CHAPTER II.THE GOLDEN HALL.
Themorning after M. de Lambert’s disclosure the czar held an audience at the Kremlin. All ambassadors and special envoys were expected to be present, and though I laid no claim to either title I was privileged to appear. I saw that M. de Lambert was anxious to shirk the duty of attending me, but I was determined that he should not remain behind, for I foresaw future trouble from his excited mood, and was convinced that it would be necessary to keep him under my own eye. Therefore, a little before nine o’clock, we left our quarters and proceeded to the Kremlin. It was a frosty morning, and we felt the need of our heavy cloaks. The sky was gray,—that cold, even gray that makes the Russian winter so gloomy. The snow was deep, and the domes and turrets of the Kremlin and its fanglike battlements were sheeted in ice. M. de Lambert was still in an angry humor, and muttered some curses on Russian weather which made me smile, for a few days before he had been delighted with Moscow: a lover’s mood is as variable as the favorof his mistress. I could not forbear tormenting him a little with an occasional taunt that made the blood rise to his hair and his brown eyes kindle with a dangerous light. His was one of those sensitive, fiery spirits that flash out in quick resentment, and Madame de Brousson accused me of playing with his mood as a cat would worry a mouse, and yet the young fellow stood high in my esteem. However, he took my pleasantry so ill that morning that I let him have his way at last, and we accomplished the rest of our walk in silence. When we arrived at the Granovïtaïa Palata, the entrance to the Golden Hall was crowded, for the guards still stood before the door. However, we came at the appointed hour, and in a moment the doors were opened and the throng admitted. It was a splendid spectacle, the vast golden hall with its arches supported by a central pillar, and upon the arches were inscribed ancient legends in Slavonic characters, and here and there was a darkly rich painting in the golden vaults; it made a magnificent background for the brilliant scene. All the men of note in Moscow were there, foreign residents, ambassadors, gallant soldiers, gay courtiers. I noticed at once the czar’s especial coterie, the Princes Dolgoruky, Repnin, and Kurakin, Prince Ivan Troubetskoy, Andrew Matveief, the son of the old chancellor, Prince Boris Galitsyn, the cousin of the exile, Count Feodor Apraxin, and the newfavorite, Alexander Mentchikof. In the center of the room stood the czar, a conspicuous figure. Peter was now thirty-one years old, and there was something in his appearance that suggested at once his tremendous personality. His stature was immense, nearly seven feet; his deep chest and powerful limbs showing his great strength, while his presence was commanding. His forehead was high, and he wore an unpowdered brown peruke, which was too short for the prevailing fashion. His complexion was of a clear olive tint, and his nose short and thick at the end, and his lips full. His eyes were handsome, large, dark, and brilliant, reminding me of those of his mother, the Czarina Natalia, but unfortunately affected by theticwhich occasionally convulsed his features. He had suffered from a nervous affliction, accompanied by a twitching of the face and body, since he had been poisoned in his youth. His dress was usually conspicuous for its simplicity and carelessness, for he seemed to scorn the insignia of rank, and, in the midst of that brilliant assemblage, he wore a close-fitting brown coat with gold buttons, a linen collar, and no cuffs, his waistcoat, breeches, and stockings being as plain as his coat, which was unbuttoned. He wore no jewels, only the blue ribbon of the Order of St. Andrew which he had created, and of which he was the sixth knight, having received it at the first Russian naval victory over the Swedes, off the Vassily Island in theNeva, in 1702. About his neck was suspended an ancient Greek cross of metal, which subsequently became famous as his ornament at the victory of Poltava. A man of coarse and even brutal instincts, who could look with indifference upon torture and execution, yet withal the ruler born. As I looked at him, it seemed to me a question whether the young Frenchman at my side, undistinguished save by personal bravery, could rival this august personage in the fancy of a young and probably ambitious woman. The czar was no contemptible tyrant, but a suitor who might dazzle the imagination of a girl. He was royal, and his person was conspicuous for those very qualities of manly endurance and strength which usually attract the eye and fancy of the fair sex.
My personal relations with Peter were cordial. His temperament and manner were alike frank and unconventional. He had an indifference to the forms and ceremonies of a court, and his love of freedom had led him into many a mad frolic in the German suburb. Indeed it had been whispered that these frolics, and the intrigues connected with them, were at the root of the trouble between him and the Czarina Eudoxia.
That morning he greeted me with a little constraint, and I noticed his hawklike eye resting for an instant on M. de Lambert, who stood behind me, and who made his salutation with an air of gloomy dignity. At the time Peter was conversingwith two or three officials who stood about him, and some moments elapsed before he had an opportunity to speak to me. After a little while, however, the others fell back, and the czar, finding himself for the instant alone, addressed me with some abruptness.
