AN IMPERIAL LOVER.CHAPTER I.GUILLAUME DE LAMBERT.
AN IMPERIAL LOVER.
Twentyyears had passed since my last visit to Moscow, a visit made memorable by my marriage with Zénaïde Ramodanofsky. For many reasons we did not return to Russia until, in the spring of 1703, the King of France said to me: “M. de Brousson, there is no one else whom I care to send to Moscow on a delicate mission. You have married a Russian, you know Russia and the czar. In short, monsieur, I desire that you should go.”
The year before the king my master had bestowed upon me the bâton of a marshal of France, a reward for my services with the Marquis de Villars at the victory of Friedlingen. The king’s favors to me had been conspicuous; owing him so much, I owed him also a ready obedience to his wishes, although this second mission to Moscow was far from acceptable. The king desired to have some one at the Russian Court to watch the vicissitudes of the northern war. The CzarPeter had joined the alliance recently formed between Denmark, Brandenburg, and King Augustus of Poland, against Sweden. He had been drawn into it partly by his friendship for Augustus of Saxony, the King of Poland, but more because he desired to recover the Land of Izhora, lost to Russia in the Troublous Times. France was embarrassed by the war of the Spanish Succession, which had broken out after King Louis XIV. accepted the conditions of the will of the King of Spain, Charles II., bequeathing the Spanish crown to the Duke of Anjou, the son of Monseigneur. It was because of this imbroglio that the king my master watched with interest the struggle between the princes of the North, since it diverted that mad young hero Charles XII. of Sweden from supporting the Grand Alliance against France.
In the midst of these complications it was my duty to go to Moscow and observe the course of events, and transact some delicate diplomatic business with the czar. My mission was a secret one, and I travelled ostensibly to take my wife to visit the home of her childhood and to look after some estates recently bequeathed to my son. I was destined to find an altered Russia since the days of the regency of my old friend the Czarina Sophia, now imprisoned by her imperial brother in the Novodevitchy Monastery. Peter’s journey through Europe had inspired him with a desirefor reform, and on his return he swept away the old régime. The national costume and the beard, sacred in the eyes of the devout Russian, were sacrificed by this young iconoclast. All the men about the person of the czar wore German clothes, and shaved their faces so that the aspect of the court was greatly changed. Peter no longer permitted forced marriages, and had liberated the women from the old Eastern seclusion, and they, at least, rejoiced in the fashions of Europe.
Madame de Brousson and I set out upon our journey north without our son, a young man of nineteen, who was enrolled in the king’s household troops and on the road to early preferment. Our daughter remained in a convent at Paris, for we did not care to take her to the Russian Court. We were attended by Pierrot, my old and faithful servant, who spoke the Russian language, and an equerry named Touchet, and my friend and secretary, Guillaume de Lambert,—a young man of noble family related to my own, in whom I had become interested. On the field of Friedlingen he was sent with a message from M. de Villars to one of the squadrons; when he returned to where the marshal stood, surrounded by his staff, he was about to present a note from one of the officers, when there was a flash, and some one cried out that M. de Lambert was wounded. “It is nothing,” he said with a smile, “but M. le Maréchal must pardon my left hand;” and he presentedhis despatches with a salute, but we saw the blood on his right sleeve, and his arm hung limp, broken by the shot. From that day I became interested in M. de Lambert. A man who can endure a broken arm with a smile has the mettle of a soldier in him. As soon as his wound was healed he served directly under me through the remainder of the campaign, and we became attached to each other. He was the very picture of a soldier, of medium height, powerfully built and athletic, with a handsome face and bright hazel eyes; something of a gay courtier, but keen, ambitious, and brave to a fault, so that I forgave the tendency to the fashions and foibles of the day, which my wife declared I often regarded with too much severity. M. de Lambert was the figure for a romance, yet little did I suspect the labyrinth into which he was destined to lead me.
I had supposed that my mission would be speedily accomplished, and left France in May, expecting to return in two or three months; but to my chagrin December found me in Moscow, waiting impatiently for my recall and involved in a domestic drama of a nature far too romantic and delicate for my taste. I was no longer the hot-headed gallant who had wooed and won Zénaïde Ramodanofsky. I was now past fifty, a marshal of France, and a man whose mind was full of many grave problems; nevertheless M. de Lambert had succeeded in interesting me in hislove affair, and Madame de Brousson was full of sympathy for him,—for, like all handsome young soldiers, he knew how to win a woman’s friendship.
