CHAPTER XXIX.THE GREATEST ROMANOFF.
M. Sheinwas standing at the foot of the stairs, and there was an expression of triumph on his face. After all, he was but a boy, and my treatment of him had wounded his pride; doubtless, he rejoiced at this opportunity to return to the charge. My own feeling at seeing him was one of relief that I had sent the Swede to the other door; Shein was not keen, but was observant enough to detect Lenk’s nationality in his blond face.
“We meet soon again, M. Shein,” I remarked calmly; “I trust that you have not waited long.”
“A quarter of an hour only, your Excellency,” he replied with an air of importance. “His Majesty the Czar desires your presence immediately at the palace.”
“I am at his Majesty’s disposal,” I said at once, “and will not delay you a moment.”
Leaving him, I gave a few hurried directions to Pierrot in regard to the Swede, and then, returning, went without further delay to the Kremlin. I knew well the significance of the czar’s summons,and prepared myself for the ordeal. I was not without some doubt as to the safety of M. de Lambert and his bride; if by any evil chance they were overtaken or betrayed, I could not judge what would be their fate. My reflections were therefore of a nature that did not permit me to converse with my young companion or even to feel amusement at his evident triumph. He undoubtedly believed that I would have to give a clear account to the czar for all the facts that I had practically refused to give to him, and rejoiced thereat. When we reached the palace, he conducted me to an ante-room off the czar’s private apartments, where he left me to announce my arrival. In a few moments I was admitted to Peter’s presence, and found him sitting in a large chair by the fire. There were one or two attendants in the room, but he dismissed them at my entrance. He was wearing the dress of a common sailor, and his shirt was unbuttoned at the top and without a collar; he had laid aside his peruke, and his dark hair was ruffled as I had often seen it in his stormy moods. In an instant I contrasted him with Mentchikof, in his splendid dress; but the czar’s huge figure had a dignity of its own, which no garb could disguise; there was something in his personality which was profoundly impressive. I advanced within a few feet of him, and, making my salutation, apologized for my appearance, for my boots were splashed from the miry streets.
“I crave your Majesty’s indulgence,” I said, “but I have been out the greater part of the morning, and the weather is intolerable.”
“You are a Frenchman, M. l’Ambassadeur,” Peter replied, “and you are too dainty for the storms of the north. However, you have been active, it seems, or else I am grossly misinformed. I sent to your lodgings for M. de Lambert, and learn that you have hurried him from Moscow; is this true?”
“Your Majesty was urgent about his departure,” I replied calmly, “and it was incumbent upon me to comply; therefore I sent him to Versailles at once.”
The czar was leaning his face upon his hand so that it was shaded from my observation, and I could not read his expression.
“This sounds well, M. le Vicomte,” he said gravely; “but, after all, were you not endeavoring rather to defy me than to obey my wishes? And where is Najine?”
Was it possible that the Zotofs had not applied to him for assistance? I began to feel my way cautiously.
“At this moment, your Majesty, I do not know where she is,” I replied.
He laughed unpleasantly.
“Words, M. l’Ambassadeur,” he said, still shading his face. “Not many hours since Madame Zotof came to me for help to recover her runawayniece, and you claim—I assume—to know nothing of this?”
“Nay, your Majesty,” I returned boldly, “that I do not claim. Mademoiselle Zotof had no great reason to love her aunt, and—”
He interrupted me with an impatient gesture. “You need not tell me that she loves M. de Lambert,” he said harshly, “for she told us all that herself. Her aunt charges her with having gone away with the Frenchman; is it true, M. le Maréchal?”
“It is true,” I rejoined quietly; “failing to obtain her uncle’s consent, she went without it.”
“And also without the ceremony of marriage, her aunt fears,” he said slowly.
“Madame Zotof is cruel,” I exclaimed; “she knows better!”
“Ah!” he ejaculated in a fierce tone, “she was married—where?”
“In the Cathedral of the Assumption,” I answered.
He let his hand fall heavily upon the arm of his chair, and I saw his face plainly, for the first time. It was twitching with that unfortunate convulsion that distorted his features, making his eyes horrible.