“A word with you, M. le Maréchal,” he said; “you have a young gentleman in your suite, M. de —”
“M. de Lambert, your Majesty,” I said, supplying the name, as he hesitated and waited for it.
“Ah, yes, M. de Lambert,” he continued; “is he your nephew or your son-in-law?”
“Neither, your Majesty,” I replied; “he is a distant connection of my family, and an officer of the household troops of the King of France.”
“Of noble blood, then,” the czar remarked, while I marvelled and tried to divine his drift; “a good soldier, I presume?”
“A gallant one,” I replied at once, a little relieved at the turn of his questions.
He paused and turned a searching glance on my face.
“A gallant soldier is always admirable in the eyes of the fair ladies, M. de Brousson,” he continued deliberately; “perhaps it would be well for you to remind M. de Lambert that while he is in Moscow I would prefer to see him in his character of an attendant upon the envoy of the King of France and not as an esquire of dames.”
I felt the blood rising on my cheek under the czar’s keen eyes. I was angry, but I made an obeisance.
“Your Majesty’s wishes shall be respected,” I said calmly.
“You understand me, monsieur,” he went on coolly; “I rely upon your amiable discretion. It is my good fortune to have so astute a representative of the Court of France.”
Dolgoruky had approached while he was speaking; and when the czar turned to address the prince, I took the opportunity to withdraw a little from his immediate vicinity. I was angry and at the same time amused. It was apparent that he regarded M. de Lambert as no contemptible rival. It was equally obvious that the autocrat would brook no interference in his dovecote, and my amusement threatened to imperil my gravity. I was making an effort to pass through the crowd unobserved and so effect an escape to some spot where I might consider the situation, but I was not destined to accomplish my purpose. Mentchikof met me on my way to the door, and laid a detaining hand on my arm.
“I would speak with you a moment, M. le Maréchal,” he said pleasantly; and we turned aside into a recess where we were practically alone.
“I have but just spoken to your young friend, M. de Lambert,” he began.
“Ma foi!” I exclaimed impatiently, “M. deLambert is the only man living to-day. Upon my soul, I did not know that he was so important.”
Mentchikof regarded me gravely, a certain intelligence in his glance.
“He is a very accomplished young gentleman,” he said, smiling, “and I understand that he is betrothed to Najine Zotof.”
Now, I knew that Mentchikof was aware that there was no formal betrothal, and I began to suspect his motive. Bearing in mind the czar’s words, I was cautious.
“It is news to me, monsieur,” I said with assumed surprise; “surely M. de Lambert did not inform you?”
Mentchikof shrugged his shoulders.
“Not in words, M. le Maréchal,” he replied suavely; “but such things cannot be hidden. The little birds about a court carry the news.”
I felt a strong desire to make him drink of his own medicine and replied in kind.
“It is sometimes dangerous, monsieur,” I said, “to listen to the whispers of such little birds. In France I have known it to cost a man his head.”
He flushed a little, and I saw a gleam of anger in his eyes; but he was too astute to allow me to ruffle his serenity.
“An easy way of removing his ears, monsieur,” he replied calmly, “but I regret to hear that there is so little foundation for my information. I regret it, you understand. M. le Vicomte, it seemedto me, and to others, that Najine Zotof’s marriage with M. de Lambert would be a subject for rejoicing. I trust that it may yet be arranged.”
I looked at him keenly. While I thought that I understood his motive, I was far from feeling any confidence in him.
“I am not here to arrange marriages, monsieur,” I said calmly, “but to direct some business matters of my own.”
He smiled. “Twenty years ago, M. le Vicomte, you managed to accomplish both missions with conspicuous success.”
I was accustomed to these references to my romantic marriage, and accepted them in good part.
“I had a greater temptation then,” I said lightly.
“Nevertheless,” he continued persistently, “you cannot be without interest in the welfare of your friend; and I have heard that the young woman reciprocates his affection, and it is a genuine romance.”
“You are marvellously well informed, monsieur,” I replied serenely; “for my own part, I do not pretend to know so much of such delicate matters.”
“You tax my credulity, M. le Vicomte,” he said. “It is impossible for me to believe that a man of your sagacity can be both blind and deaf. M. de Lambert has made friends here, and we desire to see him happily united to NajineZotof; but it is well in Russia to accomplish these things speedily and quietly. You doubtless understand me, monsieur. There are many who approve of the marriage; it is not impossible to accomplish now; later it might meet with grave opposition. I speak to you as M. de Lambert’s friend and natural adviser.”
“I thank you, monsieur,” I rejoined with composure; “but why should I counsel a Frenchman to contract a marriage which may meet such serious opposition?”
His face hardened, and he looked at me sternly.
“You know Najine,” he said; “you doubtless feel some interest in her.”
“She is young and lovely,” I replied gallantly. “It is unlikely that any man would regard her with entire indifference.”
