable, to match the bands on the high round cap on his head. He was a young man and handsome, in a fierce way, as a tiger is handsome. His complexion had the tints of ivory and his eyes were brilliant and unpleasantly alert. Maître le Bastien knew him, and greeted him as a person of rank, while I suddenly endeavoured to remember my rôle of apprentice.

“I come unexpectedly, master goldsmith,” the stranger said, in Russ, “but I was curious to see your work.”

“The Boyar Kurakin is welcome always,” Maître le Bastien replied, with dignified courtesy, “and he may inspect my designs and my completed work at his leisure.”

So it was our neighbour, whom I had never happened to see, for he had been absent from Moscow until very recently. I regarded him therefore with some interest. He walked over to the large silver vase at once, and stood apparently contemplating it, while the goldsmith pointed out its beauties and explained the bas-reliefs, but I noticed that M. Kurakin’s sharp eyes had wandered from the vase to the golden pear that Le Bastien still held in his hand, and I began to regret my stupidity in allowing it to remain in sight.

“This design of the cupids,” said the master placidly, pointing to the top of the vase, “is precisely like the one on the vase I made for his majesty the King of France; but here,” and he indicated the bas-relief of Venus and Mars, “I have varied the pattern a little to the satisfaction of his excellency Prince Galitsyn.”

The Russian did not reply, he was too much engaged in staring at that fateful pear, so much so indeed, that the goldsmith suddenly became aware of it and let that hand fall at his side.

“Would you care to see my wax model of Diana, M. Kurakin?” he asked blandly.

“Surely,” replied the boyar, with interest that was either genuine or extremely well feigned; “your work pleases me so well that I think I must have a piece of it for my palace,” he added, suave as silk, showing his white teeth, that reminded me strangely of the fangs of a wolf, handsome as he was.

“Raoul, is not the Diana in the other room?” asked Maître le Bastien, suddenly turning to me, and, as he did so, he swiftly and silently slipped the pear into my hand with a significant glance.

“It is, monsieur,” I said, with the air of an apprentice, infinitely relieved at his adroit manœuvre, and thinking, fool that I was, that those keen eyes had not seen the locket change hands.

The master went on calmly discoursing about the vase, and I slipped out of the room and ordered Michaud to take in the model of Diana, a graceful figure, in wax, worthy of Le Bastien’s genius.

Having got rid of the matter, as I thought, so easily, I walked into the Chamber of the Cross, which, as I have said, was in the centre of the house, and there I fell to examining my treasure with the greedy interest of the miser. I was convinced now that there was some mystery attached to that pear of gold and jewels, and turned it over and over in my hands. Then I was seized with a mad desire to get it open and look again at the pictured face of the Princess Daria, for, truth to say, that face had already begun to haunt me. But the tormenting trinket, shut by Maître le Bastien, would not open, nor could I find the secret spring, and I was still trifling with it, when I became suddenly aware that the curtain opposite the shrine was moving and, in an instant, the Boyar Kurakin walked in alone. I thrust the pear into my bosom, but I was certain that he had seen the gleam of gold and of jewels. If I had had any doubt of it, his next move dispelled it, for he pounced upon me as eager as a tiger after his prey.

“Give me that locket, sirrah!” he said fiercely; he took me for an apprentice.

I was within a hair’s-breadth of giving him a sharp retort when I remembered my rôle, with a certain malicious enjoyment. I shook my head stupidly, pretending not to understand Russ, and he had not a word of French. He flew into a passion and used some hard language, and then tried by signs to make me understand. I think he did not relish the idea of laying hands on me, for I was a larger man than he and scarcely wore the air of a tame pigeon. But I shook my head again and chattered French at him in the tone of one of the monkeys in the bazaar.

“Give me the locket, varlet,” he bellowed, striding toward me, his whole aspect full of a belligerence that made my fingers tingle for the moment of conflict.

We were now in the corner of the room by a door that stood open at the top of a flight of steep stairs, and suddenly I bethought me of a way to punish my friend. I turned upon him so sharply that he started back, expecting violence, no doubt, and, as I had planned, he tripped on the step behind him, rolled over, and fell head over heels, down the stairs.

IV: THE MAKING OF A FRIEND

THE stairs down which the Boyar Kurakin fell were entirely dark, and I could not see what was happening, so I was the more surprised to hear, on top of the crash of his fall, a woman’s shrill screams, a man’s curses, and the sound of a scrimmage down there in the dark. I snatched up a taper and, lighting it, held it high over my head, and was looking down the stairs when Maître le Bastien and Michaud hurried in, summoned by the outcry, and running to me, peeped under my uplifted arm into the abyss below. Then it was that we were all convulsed with a merriment that Le Bastien and I smothered for caution’s sake, but Michaud, the apprentice, knowing no reason for prudence, gave way to, and doubled up and rocked with laughter, holding his sides, for the light of my taper revealed a ridiculous scene. We had in our employ, as cook, an enormously fat old Russian woman named Advotia, and it was evident that she had either been listening—after the fashion of servants—at the foot of the stair, or had started up with a skillet of soup, when M. Kurakin started down on his unceremonious trip, and the result was that the hot soup had been spilled on both, and the infuriated boyar, whose fall had been broken by her mountain of flesh, was so little grateful that he had evidently punched her head, and she, in her turn, enraged at the double injury, fell to beating him with her skillet, and the two were dancing about on the stairs, showering blows and curses upon each other, while the savoury odor of the wasted broth rose to our nostrils.

Maître le Bastien was the first to recover from his amusement and recognise the serious side of the scene, and he called out to Advotia to go about her business, while he begged M. Kurakin to ascend and permit him to attend to his hurts in a suitable manner. But the boyar was in no mood for apologies and, having shaken his fist in Advotia’s face, he came up the stairs, cursing at every step, and accused me of throwing him down, while I bowed and smiled blandly, making signs that the fall was due to his own misfortune, and Maître le Bastien, quick at taking a cue, apologised for me and declared that I was a good fellow, quite incapable of such villainy. Kurakin was far from convinced of my goodness, but for some reason it suited him to conceal from Le Bastien his attempt to get the pear, and he contented himself with a scowl at me that was equal to a threat, and a few curt remarks to the goldsmith.

