CHAPTER XI.AN INTERCEPTED LETTER.
M. de Lambert’swound, though not dangerous, was troublesome, and kept him confined to his room for some time; a fretful patient he was, trying my wife’s forbearance, although she was in full sympathy with his anxieties. There were no definite developments, but it was manifest that Catherine Shavronsky was at this time more or less neglected, while favors were showered upon the Zotofs, and mademoiselle’s name was on every lip. In the interval she appeared once at court, and was surrounded by a bevy of courtiers, and it occurred to me that perhaps her silence toward her lover was caused by a change of heart, that the splendors of a throne had dazzled her; but Zénaïde refused to believe it. She had an unshaken confidence in Najine’s loyalty, and fully appreciated the difficulties which beset the young girl. We endeavored to send her a message explaining M. de Lambert’s condition, but neither Zénaïde nor I believed that it ever reached her. Meanwhile Apraxin had disappeared. It would have been impossible to obtain any satisfactionin regard to the young villain, and I was more or less relieved at his departure. There was no doubt that his attack on M. Guillaume had been actuated entirely by jealousy, and that there was no deeper motive behind it, which diminished the chances of obtaining any redress.
Madame de Brousson’s woman, Jeanne, had made several attempts to penetrate the seclusion of the Zotof mansion without success, but at last she was more fortunate, and it was while M. de Lambert was still suffering from his wound that she returned one forenoon with important tidings. Mademoiselle herself had been dangerously ill, and there were whispers of suspicious circumstances attending her indisposition. She had accompanied Madame Zotof to a fête at the palace, returning with the usual gifts of sweetmeats; madame ate hers without ill effects, but mademoiselle had no sooner tasted the comfit than she was seized with a sudden and alarming illness, and madame summoned a physician in hot haste. At first he almost despaired of saving Najine’s life, but after a while the worst symptoms passed off, and she recovered consciousness. The physician, after examining the fragment remaining, declared that the comfit had been poisoned. Mademoiselle was now recovering, Jeanne reported, and there was a close surveillance exercised, no food reaching her room untasted. The retainers and serfs at the Zotof mansion were in a stateof profound excitement, and it was whispered that the Czarevna Natalia, Peter’s sister, was endeavoring to poison Najine. This, of course, was the idle gossip of the servants, and not worth a thought; Natalia Alexeievna had too many noble qualities to stoop to the assassin’s weapons. Nor could the princess have any real choice between mademoiselle and the Livonian, unless, indeed, she thought that an intrigue with Catherine would end as it had ended with Anna Mons, while, on the other hand, mademoiselle would undoubtedly ascend the throne if Zotof’s intrigues were successful. In any case, the czarevna could have little interest in the matter; it was true that she was the aunt of the czarevitch, but it was probable that she shared her brother’s dislike of Eudoxia, and was therefore without personal feeling toward the woman who was likely to supplant her. It was not difficult to imagine that there were many at court who were jealous of Najine. I had feared from the first some overt act after Mentchikof’s veiled threat to me, that if fair means did not succeed, foul would. If the czar was indeed enamored of mademoiselle, he would not be thwarted, and neither Catherine Shavronsky nor M. de Lambert nor the young fool Apraxin was likely to defeat his settled purpose; and this attempt to remove her at once convinced me that the belief was prevalent that she was the imperial choice. Zénaïde, who was a keen observer, wasdeeply concerned, and, being a Russian, she understood the undercurrents. The only hope that I saw lay in the fact that Peter had made no public announcement, which would have been irretrievable. If we could but turn him aside, and prevent such a declaration for Najine, we might yet save the day. We had determined not to inform M. de Lambert of her illness, but such secrets find their way to lovers’ ears too easily. I had scarcely known it a day myself when he sent for me to his room. I found him propped upon his pillows, still pale, for he had lost much blood, but with the sparkle of health in his clear brown eyes. He responded to my inquiries with impatience, and, dismissing Touchet, who was in attendance, asked me to be seated opposite to him, where the light fell full upon my face.