On our arrival in May we had been introduced to the new court, and soon became acquainted with the alteration in the manners and customs of the people. One of the greatest changes seemed to me to be the freedom permitted to the women, who now appeared at court and at all the festivals. It was no longer difficult to become acquainted with the families of the nobility, and M. de Lambert met Najine at the house of her uncle, M. Zotof. Najine was an orphan, the daughter of Zotof’s brother Alexis; and, to my discomfiture, my secretary promptly fell in love with her. At first the incipient romance troubled me but little, and I thought that his suit would prosper, since I had no doubt that Mademoiselle Zotof would reciprocate his affection, and the uncle seemed inclined to regard the young French soldier with favor. M. de Lambert was noble, brave, and handsome, and there was no reason to foresee any obstacle to his suit. I was even disposed to regard it with amusement, as an example of the ease with which some men march on the road to happiness and fortune. Time was to undeceive me.
My own mission progressed but slowly. The czar was arrogant and arbitrary, a difficult man to meet on diplomatic grounds and full of a hot, ungovernedtemper. Many times my mind recurred to my old friend Dr. von Gaden’s estimate of him as a child: ‘a Tartar’ he used to call him, and a Tartar I found him, though a far different man from the one pictured by the exaggerated reports current in Europe, which made him an uncouth and ferocious monster. He was restless,—sometimes at Preobrazhensky, where he had spent his early manhood; sometimes at Voronezh, superintending his fleet, for ship-building was his mania; and sometimes at St. Petersburg, his new city on the Neva, which the nobility hated. In December he had returned to Moscow, and I was endeavoring to make the best of my opportunities. In 1698 he had sent his wife, the Czarina Eudoxia, to the Pokrofsky Convent at Suzdal in an open postcart, and ten months afterwards she was compelled to take the vows as the nun Helen,—a practical divorce. Since then his mistress Anna Mons, a German woman, had been discarded, and there were rumors that he would marry again. His son by Eudoxia, the Czarevitch Alexis, who was destined to cause him so much trouble, was already out of favor; and in fact the shining light at court was the new favorite, Alexander Danilovitch Mentchikof, who claimed to be descended from a noble Lithuanian family, but was said to be the son of a pastry-cook. Mentchikof was the only one who seemed likely to take the place of Lefort in the czar’s regard.
The difference between the old days and the new was great. My friend Prince Basil Galitsyn had been sent into exile at the fall of the regency, and was to die in poverty and obscurity. The old régime was swept away. I found myself in a network of intrigue and malice, beset with a thousand annoyances, for the French at that time were regarded with suspicion at Moscow; the Russians had never forgiven what they imagined to be the bad treatment received by Sophia’s embassy to Versailles, which was in reality due to the Russians’ ignorance of French and their violation of all the etiquette of embassies. I had asked the king for my recall again and again, but he would not hear of it, and I was still struggling with my difficulties.
It was near Christmas, and I had been all day at the Kremlin wrangling with the court officials over the minor articles of an agreement which had consumed six months in the making and was unmade in six hours. The obstinacy and the distrustfulness of the Russians made me think of the Duke de Cröy when he exclaimed at the battle of Narva, “The devil would not fight with such soldiers!” The Duke de Cröy was the prince of the Holy Roman Empire into whose hands Peter confided his forces too late to save them from defeat, and the Russians suspected the foreign officers of betraying them into the hands of the Swedes.
I returned to my quarters sick at heart and in no pleasant humor. Madame de Brousson was that day visiting at the house of a friend, and I found that Pierrot had prepared my supper and had the tapers burning. I sat down wearily, at first scarcely noticing the absence of M. de Lambert; but presently I inquired if the young gallant had been there during the day, but Pierrot replied in the negative.
“He went out early, M. le Maréchal,” he said, “and he has not yet returned. Touchet attended him.”
“Humph!” I muttered, “little use is Touchet. He stands gaping when a Russian speaks to him.”
“He is trying to learn the language, monsieur,” Pierrot replied discreetly, “and he was ever better with his sword than with his tongue.”
“Just as you were ever better with your tongue than with your sword, you knave!” I retorted with amusement.
As I spoke, I heard steps in the hall, and Touchet opened the door for M. de Lambert. The young man came in, arrayed in the richest of court costumes, his coat of blue velvet and his white satin waistcoat ruffled with lace, his graceful figure showing to advantage; but his brow was like a thunder-cloud, and he barely controlled himself to salute me with respect.
“You are late, monsieur,” I said jestingly;“love is often a laggard at supper, but yours is wellnigh cold.”
He did not receive my pleasantry in good part, but muttering some excuse seated himself at the board, and began to eat with the air of a man with whom the world is at variance. Seeing his ill-humor, I shrugged my shoulders and let him alone, giving my attention to my meal, although I was not a little perplexed by his obvious perturbation, for he was one of the most courteous of companions; and it was the more incomprehensible because his dress told me plainly that he had been in attendance either at court or upon mademoiselle. It was not until Pierrot had retired and we sat over our wine that I addressed another personal remark to him.
“You are ill at ease, M. de Lambert,” I said lightly.
“Not without reason, M. le Maréchal,” he replied sullenly; “one cannot see a hawk about a dove without anger.”
“So ho, monsieur!” I said, laughing. “I read the riddle. You have a rival!”