“Your servants, sir, male and female, are only fit for the gallows,” he said fiercely, “and the sooner they hang the better. Such a varlet as that big ruffian of yours would get the pravezh here!”

“You do not know his good qualities, monsieur,” said my master suavely; “he has been a faithful servant to me. Your misstep was distressing, but it might have had even worse consequences, for the stairs are steep.”

“Yes, it might have broken my neck,” replied the boyar, casting a dark look at his host, “but for that fat beast at the bottom.”

“Exactly,” said Maître le Bastien; “so, after all, she served a good purpose in breaking your excellency’s fall.”

But Kurakin would not be appeased; he had been balked, and he knew it; but we were too many for one, and he took himself off, with such ill-concealed rage and malice that I saw that the goldsmith was uneasy. When he was gone, and I had related the whole incident and began to laugh at it, Maître le Bastien held up his hand.

“He laughs longest who laughs last,” he said gravely. “Have a care, M. le Marquis; these Russians are fiery creatures, and this man has all the fierce pride of his class. ’Tis as I feared; there is some mystery behind that bauble, and, please the saints, I’ll get it out of my house as soon as I may; therefore give it to me, monsieur, and let me secure the miniature and return it to this princess of yours.”

Willing enough to hasten the chance of seeing the beauty again, I gave him the locket with alacrity, and he lost no time in going to work at it. But it proved a more delicate task than he had expected, and it was well on into the evening before it was completed and far too late to return it to the palace of Prince Voronin. So we had an opportunity to discuss the matter again at supper, and the master told me the little he knew of the prince and of the Boyar Kurakin.

“Voronin belongs to the oldest and proudest class of the nobility, and was deeply offended, as they all were, at the Czar Feodor for burning the Books of Precedence,” Le Bastien said, while we were eating a stew of sterlet, the famous fish of the Volga. “All these men were firmly established by these very books; the recorded deeds of their illustrious ancestors and their rank on those singular pages decided their own position in the state. No man would take a lower place than that of his ancestors, and Dr. Von Gaden, the court physician, tells me that many a campaign has been lost because of this fierce scramble for place. When Feodor, therefore, weary of choosing a fool for a servant because his father had been wise, burned these books, he insulted the old aristocracy, and they all hate his memory and his mother’s family, the Miloslavskys, as they hate the devil, and are ready to uphold little Peter and the Naryshkins. It is only those who are identified by interests of some kind with the Miloslavskys—like Prince Galitsyn—who uphold the cause of the Czarevitch Ivan. Kurakin is one of these; he was mixed up in all the intrigues of the late czar’s reign, and he is Miloslavsky to the backbone. Here, then, is the probable key to the situation; the Voronins are Naryshkins, Kurakin and Galitsyn are Miloslavskys, and this trinket has some mysterious importance.”

But quite another thought was clouding my horizon.

“And the Princess Daria,” I said; “is she the wife, or the daughter, of Prince Voronin?”

Maître le Bastien’s eyes twinkled and he shook a warning finger at me.

“Have a care, monsieur,” he said; “she is the prince’s only child,—and heiress,—and I doubt not there is some intrigue afoot.”

“I grow interested,” I said gaily. “I must solve the problem.”

“The saints forbid!” exclaimed the goldsmith piously; “you are already in trouble enough, M. le Marquis; do not, therefore, thrust your hand into a hornet’s nest.”

I laughed, with no thought of following this prudent advice; instead, I lay awake half the night, puzzling over the trinket, and when I finally fell asleep, it was to dream—hothead that I was—of the most beautiful face in the world, the face of the Princess Daria.

Next morning, as soon as we had finished breakfast, I prepared to set out for the palace of Prince Voronin, to return the locket to the princess of my dreams.

I remember well—as if it had been yesterday—the pains I took with my toilet, and how hard I stared at myself in the mirror that Maître le Bastien had brought from Paris. Yet I was no longer a callow youth to have my head turned by such folly; it only goes to show what a fool a man can be over a beautiful face. But if I hoped for satisfaction in my own image, I got but little. I saw in Le Bastien’s mirror a tall man with wide shoulders and long, strong arms, but I was not handsome, and I sighed at the contrast between my irregular features and my bold, blue eyes, and M. Kurakin’s classical beauty. I had a scar, too, on my forehead from a sword cut at Seneffe, and my chestnut hair, which I wore without a peruke, was beginning to show threads of silver, and I had the air of a fighter and no courtier, though I was well enough born and bred, too, for that matter, but I was no fop. My dress, too, had to suit my supposed condition, and being simple and even shabby in the matter of a blue taffety coat, did not set off either my face or figure, and I confess that—longing for the first time to pose as a squire of dames—I was in no very good humour either with myself or the world when I set out at last with the pear in the bosom of my doublet, and some directions from Maître le Bastien in my ears. Moreover, to add to my discomfiture, he had called after me, with a twinkle in his eye, that no man would be allowed to visit the terem of Voronin’s palace, and I had best ask for old Piotr, the steward, at once and trust my errand to him. I shrugged my shoulders and tossed back a defiance, but I was far from feeling sanguine myself, as I left our quarters and began to thread the narrow lanes between them and the prince’s palace, which stood much nearer the banks of the Moskva.