“How is mademoiselle?” he asked me sharply, scanning my features with the eye of a hawk; “how ill has she been?”
I smiled in spite of myself. “She is more nearly recovered than you, monsieur,” I said, “and perhaps was never worse than you have been. Some one has told you garbled tales.”
“I hope that you do not deceive me, M. le Maréchal,” he replied distrustfully; “it would be a poor kindness.”
“Happily, I do not need to deceive you,” I replied; “mademoiselle has had some illness from which she is almost recovered. The gossip of thekitchen accounts it a poisoned comfit, but no breath of this is abroad. It would be treason to whisper it, for the sweetmeats came from the imperial table.”
He looked at me thoughtfully. “Can it be that the princess is against her?” he exclaimed.
“Impossible,” I replied; “Natalia is too noble. Such treachery does not belong to the Romanoff.”
“Some traitor in the kitchen, then,” he said gloomily; “and here I lie on my back like a fool while her life is in danger!”
“Take comfort, monsieur,” I remarked calmly; “it has been a salutary lesson, and mademoiselle will be watched the more carefully. Too much hangs on her life for it to be exposed. Moreover, it may all have been the veriest accident,—something dropped upon the comfit and falling to mademoiselle by chance. Why work yourself into a fever over this? I have tasted more than one Russian dish that I thought would shortly send me to paradise, yet I live.”
He smiled in spite of himself, but I saw that his enforced helplessness was fretting him like a thorn in the flesh, and could understand and sympathize with his impatience, knowing how great would be mine in the like case.
It was after leaving him that I entered Madame de Brousson’s closet and found her with a letter in her hands.
“Here is another one of Catherine’s billets,” shesaid scornfully; “but this one, I am certain, has been tampered with. Look at the seal—look at the manner in which it is folded;” and she handed it to me with a gesture of disdain.
Half amused, I took it and, holding it to the light, was at once convinced that her keen eyes had discovered the truth. There was every indication that the missive had been opened and re-sealed by some one who scarcely cared to take the pains to conceal the work. Zénaïde, seeing my face grow grave, came and stood by me, looking at the paper.
“It is true,” I remarked; “some one has tampered with it.”
“And who?” she said softly.
I shrugged my shoulders. “You have over-reached me there, madame,” I replied; “I am no reader of riddles. But let us see what the fair Catherine has to write to me in this careless way. Madame Golovin should be wiser than to be her scribe; but when will women learn to keep their pens from paper?” I unfolded it as I spoke, and together we read a long note from Mademoiselle Shavronsky, full of too plain references, hinting at a dozen ways of securing mademoiselle before the czar should announce his choice or make any open sign in her favor,—a mischievous note to fall into the wrong hands; referring to Najine’s illness and to M. de Lambert’s wound and calling men by their names. I read it through withouta comment, and then Madame de Brousson and I looked at each other.
“The woman is a fool, and Madame Golovin another,” I exclaimed impatiently; “what would she have been in the hands of Madame de Montespan?”
“Ah, well, we cannot look for a Madame de Maintenon every day,” Zénaïde replied, shaking her head; “yet she risks not only herself, but all this is dangerous to you. You must put an end to it, Philippe.”
“An end to it!” I exclaimed; “you are a woman, and yet fancy that I can control another woman—and one like Catherine Shavronsky. You rave, madame; I am no magician.”
“Appeal to Mentchikof,” Zénaïde suggested.
“Appeal to the moon!” I replied with impatience. “Catherine cares not for him. Her head is full of fancies, and she must needs put them on paper like a woman!”
“Now you are out of humor, M. le Maréchal,” Zénaïde said calmly; “you are never discourteous except when you lose your temper. Then women must bear the blame for all the errors of the world.”
I took her hand and kissed it, for I saw the flash in her blue eyes. “If women were all like you, madame,” I said gallantly, “the world would be fortunate indeed.”
