CHAPTER XVII.MENTCHIKOF.
Anhour after daybreak, Touchet came to me with the information that one of the imperial equerries was in waiting. I had been endeavoring to snatch a few hours’ rest, but roused myself at once, and throwing on some clothing went out into thesalonand received the czar’s messenger. He was a young fellow, who had been instructed to see me before delivering his document,—a packet with the imperial seal. I was not surprised, on opening it, to find M. de Lambert’s passports, with a formal note to me requesting that the young man be sent at once to France.
“M. de Lambert is absent,” I said to the equerry, “but as soon as he returns I will inform him of the czar’s pleasure.”
The Russian seemed satisfied with my assurance, and with a few civil words departed, evidently having been instructed to serve his notice with all due respect to me.
The whole affair was profoundly annoying, and I wished from my heart that M. de Lambert had found it convenient to fall in love at home. I was well aware that nothing but force would inducehim to leave Moscow at this crisis, and bitterly repented my folly in bringing a young court gallant in my suite. How to get him out of the imbroglio with a whole skin was a difficult question, and I was not reassured by the thought that Catherine Shavronsky was still under a cloud. I determined to see Mentchikof at my earliest opportunity and feel his pulse on the situation. His threats against mademoiselle were not to my comfort, but I was convinced that he would never resort to extreme measures while there was a possibility of reinstating the Livonian in favor.
The day passed without event, and the inaction of all persons concerned was not altogether satisfactory. I feared that some trouble was brewing, and was not quieted by the delay in the return of M. de Lambert; he and Pierrot did not arrive until the following morning. They were travel-stained and weary, but exultant; they had conducted mademoiselle safely to her aunt at Troïtsa. Before allowing M. de Lambert to remove the dust of the journey, I handed him the czar’s document without comment, watching his face while he read it. His expression was both scornful and perplexed, and his cheek flushed scarlet as he flung the packet on the table.
“Ma foi!” he exclaimed with impatience, “the czar takes me for a fool if he fancies that I can be packed off at his pleasure and leave mademoiselle to his tender mercy!”
“You forget, monsieur,” I said gravely, “that he is master here.”
“I do not forget,” he returned passionately,—“parbleu!it is thrown in my teeth at every turn,—but I am a French soldier, and forty czars shall not intimidate me.”
“Bravo, monsieur!” I retorted, clapping my hands; “but how do you propose to beard the lion in his den?”
“I will find a way to defeat him,” he replied quietly; “he cannot always conquer circumstances.”
While he was talking, Touchet came to the door and addressed him.
“There is a youth below, sir,” he said, “who would speak with you alone.”
M. de Lambert looked up in surprise. He had not had the opportunity to lay aside his cloak, and he picked up his sword from the table and started, as he was, to the door.
“Be careful,” I said to him at once; “you are in a delicate position—take no hasty step.”
“It can be nothing of importance,” he replied, “but I thank you for the caution, M. le Maréchal.”
With those words he went down the stairs to the door, and, Pierrot at the moment bringing in my breakfast, I sat down by the fire to eat it, while my equerry, giving place to Touchet, went to seek a little rest himself. In a moment Zénaïde came in through the corridor and joined me at the table.
“Who went out the door, Touchet?” she asked.
“M. de Lambert is talking to a lad there,” I explained.
“Not now,” she said at once; “some one went out and closed the door.”
I rose and went to the window in time to see M. de Lambert walking away alone and at a rapid pace.
“On some fool’s errand,” I muttered to myself, and went back to the chair, explaining the departure with impatience.
Zénaïde looked disturbed, and was yet more troubled when I found an opportunity to show her the passport.
“You should not have allowed him to go unattended, Philippe,” she said gravely; “he is surrounded by dangers and so rash and headstrong.”
“By all the saints, madame!” I exclaimed, “I cannot be his guardian. He has been here scarcely more than a quarter of an hour, and has not removed the dust of his long ride; how could I foresee his immediate departure?”
Madame de Brousson sighed. “I feel as if we were responsible for him,” she remarked pensively, “and you and I both know the methods here more thoroughly than he.”
“I am half thankful for his passports,” I grumbled, “since Russia is no place for a young courtier.”
As I spoke, I looked up and caught my wife’s eyes fixed upon me with an arch glance of amusement. She laughed softly.
“If you had possessed your mature wisdom twenty years ago, M. le Vicomte,” she said gravely, “we should never have met.”
I had risen from my chair and I made her an obeisance.
“I am convicted, madame,” I replied with mock gravity, “and crave your permission to withdraw.”