As I left the bazaars behind me the streets seemed unusually quiet, and I had traversed perhaps a hundred yards and turned into a lonely lane, flanked on either side by the rear walls of two old houses, when I heard a shrill squeal of agony, so intense and so piercing that it seemed scarcely human, and followed by a silence as ominous. I stopped to listen and heard a shutter open on my right and close again; evidently some woman had peeped out to see what it was, but she would venture no more, and the stillness awakened my suspicions. What mischief was afoot now? I loosened my sword in its scabbard and felt for my pistol, and advancing quickly, I peered under the edge of a low vaulted gateway. It opened into the garden of a vacant house to the left; the yard was nearly choked with weeds—nearly, not quite—in the centre there was an open space, and in it I saw a burly fellow, red-headed and red-bearded, crushing some creature, child or beast, I knew not, under his knee. As I advanced my footsteps struck an echo from the stone pavement at the gateway and the man looked over his shoulder. It was my acquaintance, Kurakin’s steward, and, in a flash, it dawned on me that he was taking his vengeance on the unhappy dwarf. The next moment I had the great brute by the collar and put my pistol to his head, and he, recoiling as far as he could, let his victim fall on the pavement. With a kick and the threat of the pistol I got the big fellow to his feet; it was in my mind to make an end of him, but he was too contemptible.

“Get out!” I said to him in Russ; “be off to your kennel or——” I flourished my weapon.

He cursed me, his great bloated face purple and his eyes like blood, but he dared not linger, for he read that in my glance which cowed him. He slunk off like the coward he was, and then I looked at the dwarf, who lay in a heap on the ground, and marvelled that a creature so tiny could have resisted him a moment. The poor little wretch was stripped almost naked and had been lashed until he was covered with blood. A bloody thong lay near to tell the tale, and his throat had two purple marks on it where the steward’s fingers had been pressing the breath out of his body. Yet, nearly spent as he was, he crawled to my feet and fell to mumbling over them and kissing them, until it turned my stomach.

“Up, you little rogue,” I said bluntly, “and go home; ’tis your monkey tricks that have brought you to this. Learn a lesson, and leave such brutes alone.”

But he was not to be drawn off so easily; he clung to my knees, begging to serve me, vowing fidelity to death, and such an abject picture of misery and gratitude that I had not the heart to send him away. Indeed, he was afraid to venture two yards from my feet, and, as he was too weak to travel far, I was in a pleasant dilemma. The prospect of taking such a follower to the Voronin palace was certainly worse than the wearing of the old taffety jacket.

“What is your name, varlet, and your home?” I asked with impatience, and yet a little amused.

“My name is Maluta, excellency,” he said, kissing my shoes for the fiftieth time, “and my home is your home.”

“Holy Virgin!” I ejaculated, somewhat aghast, and then I laughed, too heartily amused to be vexed: here, certainly, was an acquisition to our household.

But it turned out no jest, and, try as I would, I could not shake the little wretch off, and was forced, at last, to convoy him back to our quarters and order Advotia to dress his wounds, while Maître le Bastien promised to keep him close until my return from my errand, laughing all the while at my adventure, as if at the richest joke in the world. So, by a strange intervention of fate, I was the patron of a miserable little dwarf and I had a mortal enemy in the kitchen next door; besides I was an hour late on my errand to the Princess Daria.

V: THE PRINCESS DARIA

AS I approached the palace of the Prince Voronin I entered a street which gave me a view of the open space beyond, where the Iberian Chapel stood, overlooking the Red Place, and farther off were the white buildings of the Kremlin, bathed in sunlight, their roofs of scarlet and green and blue, and their crosses of gold, glowing and flashing like so many stars at noonday. I caught, too, a gleam of the Moskva, and heard again the hum of busy life, for there was a throng of people in the Red Place. But my business was nearer at hand, and after one glance at the scene before me, I turned to the right and here, set in the midst of some peasant huts, I saw the Voronin palace, white—like the buildings of the Kremlin—with a green roof, and a golden cupola over the upper story, which I took, and rightly, for the terem. The main building was solid and massive, and nearly square, and there was a wing at one side, opening on to a high walled court, while behind this wing was the garden, which was beginning to show the promise of summer.

Instinct, and some observation of Russian customs, directed me, not to the main entrance, but to a low door in the wing, and here I knocked boldly, while I looked about the court with sharp eyes. Once out of the street, I heard none of its noises; and the quiet atmosphere of the place impressed me: there was not even the usual clatter and bustle in the kitchen, and while I waited a drosky drove up to the main entrance and a young man jumped out of it and was immediately admitted. I confess I was little pleased with his youthful and well-dressed appearance, for he had the air of a courtier, and I was on the point of going to the front of the house myself when the door behind me was softly opened. A serf looked out, staring at me in no very friendly fashion, and taking in every detail of my “German clothes,” as they called the European dress, and he almost closed the door again while he listened to my request to see the Princess Daria. Indeed, if I had asked for a piece of the moon he could not have looked more amazed, and, instead of answering me, he called loudly to someone within, and another serf came to stare, and then another and another, until the door was full of faces and all eyes fixed upon me, much as I have seen a rabble of Paris stare at a dancing bear.

“What ails you, you gaping fools?” I asked, losing all patience. “Do you not hear my errand? I come at the request of the Princess Voronin, and I bring her a packet of grave importance.”

But this only made them stare the more, and the door being full, the adjacent windows began to bulge with heads, and the entire service of the kitchen gaped and chattered and pointed. I grew red in the face and felt my anger rising; it seemed as if some of those heads must be broken before any impression could be made, and I was in the mood to break them.

“Fools!” I said; “do you serve your mistress so ill that you cannot take her a message?”

At this, a titter arose in the background, started by some kitchen wench, and her mirth proved infectious, every face widening into a grin until, at last, they broke into loud and mocking laughter. My own face burned and I felt myself paid—and in my own coin—for my trick upon Kurakin, nor did I know what to do; among so many, my anger was but impotent folly, and my appearance, in my shabby attire, did not impress their vulgar eyes, for the canaille are likely to judge you by your clothes. I stood scowling at them, of two minds whether to turn on my heel or not, and leave them to their jest and the princess without her trinket—for I know of no swifter cure for a moonstruck gallant than ridicule—when the course of events was suddenly changed. A lattice over my head opened and a young girl peeped down at the group, and as I looked up I recognised the companion of the princess, Mlle. Lissa. She, as roguish as ever, began to laugh too, her blue eyes dancing with mischief, but, at the same time, she spoke sharply to the servants, and in a moment all merriment subsided and they huddled together in shame-faced confusion, eyeing me askance, while she vanished and old Piotr appeared below. It required only a word from the grey-haired major-domo to send the rabble of the kitchen skurrying to their quarters, and then he received me respectfully, but I thought there was a deep suspicion in his eye, while he listened to my request to see the Princess Daria.