“I thank you, monsieur,” she replied, answeringme with my own manner; “the woman does not live who is not more patient than man.”
But our little comedy was ended by Pierrot, who appeared suddenly at the door with a perturbed countenance.
“A message from the Kremlin, monsieur,” he said in a strange voice.
I glanced at him, surprised. “A message from whom?” I asked.
“It is the czar’s equerry,” he replied.
Zénaïde had risen and stood with her hand upon my shoulder, and I felt her fingers tighten their hold a trifle.
“Let him come here,” I said, and Pierrot departed on his errand.
“What can it be at this hour?” Zénaïde exclaimed, for it was late in the evening.
I could not answer her, for I was myself perplexed. In a moment Pierrot returned and announced the equerry, a young fellow whom I knew by sight.
“You are charged with a message to me?” I said, responding to his salutation.
“His imperial Majesty desires your immediate attendance, M. de Brousson,” he replied with an air of importance.
I rose at once. “The hour is late,” I said calmly, “but I will be with you in a few moments.”
Zénaïde followed me from the room with a startled face. “I do not like this summons,” shesaid, “or the hour. Is it necessary to obey, Philippe? Can you not evade it?”
I shook my head. “Impossible,” I replied; “moreover, I have nothing to fear. The gravest offence would be a refusal to obey. Take comfort, my wife; you are too brave a woman to be anxious over a trifle.”
In spite of my reassuring words, she accompanied me to the door with a grave face, and when I looked back I saw her graceful figure outlined against the light, like a picture framed by the doorway.
Pierrot attended me, and, escorted by the messenger, we walked directly to the Kremlin at a rapid pace. I had small leisure for reflection, but could not forbear some speculation upon the cause of this summons. No explanation offered itself, but the thought of the Swedish spy and Yury Apraxin, and I was therefore wholly unprepared for the humor in which I found the czar. The equerry conducted me to a private entrance of the palace, and the wicket was opened by one of the court dwarfs. We ascended a long narrow flight of stairs, and were admitted to Peter’s private apartments. Pierrot remaining at the entrance, I was ushered into a long gallery, which could be entered by two doors, one being at either end, and there I remained for some moments alone. The place was lighted by three lamps, swung by chains from the low vaulted ceiling, and the wholegallery was decorated in dark red and blue and gold. Two narrow windows looked out upon the domes of the Kremlin, shining in the moonlight; on the other side, through a golden lattice, I could see the tapers gleaming on an iconostase in one of the private chapels. The whole effect was one of Oriental color and splendor. It must have been a quarter of an hour before the door at the farther end was opened quickly and Peter entered unattended. The moment that I beheld him, I knew that there had been a paroxysm of rage and that he was suffering from its effects. His dress was disordered, his shirt thrown open at the throat, displaying his brawny neck; his face was deeply flushed, and he wore no peruke, his own dark hair hanging dishevelled on his temples, and his eyes were brilliant with anger. He came striding towards me with the air of a common brawler rather than a king, and I saw that he held a paper in his hand. Not knowing what to anticipate, I prepared for some outburst, but it was difficult to master my astonishment when, without replying to my obeisance, he thrust the letter into my hand, exclaiming,—
“Explain that, sir!”
Collecting my thoughts, I slowly smoothed out the crumpled paper, and suppressed a start with an effort when I saw Catherine Shavronsky’s letter to me that I had left in my own lodgings. The czar’s eyes were searching my face, but I lifted mybrows with assumed surprise and looked at him with composure.
“It is addressed to me,” I said quietly; “but as it has been received by your Majesty, doubtless the explanation would be easier for those who delivered it at the palace.”
Peter was no hair-splitter; he looked at me with scorn. “The letter was on its way to you, M. de Brousson,” he said sharply; “the fac-simile of it was delivered to you, but this is the original. Am I to understand that I have a traitor in Mentchikof’s household, that my affairs are betrayed to the King of France?”
I drew myself up haughtily, and looked the czar straight in the eye.