“By a priest of my church?” he asked sharply.
I bowed my head in assent, beginning to understand his mood and see the dangers of it.
“What priest of mine dared to perform thatceremony without my consent?” he cried passionately; and I saw that his violent mood was threatening to overwhelm him, yet I regarded him with composure.
“I beg your Majesty’s pardon,” I said calmly, “but it is impossible for me to give you the priest’s name.”
“Impossible!” he thundered, staring at me like an infuriated lion; “you forget that I am the Czar of Russia.”
I made a profound obeisance. “I do not forget it even for a moment, your Majesty,” I replied gravely, “neither can I forget my honor;” and I folded my arms upon my breast and gave him look for look.
“And you dream of defeating my purpose by withholding the man’s name?” he exclaimed with passion.
“Nay, sire,” I returned quietly, “I do not measure my strength with yours, but I will not violate my honor or my word.”
“And yet,” he said fiercely, “you stood by and saw Najine Zotof marry against her uncle’s wishes and without my consent, with no apparent violence to your feelings.” His tone was full of contempt.
“Your Majesty,” I replied quietly, “I judged that you understood mademoiselle’s sentiments after her open declaration for M. de Lambert, and that in giving her his liberty you intended also togive her happiness, since that seems to me the most royal prerogative of kings. To be empowered by the King of kings to give joy to His creatures appears, to my poor mind, the one supreme gift of His anointed. Here were two young people who loved each other, and your Majesty’s benevolence liberated him; it was the completion of your Majesty’s generosity to unite them. I must crave pardon if I have fallen into any error.”
The czar had listened with unusual patience, and was looking at me with keenly observant eyes when I finished speaking.
“You are eloquent, M. l’Ambassadeur,” he said deliberately, “but you see only one side of the question. You forget altogether the feelings of Zotof and his wife, their aims and ambitions for their niece. Najine is a wayward girl, and should have been compelled to obey her natural guardians. It is in my mind to demand that the king my brother return her to me as a rebel against my authority.”
There was nothing for me to say, so that I remained silent and observed him closely, seeing that his mood was changing and that he was swayed by deep emotion. After a moment’s pause he turned upon me abruptly, his eyes flashing.
“What did she see in that boy to love?” he exclaimed with impatience.
I smiled involuntarily. “That is a difficultquestion, your Majesty,” I remarked. “How can I divine what a young maid sees in her lover? The poorest of us is likely to be loved by some woman.”
“All men but the king!” he cried passionately, rising from his seat and striding back and forth before the fire,—“all men but the king! And he must satisfy his soul with the fawning of the poor creatures who would mount upon his shoulders; must quench his thirst with falsehood and feed on treachery. He, of all men, cannot find one honest heart to love him for himself; he, of all men, must live amidst deceit and flattery, with the poisoner’s cup in his kitchen and the assassin’s knife by his pillow. Yet all men envy him!”
He laughed a discordant laugh; nothing could be more passionately bitter than his voice and manner. He paused and gazed at the fire, that was burning low; his great figure looming enormous in the gloomy room, and his head bowed; his breast was heaving with emotion, and his hands were clenched. It was the storm of a great spirit, and I knew that I saw the Romanoff face to face; a man with a man’s heart, imbittered by his disappointment. What thoughts must have been in his mind,—he, the autocrat, outrivalled in a young girl’s heart by a French soldier!
“All men envy the king,” he went on in a deep voice, speaking, it seemed, to himself; “but, by our Lady, there is no beggar more destitute of friends,no beggar more thirsty for the truth! Watched by all men—at once their envy and their dupe; flattered by all—loved by none! Failing to do the work of a god upon earth, he must die at last, cursed by men and welcomed by devils as their vicegerent. Breathing in life the essence of flattery—the greatest of men, the best beloved, the most magnanimous; cursed, behind his back, as the chiefest butcher, the most unjust of judges, the oppressor of the poor and the widow! Accountable for all things in the sight of men and of angels; and, after all, only human—alone, unloved—ay! hated, feared, betrayed. A king on earth, a thief in Paradise!”