“Even so,” he replied in a low voice, “and a dangerous one.”
“What!” I exclaimed in surprise, “does mademoiselle regard him with favor?”
“How can I tell, monsieur?” he retorted impatiently; “few young girls would regard such a suitor with disfavor.”
I looked at him without understanding.
“Your meaning is obscure, monsieur,” I said.
“Have you not heard, then?” he asked; “it is whispered about already.”
“I did not know that there was any talk about Mademoiselle Zotof,” I said; “she lives in comparative retirement. The new suitor is of importance?”
He looked at me with a certain exasperation in his face.
“It is the czar,” he said.
I set down my glass, which had been half-way to my lips. I was conscious of staring at him with amazement; my mind was really grasping the situation in terrible detail. Here was a new complication for me. I knew M. de Lambert, and was fully aware that not even an imperial rival would daunt his courage, that opposition would only add fuel to the flame. On the other hand, I knew the czar and the Councillor Zotof, and I saw a tremendous climax. For my life I could not forbear laughing. It was so perfectly in harmony with my usual fortune. M. de Lambert regarded me with a frown.
“I am glad that you find it amusing, M. le Vicomte,” he said, his temper showing itself.
“I beg your pardon, monsieur,” I said at once, “I do not find your situation amusing, only my own. Frankly, my friend,” I added gravely, “I advise you to resign your pretensions to mademoiselle’shand. It is impossible to meet a royal suitor on equal terms. You remember the fate of M. de Bassompierre and the Prince de Condé in the old days, and we might point a nearer example. Your position is already difficult. A subject of the King of France and my secretary, you cannot offend the czar. Mademoiselle Zotof is lovely, but there are many beautiful maidens in our own country.”
M. de Lambert had risen from his chair and was pacing the room. From my heart I sympathized with his impotent anger.
“Monsieur,” he said, pausing in front of me, “I have heard of your romantic wooing. Did you apply the same argument to your own case?”
He had caught me fairly, and I smiled.
“I was a young man, M. de Lambert,” I said lightly, “and my rival was not a Romanoff.”
He flung out his hands with a gesture of impatience. “It does not matter, M. le Maréchal,” he exclaimed passionately. “I will not surrender without a fight.”
“And mademoiselle?” I asked after a moment. “Have you any assurance that she looks favorably upon your suit?”
He chafed a little under my inquiry, and his color rose.
“I believe that I am not indifferent to her, monsieur,” he answered proudly.
“Then it is quite another matter,” I said gravely,“but how do you propose to thwart the czar?”
He knit his brows, and I saw him gnawing his lip. He was violently angry, and my composure fretted him. He writhed under my interrogations, as I have seen a high-spirited horse restive under the whip.
“That is a hard question, M. le Vicomte,” he said angrily; “emperors and kings take an unfair advantage against honest men. But I am determined that no man shall blast the future of mademoiselle.”
He was walking to and fro across the room, his face working with contending emotions. I read his thoughts easily.
“You take a curious view of it, monsieur,” I remarked; “mademoiselle could hardly desire a more brilliant future than to be Czarina of Russia.”
He stopped short in his walk and gazed at me fiercely.
“The Czarina Eudoxia still lives, monsieur,” he said, “and you forget the intrigue with Anna Mons.”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“The czarina is divorced, monsieur,” I said quietly, “and Mademoiselle Zotof will never share the fate of Anna Mons. Mademoiselle is noble, and there is no reason why she should not ascend the throne. Peter has no heir but the czarevitch, and there is little love between the boy and hisfather. There is no doubt that the czar will marry again, and you can scarcely expect that the guardians of any young Russian girl would prefer a poor French gentleman to the czar. I presume that the Councillor Zotof is only too anxious to forward the interest of his niece.”
I saw that his agitation was increased by my argument, and was heartily sorry for him, even while I felt it my duty to show him the case in its true aspect.
“There can be no doubt that the uncle is anxious to propitiate the czar,” he remarked moodily.
He sat down as he spoke, and, leaning his elbow upon the table, shaded his face with his hand. Remembering the days of my own youth, I pitied him.
“You have one consolation, monsieur,” I said reassuringly; “mademoiselle has many rivals. There is scarcely a maiden of noble blood who will not be presented as a candidate for his hand. I have heard rumors that his favorite Mentchikof has a candidate for the czar’s favor, a young woman of obscure origin, Catherine Shavronsky.”
M. de Lambert brightened at this. “I had heard that also,” he said, and then added dubiously, “there is no chance that she can outshine Najine.”
I rose from the table.
“A lover’s view of it, monsieur,” I said, smiling, and then added with a sudden impulse of sympathy:“mademoiselle is indeed lovely, but her beauty has a purity and delicacy that may be less attractive to her imperial suitor than the coarser charms of Mentchikof’s candidate. Take heart, monsieur; even a czar can fail in affairs of love!”