“Her excellency has commanded me to admit you,” he said, however, and signing to me to follow him, he led me across a wide hall to a flight of stairs and began to ascend them with a measured tread.

The old man was dignified, with the deliberate movements so characteristic of the Muscovite; he held his grey head high, and his erect, muscular figure was clad in a long caftan of scarlet cloth, a chain of gold around his neck, and a dagger worn in his belt, and his whole aspect was perfectly in keeping with the part he played, of faithful retainer and steward in the house of a great noble. He did not address a word to me as we ascended the stairs and he led me on, as silently, through a gallery to another staircase which we also ascended, and then he opened a door and ushered me into a large apartment, where he bade me await the pleasure of his mistress, much as he would have bidden me await the coming of an empress, and bowing gravely, he left me to my own reflections. Being sure that I was now in the terem of a great boyar’s palace, I looked about me with much curiosity. I fancied, with truth, that no foreigner had ever been introduced there before and I was, therefore, the more interested. The room was large and Oriental in aspect; arches of Eastern design supported the vaulted roof, and the floor was covered with Turkish rugs and the lounges cushioned with glowing silks from the bazaars. On the wall opposite was one of the inevitable sacred pictures; this time, Saint Olga, and one deep recessed window lighted the apartment, looking out over the Moskva at the red battlemented wall of the Kremlin, and its palaces and cathedrals, and beyond—so high was this upper story—I caught a glimpse of the sweep of the plain and the Hill of Prostration, where the devout kneel at the sight of the “holy white mother city.”

I waited with some impatience, listening for the sound of a footstep, but for a while the house was singularly silent. Presently, however, I was startled by the soft notes of some instrument, for I knew that, in the strict Muscovite household, music among the women was discouraged. But here was a stringed instrument, and then a woman’s voice, singularly sweet and mellow, began to sing in Russ, and I listened attentively, not only because of the unusual words of the little ballad, but because the voice seemed to me to belong to the princess herself.

“‘If the frost nipped the flowerets no more,’”

sang the unseen musician:

“‘If in winter the flowerets would bloom,

If the woes of my spirit were o’er,

My spirit would cast off its gloom,—

I would sit with my sorrow no longer

O’erwatching the dew-covered field.’”

The singer’s voice rose and fell, plaintive and sweet, and then she played a few more chords before she continued:

“‘I said to my father already,

Already I said to my taper,—

“Nay! marry me not, O my father!

O marry me not to the proud one!

O seek not for high piles of riches;

O seek not for palaces fair,

’Tis man, not his palace, we dwell in;

’Tis comfort, not riches, we need!”—

I hurried across the young grass;

I threw off my sable fur cloak,

Lest its buttons of metal might tinkle—

Afraid my stepfather would hear me

And say “she is there,” to his son—

To his son who is doomed for my husband!’”

Again her voice sank and her hands must have strayed over her instrument. I had forgotten my impatience and stood listening in rapt attention, when she began again with the little refrain:

“‘If the frost nipped the flowerets no more,

If in winter the——’”

She got no farther; her song stopped sharply and then I heard a ripple of laughter and much whispering, followed by the rustling of skirts in the room beyond. Then the curtain between was lifted by an old Russian woman, who held it respectfully aside, and the Princess Daria entered. I had only seen her, cloaked and hooded, in Maître le Bastien’s workshop, and was almost unprepared for the vision that broke upon me, as she walked slowly across the room and, pausing in the broad light of the window, turned her face toward me and calmly waited for me to speak. She was tall, with a girlish slenderness of figure, and the dignity and poise of a young queen. The beauty of her features, which I had already seen, was greatly enhanced by her colouring, for her complexion was almost dazzlingly fair, and her hair as black and glossy as a raven’s wing. To my satisfaction, too, she wore no paint, which was unusual, as the Russian women painted not only their faces, but their hands and arms, and even coloured their eyelashes, but she was beautiful as nature made her. Her costume, too, singular as it was to my eyes, only added to her charms; it was a flowing, ungirdled robe of some clinging white material, embroidered in gold around the edge of the hem at her feet, and in a broad band around the half low neck; and on either bare, round, white arm, as well as about her throat, were plain bands of dull gold.

She stood looking at me with great composure, her penetrating glance apparently taking in every detail of my appearance, and to add to my embarrassment, I became aware of Lissa’s roguish face peeping out from behind the shoulder of the old duenna, who stood patiently in the doorway. However, I made my obeisance as gracefully as I could, and drawing forth the packet, which contained the pear. I presented it, along with the picture of the Czarevna Sophia, which Maître le Bastien had been careful to return. The princess received the package with dignified complacence, but at the sight of the miniature she turned crimson, looking for all the world like a naughty child caught in some mischief. Seeing her confusion, and determined to prolong the interview to the fullest extent, I bethought me of something more to say.

“Let me warn the princess,” I said courteously, “that there seems to be a peculiar interest attached to that locket, and that it was seen while in the hands of Maître le Bastien.”

She gave me a startled look, in which alarm and displeasure were mingled.

“And by whom, sir?” she asked haughtily.

“By the Boyar Kurakin,” I replied.

She blushed yet more deeply and bit her lip, while I heard a little smothered scream of laughter from the direction of the doorway.

“I trusted it to you,” said the Princess Daria coldly. “It was your fault that my confidence was betrayed.”

“It was purely accidental, mademoiselle,” I replied, and went on hastily to explain how Kurakin had forced himself into the house, pushing Michaud, who understood no Russ, out of his way and entering the shop unannounced. Then I told her briefly of his effort to get the locket from me.

“But he failed, princess,” I continued suavely, “because, at the moment when he thought to snatch it from me, he tripped and fell down the stairs on top of our fat old cook, Advotia, who beat him with a skillet of soup, so that the noble gentleman not only lost the locket, but was baptized in good broth.”