Touchet came, at the moment, with my mantle and sword, and, taking him for an attendant, I went to Mentchikof’s house. As I approached it, I noted with amusement the certain indications of the humor of a court. A week before, he had been the czar’s favorite, the patron of a beautiful woman who was likely to be the successor of Anna Mons, and the courtyard and hall had been crowded with courtiers and those miserable creatures who fawn upon the man of the hour. But for a few days the sunshine of imperial favor had been obscured, and lo, the gay host of butterflies had fluttered to some brighter spot. The entrance was deserted, and a solitary usher conducted me through the splendidsalonsto the small room in the wing where the great man worked alone. I had not seen Mentchikof since the day that we parted on his stairs, with his veiled threat against mademoiselle in my ears, and I approached him now with some feelings of curiosity. How wouldthe pampered favorite endure this season of neglect? how would the darling of a court face the solitude of a discarded counsellor? Without any ceremony, the usher threw open the door and I stood face to face with Alexander Mentchikof. He sat in a large chair by his writing-table, in an easy attitude; his left elbow resting on the arm of his chair, his right arm thrown across the table; the pen, still wet with ink, in his fingers, while his left hand supported his chin, for his head was bent in thought and his fine face was unusually grave in its repose. His rich dress of black velvet was arranged as carefully as if for some court function, and the blue ribbon of the Order of Saint Andrew showed on his breast. He greeted me without emotion and with his usual urbanity, asking me to be seated.
“There are chairs in plenty to-day, M. le Maréchal,” he remarked, smiling, as he glanced at the vacant room; “you find my state reduced, and my friends”—he laughed, looking at me with those keen brilliant eyes, “my friends are running for a safer covert. It reminds me of an ancient legend,—of a great lion to whom all the beasts, through fear, paid court. The lion had a favorite, a mouse, whom he guarded tenderly, and all the other beasts paid homage to it, telling it that it resembled its patron, until the mouse, through conceit, offended, and the lion deserted it in anger. Immediately all the beastsdeparted, save one, who swallowed the wretched little mouse. Presently, the lion, returning, found his pet gone, and was enraged, and fell upon the beast who had eaten it, and tore him and drove off the others, and was afterwards a scourge because no animal dared any more to try to soothe his mood.” Throwing out his hands with a gesture of disdain, he added, “I am waiting to be devoured.”
“It is easy to draw a parallel,” I said thoughtfully, “for afterwards no man will rule the heart of this lion.”
He laughed bitterly. “Fools rush upon their fate, M. le Maréchal,” he rejoined; “each man thinks that he is born to scale the dizzy heights of fame. The greater the fool, the more eager he is for the attempt. Unhappily, they find their error out too late, and run headlong to their ruin.”
“I have often considered whether it was worth while or not,” I remarked quietly, “the glitter of a court dazzles, but its honors are hollow.”
Mentchikof smiled. “It is easy to philosophize in the hour of good fortune, M. l’Ambassadeur,” he replied dryly, “but in the day of evil it is difficult to apply it. We who have tasted the sweets of power find the loss a bitter one. However, sometimes our friends desert too soon, and Fortune changes when it is least expected.”
“It will be so with you, monsieur,” I said withconviction; “meanwhile I find myself also in embarrassment. This morning I received this communication from the czar.”
He held out his hand for the papers with an expression of curiosity; he was far from suspecting their contents, for, after glancing over the documents, he looked at me in open astonishment, smiling a little at the gravity of my face.
“When a man is a king, it is easy to dispose of rivals, monsieur,” he remarked quietly; “it makes the less fortunate envious.”
I laughed. “The case is peculiar, however,” I replied, “for M. de Lambert is a young hot-head and ill to guide; it will be difficult to send him away. I have had some hope that this order might be reversed or, at least, a delay permitted.”
“It might have been,” Mentchikof replied thoughtfully; “but, unhappily, Mademoiselle Shavronsky’s folly has made it impossible for me to arrange it. His Majesty would be instantly suspicious of any interference on my part. I fear, M. le Maréchal, that the young man must go.”
I did not reply at once, and he folded the papers gravely and returned them to me; as he did so, he glanced at me keenly and smiled.
“Where is Mademoiselle Zotof?” he asked abruptly.
For the moment I was taken unawares and hesitated to reply, and he laughed.
“You must inquire of the Councillor Zotof,” I said with composure, meeting his eye.
“If rumor makes no mistake, sir,” he rejoined quietly, “the councillor is anxious to know.”
I had risen to take my leave. I was disappointed at the failure of my effort, and no longer disturbed by his inquiry.
“You ask a good deal, monsieur,” I remarked calmly. “If the young lady’s uncle cannot find her, certainly a stranger could not.”
He was still laughing softly and regarding me from beneath his drooping lids.
“The czar may not think the same,” he said gently, “and it will be difficult to avoid an explanation. As your friend, M. le Maréchal, I warn you.”
I thanked him and withdrew, satisfied that he was really unable to prevent M. de Lambert’s dismissal, but still gravely uncertain of his intentions toward Najine. He would never accept his defeat with resignation, and I had no doubt that he and Catherine were deep in plot and counterplot. Meanwhile M. Guillaume would remain in Moscow at his peril, and I shared Zénaïde’s feeling of personal responsibility. I must send him away at once, or conceal him; and he would dispute either expedient. Never was man more perplexed than I, as I walked slowly toward my quarters. Mademoiselle, for the time, was safe, but it was manifest that the Livonian girl was still out of favor,and the czar’s fancy for Najine was likely to prevail; and, after all, would she still persist in her repugnance to a crown?
When I entered the house, Pierrot met me with a grave face.
“M. de Lambert has not returned,” he said quietly, “and he went out without eating a morsel.”
I paused to think. It was not reassuring, and yet there was a possibility that there was no cause for apprehension.
“We will give him a few hours more, Pierrot,” I said; but I was ill at ease.