“There is sometimes a hard fate in store for just such young and lovely maidens, M. le Maréchal,” he said coolly. “You remember the Princess Marie Dolgoruky and Euphemia Vsevolozhsky, and even the late czarina,—the nun Helen. Archangel and Siberia are both not impossible futures for candidates for the throne.”
I started. This was plain speaking, and I was certain now of his motive. He had a candidate of his own, and Najine had been so unfortunate as to rival her in the eyes of the czar. I saw it all in a moment, and a grim picture it was. However, I did not permit my face to betray me.
“You should speak to mademoiselle’s natural guardians, monsieur,” I said quietly; “her interests are dear to them, while I could not even suggest such dangers.”
He measured me with his penetrating glance, but I returned it with amused serenity. Two or three nobles were approaching him, and interruption was inevitable. He leaned a little towards me.
“Nevertheless, M. le Vicomte,” he said in a low voice, “you will inform M. de Lambert that his best friends in Moscow desire to see him speedily and quietly married to Najine Zotof.”
I was saved the necessity of a reply by his friends, who joined him now and gave me my opportunity to withdraw. Near the door stood M. de Lambert, and I signaled to him to follow me. In a few minutes we had passed through the guard-rooms and left the palace. When I found myself alone with him, I was at a loss to decide upon my next move. I knew him well; brave, loyal, passionate, impulsive, and headstrong, how could I trust the complicated situation to his discretion? How could I counsel him? With him there would be but one course of action. He loved Mademoiselle Zotof, and would save her, if he could, both from the czar and from the intrigues of her rivals. But how could he accomplish this? I asked myself that question again and again as we crossed the square. He was singularly silent, as if he divined my perturbationor was possessed with a similar anxiety. I cast a sidelong glance at him, mentally comparing him with the czar, and wondering how the two would contrast in the eyes of mademoiselle. I was forced to admit to myself that he was a goodly man; he carried himself with the proud erectness of a cavalier, and his clean-cut, candid face was good to look upon. What he lacked of the czar’s powerful muscle, he gained in grace. I smiled a little as I looked at him, thinking that he was a dangerous rival even for an emperor. I could not decide upon any course, but determined to try his temper. We had passed out of the Gate of the Redeemer, and, his foot slipping on a piece of ice, he stumbled and recovered himself with a muttered exclamation of impatience.
“You are out of temper again, M. de Lambert,” I said tauntingly. “You should have more fortitude; there are worse slips than those upon Russian ice.”
He darted an inquiring glance at me.
“I do not take your meaning, monsieur,” he said dryly, “I am not much of a diplomat.”
I smiled. “No, I think not,” I replied, “and you may have need to be one. The path on which an emperor treads is too slippery for other men.”
He understood me, and his face flushed.
“There can be no open path which an honest man can fear to tread,” he said haughtily.
“No,” I acknowledged calmly, “fear is not the word; but royalty gives no elbow-room, monsieur.”
He shut his teeth, and I saw his hand playing with the hilt of his sword.
“No man,” he said slowly, “crowned or uncrowned, shall ever thrust me aside unjustly without a struggle.”
“You are a young man, M. de Lambert,” I said quietly; “be warned. The dangers that would assail you would not be half so serious as those which would encompass one—whom we know.”
He started perceptibly. We took a few steps more and then he stopped me. We had turned aside from the Red Place into a narrow lane; on either hand were the blank walls of the courtyards of two houses. I can see his face to-day as plainly as then, when it stood out in such relief against the background of stone. He was pale, and his brows were bent over his troubled eyes, while a lock of his own light brown hair had escaped from beneath his peruke and was blown across his cheek.
“M. de Vicomte,” he said in a low voice, “have you been warned of any danger threatening Mademoiselle Zotof?”
I felt the warmest sympathy for him. His manner convinced me of the sincerity of his passion. I put my hand on his shoulder as I would have laid it on a son’s.
“I will be frank, monsieur,” I said, carried out of all resolution of reserve. “I have been assuredto-day of two things,—the czar has a serious fancy for mademoiselle, and Mentchikof is determined to induce him to transfer it to Catherine Shavronsky.”
“May the saints speed his efforts!” exclaimed M. de Lambert, devoutly.
“In either case,” I went on, “mademoiselle is in danger. If the czar loves her, you cannot hope to oppose him; and if he vacillates between mademoiselle and the Shavronsky woman, Mentchikof and his faction will find a way to deal with Najine Zotof, as other court factions have dealt with rival candidates for the czar’s heart. Poison, exile, death—the course is easy; and if they fail the czar will win, and you, M. de Lambert—must lose.”
He heard me calmly to the end; then, throwing back his head, he looked me in the eye, and I saw the fire kindling in his own.
“Monsieur,” he said, “no tyrant shall crush the spirit and happiness of the woman I love, were he a thousand times a czar! If she loves me, I will win her yet!”