“Your Majesty forgets that you address a marshal of France,” I replied coldly; “a soldier cannot descend to the level of a spy. Any man but the czar would answer for those words at the point of the sword.”
His cheek flushed darkly, but he was not without generosity. “High words, Maréchal de Brousson,” he said impatiently; “but I did not accuse you, but—” he hesitated and then went on frankly, “I accused Catherine Shavronsky.”
I was delicately placed and required patience. “Your Majesty,” I replied calmly, “I have ever regarded Mademoiselle Catherine as a devoted subject of the czar.”
He took two turns across the gallery, his faceworking as it did at times, and his eyes on the ground. Then he faced me, and I saw that he was more composed.
“M. de Brousson,” he said hoarsely, “I would send her to a nunnery to-morrow, I would send her to Archangel, if I believed what they would have me believe of that letter. If she writes these notes to you, it will be well to warn her that she does so at her peril. These women think that because they are beautiful, Peter is too great a fool to give them their deserts, but I will tolerate no traitor, petticoated or not, about my person. I will have satisfaction!”
He stood there looking at me like a thunder-cloud, his great figure towering in the poorly lighted gallery and his large eyes full of passion.
“Your Majesty,” I said calmly, and with what dignity I could command, “I am a subject of the King of France, and it is outside of my province to detect traitors here, neither do threats prevail with such. If I have erred through ignorance, and violated the courtesy and respect due to your person, I crave your Majesty’s indulgence. For Mademoiselle Shavronsky I am in no way responsible.”
“By our Lady, M. l’Ambassadeur,” he exclaimed with violent excitement, “she is the traitor to pen such lines to a stranger and a Frenchman. I would rather give up the Neva to Charles of Sweden than have my heart andthoughts betrayed to a foreign court! I have trusted her too deeply, there is no truth in woman!”
His voice rose as he spoke, and his lips quivered with passion. He was a man of strong emotions, violent and erratic. I stood silent; there was nothing that I could say with safety, and I folded my arms and leaned against the arras, regarding him with keen interest. He was muttering to himself in German, the language that he loved and used most frequently. I caught the name of Mentchikof, coupled with such expressions as “mein Bruder” and “mein Herz.” He felt that he had been betrayed in the house of his friend. Suddenly looking up, he caught my eye, and perhaps read my secret amazement that a sovereign could so far forget the reserve that belonged to his dignity.
“M. de Brousson,” he said, speaking with more composure, “I forget that you are a stranger. You have seen me in a moment of weakness. A king should scorn the intrigues of women, and my heart is indeed with the state; my most earnest thoughts are with the commonweal. It is only when the man feels the sting of deceit and of treachery that he forgets that he is royal. To rule an empire is to be a friendless human being,” he added, with a touch of passionate sadness.
I was strongly moved. I knew that he was too far in advance of his countrymen, too far abovethe level of mediocrity, to be in touch with sympathy. The isolation of this strange and violent man was almost complete, and all at once I understood that mayhap he really cared for mademoiselle’s love; that he craved one single human heart, amid the adulation of a court. I remembered how Mademoiselle de la Vallière’s devotion to Louis XIV. had contrasted with the intrigues of her successor.
“Your Majesty,” I said in a low voice, “to be exalted is to be alone. The rulers of the world stand before the nations in splendid solitude.”
His stormy mood was passing, and his face began to assume its natural expression. Something in my speech stung him. He took another quick turn across the gallery, and then paused before me, his eagle eye searching my face.
“M. le Maréchal,” he said abruptly, “you are a brave man and a true. You have seen Peter of Russia in an hour of weakness, betrayed by a woman. It is unworthy of me and of your remembrance. Forget it!”
I made an obeisance. “Your Majesty, it is already forgotten,” I replied.
He responded with a dignified gesture, which was at once an acknowledgment and a dismissal, and turning from me walked slowly down the gallery and went out at the other end, closing the door behind him, and leaving me with Catherine’s ill-starred letter in my hand.