She had listened with an effort at dignified reserve, but at this conclusion to my narrative she began to laugh a little, and at the sound of the merriment behind the portière, she, too, gave way to hers, and laughed as gaily as Lissa; the duenna meanwhile—to whom my French was as so much Greek—looked from one to the other in puzzled silence, her black eyes keenly alert and her wrinkled face as grave as a judge’s.

“I am sorry you lost your soup, monsieur,” said the princess, still laughing softly, “and for me, too!”

“I would lose much more—and peril much—for the sake of the Princess Daria,” I replied gallantly, forgetting my rôle of apprentice.

She flashed a quick look at me and blushed and smiled, for, with all her hauteur, she seemed to have the simplicity of a child. But the chaperon was not so well pleased, and she made a cautious movement of warning, touching the princess’ robe, and the young girl, blushing still more deeply, recollected her dignity, and taking a purse from the old woman’s hand, she turned to pay for the locket. This part of the transaction had never entered my thoughts, and as it flashed upon me my face burned, and I motioned the money away; retreating toward the door. It was now her turn to be embarrassed; she drew back the purse and looked at me, a picture of pretty confusion.

“But, monsieur,” she said, “cannot take the work as a gift. I must pay for the locket.”

“There is nothing to pay,” I retorted brusquely, as red as fire; “the labour was nothing.”

“But there was the soup, monsieur,” she said, a mischievous gleam in her eyes.

“That went to M. Kurakin,” I replied with a bow, and I took another step toward the door.

She stood irresolute, looking at me and fingering the bracelet on her arm, and I know not how long might have lingered, for she was good to look upon, when suddenly she snapped the circlet and it fell apart in her fingers. She looked at it with a little cry of surprise, and then held it out to me, with the prettiest gesture of friendliness.

“Will you not mend it for me, sir?” she said, with her head on one side, a smile lurking in her eyes.

“With pleasure, my princess,” I replied, bowing profoundly, and as I took the bracelet I managed to kiss the fair hand that gave it.

And then the duenna hustled me suddenly out of the terem, for if she knew no French, she understood looks and gestures only too well—the old ferret—and she shook her staff at me from the head of the stairs as I descended. She stood there looking, for all the world, like an angry hen, clucking away at me in Russ, at the top of her lungs, until old Piotr took me in charge and, in his turn, hurried me out of the house. Evidently, the pair of them regarded me as a dangerous intruder in their dove-cote.

VI: THE DWARF

ONCE more in the court-yard, I stopped to laugh, for the anger and trepidation of the two guardians of the household furnished me with no little entertainment. I was in a good humour, too, for I had seen my divinity and had even kissed her soft white hand; a proceeding which caused her no little amazement, for I had seen her surprise in her eyes, and the blood had stolen up to her hair, but I flattered myself that she was not altogether angry, for I felt sure she was amused at the old woman’s excitement over the little episode. I glanced back now over the house, hoping to catch another glimpse of its fair mistress, but was disappointed. Piotr’s discipline had served to keep the serfs from gaping at me again, and the upper windows were vacant, save for a solitary raven that perched upon one sill and craned his neck as if to look down at me. The sun shone intensely on the white walls of the palace, and the shadows were clean cut and black where they fell in the niches of the building, and above the sky was blue. The bells of the Kremlin churches began to ring sweetly, the clear-toned notes floating away in the distance, and the air was soft as spring in the south.

I walked slowly to the gates and stood a moment looking out into the street, and it was while I lingered thus that a drosky arrived at the main entrance drawn by three fleet horses, and a tall man alighted from it, attended by a servant. At the first glance I recognised the handsome face and fine figure of Prince Basil Galitsyn; he had been often to Maître le Bastien’s workshop, and I could not mistake his face or his bearing. Of all the Russian nobles he was the most Western in his manners and tastes, and he was an unusually handsome and dignified man. The air of familiarity with which he approached the house and the cordiality with which he was greeted—Piotr standing bare-headed on the step to receive him—were not at all to my taste. I stood staring after him as he vanished into the palace and, for the first time, I regretted having assumed a disguise. I reflected that the princess had in her possession, at that very moment, a locket that belonged to Prince Galitsyn, and all at once he loomed up before me as a probable lover of the beautiful Daria. “Why not,” I reflected; “what was more likely? And here was I, like a blockhead, in the shabby garb of an apprentice, cooling my heels in the court-yard, while his excellency, the prince, was doubtless taking zakuska in the salon.” Yet I had no remedy, and must even grin and bear it, for to rush back and declare myself the Marquis de Cernay would have done little for my cause beyond raising the ridicule of the kitchen. Neither could I hang about the court-yard, like a menial, to catch a glimpse of the proceedings that might be visible through the lower windows; there was nothing for it but to curse my ill fortune and, buttoning my old taffety coat over the princess’ bracelet, to proceed on my way back to my quarters with no very pleasant reflections. But there was one thread of comfort: I knew that by common report the Czarevna Sophia loved Prince Galitsyn, and she was reputed to be a woman of no ordinary qualities and was likely enough to be a formidable rival even for the beautiful Princess Voronin. I tried to remember all that I had ever heard of the czarevna, and to piece together a respectable romance between her and Prince Galitsyn, but I confess I got very little satisfaction out of the process, for before my mind’s eye stood always the graceful figure, the glowing, youthful face, the sparkling eyes of Daria Kirilovna, and I could not believe that the prince was blind.

Busied with these meditations, I traversed the streets between the palace and our quarters quickly enough, and entering the house, with a face as long as my arm, bethought myself of the dwarf, and intending to call for him, I opened the door of the refectory and looked in. There was the dwarf himself, seated on a table in the middle of the room, busily engaged in devouring a meal that had been spread before him, while Michaud, the apprentice, was sitting on a window-sill near at hand, looking on with a grin.

