THE TRIUMPH OF BARANOFF
From the balcony the Czar withdrew to a stately hall to receive in
audience his late father’s ministers.
As they advanced, one by one, Alexander with gracious air bade each
continue in the exercise of his office. When, however, Baranoff
approached, the Czar’s countenance underwent a change, and the Count
recognised that his dismissal was at hand. The Franco-Russian Alliance
had been mainly due to him, and it was no secret that Alexander had
viewed it with disapproval.
“Count,” the Emperor began, “your policy in the past——”
But at this point Baranoff, though it be contrary to all Court etiquette
to stop a sovereign in the middle of a remark, boldly made interruption,
recognising that if his dismissal were once pronounced Alexander could
not, without loss of dignity, revoke it.
“_My_ policy, Sire,” said he, emphasising the first word. “Your Majesty
errs in ascribing to me a policy of any character soever, other than
this, ‘The King’s will is the highest law.’ He surely is the best
minister who obeys his sovereign without questioning.”
Alexander wavered. There could be no doubt that the war with England had
been the policy of his father.
Baranoff took courage from Alexander’s hesitancy.
“Let me retire from office. I stipulate only that you shall write across
my _congé_, ‘Dismissed for being faithful to a Czar.’”
“Fidelity to a sovereign may be carried too far,” said Alexander, who had
not forgotten the lessons of his Republican tutor, La Harpe.
“True, Sire,” replied Baranoff, who knew how to trim his sails to meet
the changing breeze. “And, therefore, when fidelity ceased to be a virtue
I withdrew my allegiance.”
“Since when did you withdraw your allegiance from Paul?” sneered
Benningsen.
“Since yesterday at three in the afternoon,” retorted Baranoff. “Sire, in
dismissing me you dismiss the man to whom you owe both life and throne.”
“Why, this is the language of treason,” said Benningsen, fingering
the hilt of his sabre and much regretting that he could not deal with
Baranoff as he had dealt with Voronetz.
“Speak on,” said Alexander, mentally contrasting the Count’s deference
with the General’s _brusquerie_.
Benningsen and Pahlen were both disposed to play the master; it might
be well, then, to have in the ministry a counterforce in the person of
Baranoff.
“Seeing that your father Paul,” continued Baranoff, addressing the Czar,
“imprisoned you and the Grand Duke Constantine for a trifling breach of
military etiquette, to what point would his anger have risen had he known
that you were at the head of a conspiracy formed to deprive him of his
crown?”
The ministers interchanged significant glances.
“I repeat it, Sire, that you and all here present owe your lives to my
forbearance.”
“Explain.”
Baranoff drew forth the document containing the signatures of the
conspirators, and laid it upon the table before the Czar.
“This paper came into my hands yesterday at three in the afternoon.”
As a matter of fact he had not seen it till eight hours afterwards, but
he wanted to make the best of his case.
“Had I shown this to the Czar Paul, what would have been the result?”
“Why _did_ you suppress it if you were so faithful to him?” asked
Alexander, toying with the paper.
“Consider, Sire!” returned Baranoff with an air of lofty
disinterestedness. “Had I so acted, your life as well as the lives of the
other signatories, would have been forfeited. I shrank from filling the
city with the noblest blood of the State. And yet, to throw in my lot
with your party would have been ingratitude to my Imperial master. Hence
I took the only course consistent with honour. I remained neutral.”
“Among the Athenians,” remarked Pahlen, “he who remained neutral received
punishment.”
“The usage of an ancient heathen city is no precedent for a modern
Christian state,” was the reply, a reply that drew a secret curse from
Pahlen, who saw that the Czar was being won over by Baranoff’s tongue.
“Yes, Sire, the triumph of either side being distasteful to me, I held
aloof from both. Happily, the course of nature has prevented you from
lifting an unfilial hand against your sire. Who is so dull as not to see
the hand of Providence in this sudden demise of his Majesty?”
While speaking, Baranoff cast at the ministers a covert smile, that
caused Pahlen to murmur in Benningsen’s ear:—
“This fellow suspects.”
“What matters, so long as the Czar condones.”