He seemed to have forgotten me. His breast heaved, and his strong face quivered. Was this indeed the hour of a king’s reckoning? I watched him with many thoughts crowding into my mind. I saw how deeply he had craved Najine’s love, how much a good woman’s loyal regard would have been to this tempestuous soul. For a time he stood silent, his eyes upon the ground, and then, suddenly awakening from his revery, he directly addressed me.
“M. l’Ambassadeur,” he said in a scornful tone, “you have the reputation of having won a bride at the point of the sword—advise me. Of what effect would be the separation of Najine from her new-made bridegroom? She is a woman; doubtless she would forget him.”
I shook my head. “Nay, your Majesty,” I replied, “she is not of such poor stuff. Hers is a loyal nature, pure and true. She would not forget her husband, and—”
“And what?” he asked quickly, as I paused. “Speak with candor, M. de Brousson.”
“And she would abhor the man who separated them,” I concluded briefly.
He started, and his cheek flushed darkly. “In plain words, monsieur would say that she would abhor me,” he exclaimed.
“We do not so speak to kings, your Majesty,” I said gravely.
“No,” he replied harshly, “to kings all men lie. I sometimes think that they also lie when they pray; for if they strive so hard to appear fair to their sovereigns here, how much more so at the bar of Heaven! Pah! false witnesses and knaves, I would give my right hand for the love of one honest heart!”
“Doubtless, your Majesty has that of many,” I replied suavely; “and from gratitude is born the purest regard.”
“You would suggest that I could merit her gratitude?” he said in a strange voice; then he turned to me with a gesture of passionate despair. “Man,” he cried, “I loved her!”
I stood amazed, and found no words. I felt myself as awkward as the veriest boy. He had declared his unrequited passion, and yet, undignifiedas it seemed, I had never seen him so imperial. All that was violent and coarse was lost to sight. He stood there in his simple dress, his dark hair disordered, his face pale, and his eyes burning. It was the sorrow, the isolation, the passionate disappointment of a great heart; for the Romanoff was, first of all, a man,—genuine, simple, emotional.
“I loved her,” he repeated in his deep voice, “and she is another man’s wife. I, the czar, craved the love of a simple heart, and it is denied me. But,” he added with a sudden fierce change, “it is not yet too late to tear her from her lover’s arms!”
“Your Majesty,” I said slowly, with what composure I could command, “it would be a revenge unworthy of a king, and most unworthy of you. Grief you can bring to her, if the saints permit, for not even you can defy heaven. Earthly loss and desolation you might achieve for her, but rather than her love, you would have her hatred. Czar of the Russias, there is but One, and He is mightier than thou, the King of kings, who alone can dispose the heart of man or woman. Let this young girl go in peace with her husband, and so merit her blessing and her prayers, which will be richer to you than the poor revenge of seeing her broken in spirit and in heart, dreading your name as her greatest scourge; not a loyal subject, but a slave.”
He was silent, and I saw that he struggled with himself.
“A man who can conquer his own heart,” I added, as if speaking to myself, “is worthy indeed to be a king.”
He turned and stood with his back toward me, seeming to look out of the window, and I was silent. There was no sound in the room except the crackle of the log that burned upon the hearth, having fallen among the embers; and I could hear, far off, the murmur of voices, the attendants talking in the ante-room. What would come next? I could not conjecture, but hoped much from his strange mood. I have never forgotten that moment or the scene; the great chamber hung with costly silks, the narrow Russian bed, the imaged figure of Saint Peter suspended above it, and the gray light of a gloomy Russian day shining through the windows. A solitary raven, beaten by the storm, alighted on the window-sill and perched there, looking in and croaking ominously, like some black-gowned and cowled preacher. And the czar—that man whose personality was so great and so peculiar—treated me with the simple familiarity that was one of his characteristics. It was a full quarter of an hour before he turned and faced me; he was strangely pale, and his dark eyes—except in his nervous paroxysms always beautiful—were brilliant withemotion. He waved his hand with a gesture of dismissal.
“Go, M. l’Ambassadeur,” he said; “it is over. Najine shall go in peace. Love and hate cannot touch my heart,” he added with supreme bitterness. “I am not a man—I am the czar!”