The little creature, with his white, three-cornered face, was hunched over his food, eating with his fingers, and devouring the stuff with the fierce greediness of an animal, and as he ate his great ears wagged with every motion of his jaws, and Michaud,—who was an idle rogue,—seeing this, put his hands at each side of his own head and wagged them to and fro, in mockery of Maluta’s ears, making his jaws go to the same tune. The meal, too, was one to startle any but a Russian stomach; it was a bit of sterlet,—the precious fish they love so well,—some Muscovite rice bread, a pickled mushroom, and a tankard of beer, with some drops of oil of cinnamon in it, a flavour that the Czar Alexis considered a truly royal delicacy, and the dwarf ate and drank with an avidity that could be heard in the entry, while Michaud mocked him—eating imaginary food with the same relish.

I stood looking at the scene in silence, vastly amused thereat, and so fierce was the dwarf’s appetite that he did not observe me until he had gulped down the last of the beer, and then his rat-like eyes suddenly alighted upon me. He put down the empty tankard, sighed, thrust the whole pickled mushroom into his mouth as a parting dainty, and wriggling off the table, he came across the room, knelt on one knee and made an obeisance before me, as if he kissed the floor at my feet, while Michaud hooted derisively in the background.

“Up, you little varlet,” I said impatiently, advancing toward the only chair at the table, “come hither and tell me your history”; as I spoke, I was about to sit down, when I discovered that that lout of an apprentice had thrown himself into the armchair and was gazing at me with a cool impudence that I had never seen equalled.

So amazed was I that, for the moment, I only stared and then I stirred him with my foot.

“Be off!” I exclaimed sharply, tried beyond prudence.

“Be off, yourself!” retorted Michaud insolently.

I fairly choked with rage. “You impudent puppy,” I said, “how dare you?”

“How dare I?” said he; “and what are you? You are Raoul, the apprentice, and I am Michaud, the apprentice, and a better goldsmith than you, I’ll warrant!”

This was too much; my disguise had cost me too dearly already, and the varlet’s insolence made me blaze forth into fury.

“Get up!” I said fiercely. “I am neither Raoul nor the apprentice, sirrah, and you know it! Try not my patience too far, or I’ll break your head for your pains.”

Something in my face cowed him, though the fellow usually was bold enough. He rose sullenly.

“I care not!” he said gruffly; “you are one moment an apprentice and the next moment ‘monsieur.’ How can an honest man know what you are?” and he shot a look of suspicion at me.

I disdained to tell him who I was, although I did not fear betrayal, or care for it, but I ordered him out of the room, and then, taking the disputed chair, I fell to questioning my new protégé. Maluta had watched me while I talked with Michaud, and though he understood no French, I think the little beast read our gestures and expressions so well that he understood the gist of the matter, and I saw him studying my face, while we talked together, much as a mariner studies a new-made chart of a dangerous coast. A few well-directed questions drew forth the creature’s history, in substance, at least. He was one of the court dwarfs, or had been, and the Czar Feodor had given him to the Boyar Kurakin, who had virtually discarded him, and he had, for the last few months, got his food where he could, mainly through the charity of cooks and scullions, for these little creatures were veritable waifs of fortune. That he might be useful to me I could not doubt, for he had, of course, every court intrigue at his fingers’ ends; but that he would also be a nuisance and a charge upon me was equally plain, yet I never felt less inclined to turn a poor waif into the street. Moreover, he was infinitely amusing, for that night while Maître le Bastien and I supped together, he danced for us and performed a dozen monkeyish tricks with tireless energy. And, whether I would or no, he attached himself to me; he watched my moods, he carried my cloak and my sword, he was even ready to change my shoes, or to run my errands, and after a day or two I began to tolerate him and even to find him useful. I little dreamed then, however, how useful he was to be.

Meanwhile another kettle of fish was boiling fast in the Zemlianui-gorod, where the Streltsi were gathered. For days the storm of discontent had been gathering, and petitions were carried back and forth between the barracks and the palace. The very day that I visited the Princess Daria the soldiers had seized and scourged one of their own colonels, and no man dared gainsay them, though the Chancellor Matveief, the uncle of the Czarina Natalia, and the old commander of the Streltsi, had been recalled from exile in Archangel and was in the Kremlin, trying to pour oil on the troubled waters, but deeper and yet deeper worked the intrigues of the Miloslavskys. Their emissaries were busy among the ranks of the soldiers, pledges were making, dissension was sowing, and loud and deep came the growl of the mob. Men dared not walk abroad unarmed; women kept closer than ever; even the Gostinnoi Dvor, the great bazaar, was almost deserted. I walked through it at noon of a Friday, and saw scarcely fifty people chaffering at the stands, and they were buying images and pictures of saints, and the merchants, bearded and solemn, looked pale and whispered apart. And the Red Place was empty, an ominous sign; it was not crowded with courtiers and petitioners, and the Czarina Natalia held her court with empty galleries—so Le Bastien told me—while the Czarevna Sophia was besieged by the soldiers, who hung about her, when she appeared in public, and thronged her ante-room at all hours. On the outskirts of the town the mob gathered at morning and evening, and talked and threatened; an officer riding through with an order from the czarina had been stoned at daybreak on Thursday, and there was a cry now for pay for the regiments and redress of all old grievances, the affirmation of the Streltsi’s old privilege of keeping shop, and a dozen other benefits that they had—or fancied they had—by right.

Maître le Bastien, who was an over-cautious man, began to hide much of the gold and silver that had been given him for his work, and he bought another pistol in the German quarter, at which I laughed; but he shook his head.

“There’s mischief brewing, monsieur,” he said; “mischief of a black sort. These soldiers are little better than a rabble of cut-throats and robbers, and the Miloslavskys are stirring them up to a devil’s business”; he shook his head again. “A child and a woman to rule,” he added, “and a band of wolves at the door; prime your pistols, M. de Cernay, and keep your sword loose in its scabbard. I remember hearing my grandmother tell of the Eve of Saint Bartholomew; though she was as good a Catholic as I am, she never forgot it, monsieur; their house was in the district of Saint Germain l’Auxerrois, and to the day of her death she would fall to shivering when a pistol cracked in the dark or the bell of Saint Germain tolled. Last night, when I came out of the gate of Saint Nikolas, I passed perhaps twenty of these fellows, and if ever I saw the devil in men’s faces, I saw it in theirs.”