Baranoff was an accomplished hypocrite. None who saw his bearing in the
presence of Alexander would have suspected that only two hours before he
had set off from the Citadel, intent on destroying the very Prince whose
favour he was now so anxious to win.
Entirely deceived by Baranoff’s air of sincerity, Alexander was more than
half disposed to retain him among his ministers, though well aware how
displeasing this would be to the rest.
Baranoff, growing more elated as he beheld the disconcerted looks of the
ministers, now ventured upon a very bold stroke indeed.
“How faithfully I have watched over, not only Paul’s interests, but your
own, I can clearly show, if your Majesty will permit me to speak with you
only.”
A murmur of protest arose from the Ministry.
“Let what you have to say be said openly,” remarked Pahlen.
“The matter is for the Czar’s ear only,” retorted Baranoff, with an air
of dignity. “It is for his Majesty to disclose it afterwards if he
pleases. I trust your Majesty will grant me this favour, the last perhaps
that I may ask.”
There was in Baranoff’s manner something that convinced the Czar that
he _had_ an important matter to communicate, that were better heard
secretly, too.
“We will humour you,” said Alexander, who proceeded to make good his word
by calling upon the rest of the Ministry to retire to the ante-chamber.
“What tale hath that knave to tell?” muttered Pahlen. “His subtle tongue
will be our undoing. He’ll keep his place, and we shall see a continuance
of the war.”
In which forecast the chancellor was destined to prove a true prophet.
“Now, Count,” said Alexander, as soon as the door had closed, “we are
alone. What is it you would say?”
“The matter is one that concerns your honour, Sire. Hence my reason for
this secrecy.”
“Be brief.”
“It is with pain and regret, your Majesty, that I bring an accusation
against one of the Imperial house.”
For a moment the Czar looked as if he doubted his own hearing.
“Accusation?” he exclaimed haughtily. “Of what nature?”
“Ah! Sire, I fear to say, knowing what a blow it will be.”
“Tush! Am I a child? The weakling king who desires to hear nothing but
what is pleasant will never hear the truth. What is this accusation?”
“It concerns the honour of a lady, who—how shall I say it?”
“Go on,” said Alexander sharply, as Baranoff paused again.
“Your Majesty will surely understand me when I say that she whom the Czar
loves should keep herself sacred to the Czar.”
His Majesty _didn’t_ seem to understand, to judge by his perplexed looks.
“What would you imply?”
“Knowing, Sire, how great is your love for the Grand Duchess Marie—your
pardon, I ought to call her——”
“Is this a time for titles? You would accuse _her_? Of what? Speak out,
and speak the truth; for, as there is a God above us, you receive a
stroke of the knout for every false word.” He spoke in real anger, but
beneath it all it was easy to see there lurked a fear that what Baranoff
would say might prove true. “Of what would you accuse her?”
“Of letting her love wander from the Czar.”
“To whom?”
“To an Englishman.”
“His name.”
“Lord Courtenay.”
It seemed as if the name were familiar to the Czar; at any rate he asked
no question as to who Lord Courtenay might be.
“Your proofs?” he asked, affecting a disdain that did not deceive
Baranoff.
“She wears at her heart a locket containing his portrait.”
“Natural that she should preserve some souvenir of a man who once saved
her life.”
“Sire, a fortnight ago she obtained Paul’s sanction to leave St.
Petersburg for a few days. Why?”
“For prayer and meditation in the Convent of the Ascension.”
Baranoff smiled satirically.
“In returning she stopped at a wayside hamlet, named Gora, and stayed for
the night at an inn called the Silver Birch.”
“You are telling me what I already know.”
“Do you know this, Sire, that Lord Courtenay was at this inn on that
self-same night?”
No, the Czar did not know that, if one must judge by his startled look.
“Did they see each other?”
“Sire, in the dead of the night he was seen stealing from her
bed-chamber.”
“A lie as black as hell!” cried Alexander in a sudden blaze of wrath,
the more striking from his previous enforced calmness. Unable longer to
control himself he sprang to his feet, at the same time half-unsheathing
his sword, as if with the intention of striking the other dead. Then, as
reason asserted itself, the weapon slid from his relaxed fingers down
into its scabbard again, and the Emperor resumed his seat, glancing at
the door as if fearing lest his voice should have reached the ears of his
ministers in the ante-chamber.