“Tut, Maître le Bastien,” I said, with a laugh; “you’ve got an old woman’s whims in your brains. They have but to pay these rogues and give them a beating, and they will slink back to their kennels.”

But he was not to be persuaded. “When the wolf scents blood——” he replied, with an expressive gesture, and went to the cellar to hide more of his gold. While I laughed and set Maluta to dancing on the table, which he did in a marvellous fashion, spinning around and around, in constantly increasing circles, until he leaped clear over my head and perched on the back of a chair, swinging there like an ape, to my great diversion.

Yet the future, so swiftly approaching, was bigger with fate for me than for Maître le Bastien, while for the Princess Daria—chut, I must not run ahead of my own tale.

VII: THE SUMMONS

IT was on a Friday, scarcely three days after Kurakin saw the golden pear in Maître le Bastien’s hands that a summons came from the palace. The goldsmith had been modelling in wax a very beautiful little image of the Virgin of Kazan, intending to cast it in gold with precious stones for the little Czar Peter. He was at work on it in the forenoon while I sat watching him, for lack of something better to do, for he had not yet mended the bracelet for the princess, though I had importuned him to do so; I think he delayed only to vex me, for he would shake his head, with a sly twinkle in his eye, when I asked him for the trinket.

The windows were open, and opposite the sun shone on Kurakin’s roof. All the morning there had been the dull boom of distant drums, for there was some new excitement in the quarters of the Streltsi; and there were strange rumours afloat that the blind Czarevitch Ivan was ill of a poison, but outwardly the city was calm, the calm that comes before the tempest, for it was already past the middle of May, and no one, perhaps, but Sophia Alexeievna herself knew the devil’s broth that was boiling under our feet.

A breath of chill air blew in from the north and lifted the grey curls on Maître le Bastien’s broad forehead. He set the little image on the table an viewed it complacently.

“It is well,” he said, and looked at me smiling, expecting approval.

But I was not heeding him; my ear had caught the clang of the outer door, the skurry of feet on the stairs, and the next moment Michaud opened the door, breathless, and before he could enter, one of the court chamberlains pushed in. A big man with a long grey beard and a portly front, swelling with his own importance, and in his long, gorgeously embroidered caftan and high cap, he looked like some Eastern eunuch. Maître le Bastien was inclined to treat him civilly enough, but he took a high tone.

“Your presence is required immediately at the palace, master goldsmith,” he said, in a deep tone, rolling out the sonorous Russ like a big bass drum; “my orders are not to return without your person.”

Le Bastien, ever cautious, looked startled and perplexed.

“By whose authority?” he asked, gravely polite.

The chamberlain stared, stupidly as an ox, blowing out his cheeks angrily.

“By the order of her serene highness the Czarevna Sophia Alexeievna,” he said, “and it behoves you to make haste, my master.”

“I have ever been ready to serve her highness,” said Maître le Bastien, in an aggrieved tone; “these peremptory orders are uncalled for, monsieur.”

A flash of intuition illumined the situation for me, and I determined not to desert him.

“I will accompany you,” I said to him, in French, “and carry the image yonder—as an excuse for my presence. It may be well to have a witness.”

His brow cleared and he thanked me hastily, the chamberlain scowling meanwhile, for he could not follow our French, and could only reiterate his orders to us to make haste. There seemed indeed no reasonable way to evade him, nor cause for it, for neither of us had done anything to merit the displeasure of the all-powerful princess, and therefore we prepared to accompany the portly old gentleman back to the Kremlin. But when we got to the door and found that he had a guard there of five or six of the Streltsi, we began to fear that we were under arrest, and said as much to each other in French, yet we could not anticipate any legitimate reason for it, and were forced to put as good a face on the matter as we could, trailing along in the chamberlain’s wake, with a file of savage-looking soldiers on either hand. True to my character of apprentice, I carried the little waxen image of our Lady of Kazan, and Maître le Bastien, being empty-handed, plucked nervously, first at his short velvet cloak and then at his lace cravat. I never saw the good man so distraught over what seemed, at most, a small matter. Meanwhile, our silent companions eyed us askance, as the Russian always eyes the foreigner, and finding little reason to converse, we fell silent, and there was only the tramp of our feet as we traversed the streets. In this quarter they were deserted, but once or twice a woman peeped cautiously out of an upper window at us, or a group of children skurried out of our way like so many rabbits. It was broad sunshine, and as we drew near the sacred picture of Saint Basil, on the wall, I saw the pigeons nestling and cooing on its canopy. There was a huge lamp, which burned perpetually, suspended before the shrine, under the protecting roof of the canopy, and the gaunt figure and dusky face of the saint looked grimly down upon us. Before it knelt a moujik, in a long sheepskin caftan, his legs bound up in cloths, and his feet in bast shoes; he was kneeling on the flint pavement praying, with the devout indifference to the world which is common to the Russian peasant. And as the chamberlain and his six tried friends drew near they also humbly saluted the sacred picture and passed it with bared heads, for these fellows were, like their humble countryman, very zealous in their religion, and held the Pope of Rome in as little reverence as did our brethren beyond the Loire.

Some excitement in the outskirts of the town had drawn off the people from the Kremlin, for when we crossed the Red Place it was nearly vacant, and only a crowd of dwarfs peeped at us as we ascended the Red Staircase and entered the palace. We left our six ruffians in the guard-room and, conducted by our fat friend, the chamberlain, we were led up the back stairs to a gallery of the terem, where we were left to wait, at a safe distance from the private apartments of the women. I remember to this day seeing a dark-eyed, curly-headed boy of nine, cross the gallery with an attendant and stop to stare at us with frank curiosity. A large child for his years, with a bold port and keen eye. It was the little Czar Peter, and it was said that he was ever eager to learn new lessons, and to see strangers. While we waited, neither Maître le Bastien nor I cared to talk, but once he turned to me.

“I fear that this concerns that trinket of yours,” he said very low, with an anxious eye.

“So I think,” I replied and smiled.

My life in Moscow had been flat, stale, and unprofitable, and the thought of danger was ever a sweet taste in my mouth.

The goldsmith looked troubled. He was a man whose life lay in pleasant places, and he could not contemplate the thought of intrigue and violence with my complacence. He shifted his position uneasily and fell to watching the door through which the fat man had vanished. Meanwhile I had deposited my wax model on a window ledge and, walking about the room, stopped to examine a painting that hung on the wall at one side. It was a picture of Saint Olga on a loose piece of canvas, and would scarcely have held my eye long if I had not noticed a curious flutter and movement to it, as if it was swayed by a current of air, and lifting the end I suddenly discovered that it concealed a narrow slit in the wall, un œil-de-boeuf, through which I could look down into the room below. Nor was the room vacant; one glance interested me so much that I silently signalled to Maître le Bastien to come, too, and behold my discovery. It was a good-sized apartment, and in the centre of it stood a woman, short, stout, singularly striking in appearance, and before her were grouped seven or eight fierce-looking soldiers of the guard, Streltsi; some knelt at her feet; all were eager and attentive, and she was addressing them, her voice rising and falling, with a thrill of eloquence, and her expression and gestures were as eloquent, though we could not hear what she said. I glanced a question at Le Bastien, and he nodded.

“Sophia is meddling with the Streltsi,” he said, very low and disconsolately. “’Tis as I thought,—as most people have feared,—there’s not a Naryshkin fit to match her, unless it is the Chancellor Matveief, and even he——” The goldsmith shook his head dolefully. “There is a Russian proverb,” he said, “that ‘a woman’s hair is long, but her understanding short,’ but the saints defend me from a manœuvring woman!”

His ejaculation was so pious and so heartfelt that I laughed and dropped the canvas, just in time, too, for our friend the chamberlain came waddling in again to inform us that her imperial and serene highness would see us in five minutes. He proceeded, therefore, to conduct us, by what seemed to me an entirely new route, to her presence, I wondering all the while if she would receive us and the Streltsi together. But my speculations on that point were soon satisfied, for when we entered the ante-room we passed her friends coming out, fierce-eyed and keen-set as a party of wolves, and when the chamberlain opened the door of the room we had looked down upon, and bowed low at the threshold, we found the czarevna quite alone, and seated in a great carved chair at the further end of the apartment. The official announced the name of Maître le Bastien, goldsmith of Paris, with great solemnity, and then, closing the door upon us, left us to face the daughter of the czars.

VIII: THE GREAT CZAREVNA

WHEN we entered the room the Czarevna Sophia remained seated, and the light from a window at her side fell full on her face and figure, revealing them sharply. She was twenty-five years old at this time, but already very stout, with an enormous head, and a homely fat face, with small, keen eyes that were alert and searching. She still wore deep mourning for her brother Feodor, and her black robe falling loose and straight, after the prevailing fashion, only increased her apparent bulk. Her plump, short-fingered hands were, however, extremely white, as they lay on her black draperies, and, unquestionably, there was something in her glance and bearing that was imperial. The woman was a power, and we felt it as soon as we came in contact with her. She bent a singular look upon us as we advanced and made our salutations, and as we drew nearer I discovered that she was holding some object concealed in her hands. I had not long to wait before I learned what it was. She addressed Maître le Bastien, taking no notice of me, evidently putting me down as an apprentice.

“So, master goldsmith, you’ve come at last,” she said in Russ, her tone as acid as vinegar. “I find that you have not been idle in Moscow.”

Le Bastien, as cautious as an old fox, felt his ground.

“I have endeavoured to labour diligently, your highness,” he said suavely, “and I think I may venture to say that I have accomplished something. The great vase is now nearly completed, if your highness will but come to view it, and here is a model I have been making of a figure of our Lady of Kazan, to be executed in gold and jewels.”

As he spoke he signed to me to advance, and display the model, which I did with the more alacrity because I wanted a nearer view of the princess, but I was so awkward in handling the image that the goldsmith took it himself and displayed it. But Sophia looked at it with a cold eye; it was plain that her thoughts were elsewhere.

“In gold with jewels; it would cost too much,” she said severely, “and we have not paid our soldiers. I know not why the Czarina Natalia should encourage such extravagance.”

Maître le Bastien, accustomed to consideration from all the great men of France, and the patronage of our munificent monarch, flushed hotly at her tone and handed the image back to me.

“The conception was altogether mine, madame,” he said, in dignified displeasure. “In my country princes delight in all the elegancies of art; pardon me for not considering merely the question of cost.”

He meant a rebuke, but it was lost on her highness; she merely shrugged her shoulders. She had no conception probably of the greatness of France, seeing nothing beyond her own horizon but the edge of the world; the pride of these Muscovites is something truly amazing.

The display of the model coming off so poorly, the goldsmith stood silent and, for the moment, the interview seemed a flat enough matter, and then the czarevna suddenly struck to the root of it. She held out her hand, and in the palm of it lay the Princess Daria’s jewelled pear. We both started, and Maître le Bastien turned from white to green; the good man seemed for the time chicken-hearted.

“You have recently handled the locket, master goldsmith,” Sophia said slowly, “and for whom?”

I could hold my tongue no longer; I feared his loss of nerve.

“Tell her it was left in your absence,” I said, very low and in French.

She darted a tigress look at me, but remained silent, waiting on Maître le Bastien. He repeated my lesson by rote.

“Who was in your house to receive it?” she demanded sharply, then suddenly pointing at me, “that man?”

“I suppose so,” faltered the goldsmith, the cold perspiration starting in beads on his forehead.

“Can you speak Russ?” she asked, turning on me.

“A little,” I replied, afraid to leave it in Maître le Bastien’s hands.

She held up the pear. “Who brought this to your master’s house?”

“A man, I think,” I replied stupidly, rubbing the back of my head like a clown.

She uttered an exclamation of impatience.