“If it be a lie, ascribe it not to me, but to Prince Ouvaroff, from whom
I receive the story.”
“I will hear Ouvaroff. I will examine him—by torture if necessary. If you
and he are found to be liars, you die. If you speak truth——But I’ll not
think _that_, yet. Where is this Lord Courtenay at the present time?”
“In St. Petersburg, Sire, at the French Embassy.”
“The French Embassy! How comes he to be there?”
Baranoff explained the circumstances.
“What was the Baroness’ motive for this act?”
The Count shrugged his shoulders.
“Mischief, pure mischief! Pauline de Vaucluse is sometimes a woman,
and sometimes a girl. As a girl she delights in offering defiance to
established authority. ’Twas unwise of the Marquis to countenance his
daughter’s action, for whatever secret this Englishman happens to pick up
at the Embassy will soon be transmitted to his own government.”
“How? You think him to be a spy?”
“I _know_ him to be such,” replied Baranoff, who, always able to lie
like truth, was on this particular morning quite surpassing himself.
“This Lord Courtenay, who wanders about Europe, ostensibly in search of
adventure, whose rank procures him admission to the highest circles, is
in reality a secret agent of the British Government. Young, handsome,
accomplished, and of noble birth, he is the very person to take a
woman’s fancy. By some means he has got to know of the Duchess Marie’s
infatuation for him, and he comes to St. Petersburg with the subtle view
of using her as a medium for acquiring State secrets. Be sure, Sire, that
whatever matters you communicate to her will soon become his, to be
transmitted to his master, Pitt.”
“That same Pitt,” said the Czar, darkly, “with whom Pahlen bids me make
peace!”
“Bids, or—advises?”
The Czar compressed his lips significantly. Baranoff smiled to himself.
It was clear to him that Pahlen was disposed to play the master over the
youthful sovereign, and that the youthful sovereign did not like the yoke.
“I have shown you, Sire, the infamous methods to which an English premier
resorts. And yet you will make peace with him, merely because Pahlen
urges you?—An ill precedent to set at the beginning of a reign! The
ministers of a Czar are his servants, not his counsellors. The sovereign
who accepts advice is not the ruler, but the ruled.”
And then, in defiance of his own words, Baranoff proceeded to give advice.
“Will you reverse your father’s policy all in a moment? despatch a
courier to the First Consul to break off the alliance, even before your
royal sire is laid in his grave? Will this be decent?”
Much more to the same point flowed from his lips. His specious pleading,
but especially his lies concerning Wilfrid, began to tell upon Alexander,
causing his young and plastic mind to waver from its friendly attitude
towards Britain. Why not let the war continue—for a time at least, if
only to teach his peace-advising ministers that the Czar’s will must be
supreme?
Wilfrid’s love-affair was a matter unknown to the European chancelleries
of that day. It would have surprised them—it certainly would have
surprised Wilfrid—to know that it was a potent factor in shaping the
foreign policy of the Czar. Another proof that great events spring from
trifling causes. Did not all the wars of the Grand Monarch originate in a
dispute about a window?
At this juncture there came a knock at the folding-doors followed by the
entrance of two chamberlains, who, bowing low, announced that the new
Czarina desired to speak with the Czar, whom she had not seen since his
accession.
Alexander received this message with a frown.
“I am occupied on matters of State, and cannot see her now.”
In the ante-chamber, arrayed in deep mourning that enhanced, rather
than detracted from her beauty, stood Alexander’s wife, the youthful
Elizavetta, receiving with a gracious air the congratulations of the
ministers on her accession to Imperial rank.
Upon this little circle the Emperor’s cold and curt message fell like a
bolt from the blue.
Too proud to venture into Alexander’s presence after such a rebuff, the
Empress turned away, affecting an air of unconcern, though in her eyes
could be seen the glitter of tears.
“The devil!” growled Benningsen. “Baranoff has the laugh on us. He has
become of more moment than the Czarina herself!”