having found him so useful, I suffered him to follow me still. It was
fortunate that I did, for as I drew nearer to the palace it occurred
to me that, without Chamberlain Kourbsky, I had no means of reaching
the private audience chamber of the _terem_, and while casting about
in my mind for an expedient that would help me, I bethought myself
of the dwarf’s former place at court. Calling him to me, I told him
that I wanted to enter the _terem_ and see the czarevna, mentioning my
former interview with her, an hour or more before, and explaining my
anticipation of difficulty in obtaining admittance. Maluta listened
attentively, looking up at me sideways, his forehead wrinkled and his
great ears standing out. As I finished, he nodded knowingly.
“You cannot enter by the public way,” he said, at once, “but there is a
way--follow me, excellency.”
We were at the foot of the Red Staircase; above us rose the palace. It
was about two hours before sunset, and the shadows fell long across the
court of the Kremlin. It was the 24th of May, and the aspect of the
place was singularly peaceful; the bells of the Church of Saint Basil
the Blessed began to ring sweetly and softly.
I looked down at the tiny creature at my side.
“You belong to the court no longer,” I said. “How can you obtain
admittance?”
He laughed, malicious mischief peeping out of his sharp eyes.
“They do not know,” he said; “not one usher in fifty knows one of us
from the other, and the dwarfs are always running the secret errands of
their czarish majesties. Trust me, my master. I will take you there.
Why, there is not a secret,” he held his finger up to his lips, “not a
conspiracy up yonder, that we do not know; they cannot deceive us--not
they!”
I believed him, looking at his sharp, malicious little face. How often
do princes pay for spies upon themselves, and nourish vipers in their
bosoms! I shrugged my shoulders.
“Go on, then,” I said, “and be quick!”
He led on past the Red Staircase, skirted the walls of the palace,
came to the rear and there, at a little postern, stumbled upon a crowd
of dwarfs. At the sight of their comrade they yelled shrilly and made
strange gesticulations, but Maluta silenced them by signs, laying his
finger on his lips, his forehead, and his heart, and then pointing
at me. They fell away and let us enter, staring at me, and swarming
in after us, as I have seen bees swarm into a hive. It annoyed me; I
wanted more elbow room, but remembering the difficulties before me,
I tried to endure these little creatures with patience. Once in the
palace we began to ascend a narrow flight of stairs,--the back stairs
of the _terem_,--where many a secret, whether of joy or sorrow or sin,
had crept up and down for years; crept until the marble steps were worn
and lustreless, and the very arches, fluted and dim above us, were
darkened by an atmosphere of secrecy and fear. The pattering of many
little feet behind began to grow more distant and ceased altogether
when we left the swarm at a turn of the stairs, below a landing, where
we came suddenly upon a sentry. He lowered his staff across the narrow
space and would not let us pass, but Maluta threw out his little chest
and strutted, as I have seen game-cocks in the _halles_ of Paris,
and reaching up on tip-toes, he whispered to the soldier, two words
that--for the next few days--were magic in their effect.
“Sophia Alexeievna.”
In an instant the staff was raised, the man saluted, and we passed
safely on, through a dim gallery where, behind closed doors, I heard
the murmur of subdued voices. There was something in the very air of
this part of the palace that choked an honest man; it was a place for
the toads that live upon the sovereign’s bounties and betray him. I was
glad when the dwarf finally entered a wide corridor, lighted by windows
that looked out upon the Red Place, and I saw the sun shining on the
wall beside me, and felt the breeze from an open casement. Halfway down
the corridor we found an usher on duty, and to him Maluta used the same
password, and he opened the door and bowed me into the ante-room of
the very chamber where Sophia and Maître le Bastien still awaited me.
The dwarf’s cleverness had served me well indeed, but I had no time to
thank him. Sophia sat in the carved chair, waiting for me with a face
like a thunder-cloud; and the goldsmith had aged six months in two
hours.
“You are long about your errands, sir,” snapped the czarevna as I
advanced, her little eyes searching me, as keen as two needles. “Where
is Vasili Ivanovitch?”
“He will be here presently, your highness,” I replied evasively; “but
I have brought the miniature,” and I presented it with a profound
obeisance.
I think she was surprised, but she showed no sign of being pleased. She
took it with much deliberation, and turning it over and over in her
hands, examined it jealously, as if she feared either deception or some
injury to the precious picture, but she failed to find even a scratch
upon the ivory. Relieved by this turn of affairs, Maître le Bastien
found his voice.
“If your highness will permit me to take the picture and the locket
back to my shop,” he said, “I will replace the miniature in its former
position with such care that it will not show its removal.”
She cast a strange glance at him over her picture.
“Do you suppose I wish to have it replaced?” she asked scornfully.
“I thought so, madame,” he replied, in evident perplexity.
“Well, I didn’t!” she said acidly, and she looked at the locket
viciously. “Have I not evidence here?” she added.
Maître le Bastien caught my eye, and an expression of deep concern
clouded his face. To both of us came terrible misgivings; the
woman--jealous, powerful, and malicious--was hatching some mischief;
what, we could not easily divine. We stood looking at her, both
stricken dumb, and feeling the helplessness of our position in her
hands, and she eyed us fiercely and keenly, a gleam of amusement on her
face. No one spoke, and for a few moments there was profound silence
and then--suddenly an uproar in the corridor. The czarevna turned her
head sharply and listened, alert and eager, and Maître le Bastien and I
listened, too, for we had an intuition of some impending catastrophe.
We heard doors slam and feet skurrying across the ante-room, and then a
puffing, gasping sound that smote my ear with singular familiarity.
The door burst open, and unannounced and without formality, the fat
chamberlain, Kourbsky, my prisoner of the turret, rushed in, puffing
and panting, his face scarlet, and behind him came two soldiers
guarding two formidable prisoners; the apprentice, Michaud, and our fat
cook, Advotia.
_XII: ADVOTIA AS AN INTERPRETER_
IN spite of the uproar attending the hasty entrance of the chamberlain
and his captives, the czarevna sat unmoved, her fierce eyes fastened on
them.
As soon as he could articulate, Kourbsky pointed at me, with a finger
that trembled with rage.
“Arrest that villain!” he sputtered; “chain him, scourge him! He--he
locked me in a turret room--your highness, he--he left me a prisoner,
and here I find him fawning on your feet! He is a deep, a dangerous
rogue, O Sophia Alexeievna; he stops at nothing, he--he----”
“He--what, sir?” I said fiercely, suddenly dropping my assumed
character and stepping up to him. “What, sir? Speak out--if you dare--a
false accusation against the Marquis de Cernay.”
He staggered back, his eyes starting, fairly frightened into silence,
and I thought I caught a gleam of keen amusement in Sophia’s eyes. I
turned to her with my natural manner.
“Madame,” I said easily, “this gentleman is stout and suffers from
shortness of breath. I found it impossible to carry him about with
me, and left him to rest at our quarters until I had despatched your
highness’ business.”
The chamberlain fell on his knees before Sophia with a thud that shook
the very floor.
“Hear, O Princess!” he said, glaring at me furiously; “the man is a
villain. He locked me in a turret after--after treating me with great
indignity, and, but for that good fellow yonder,” he pointed at the
rogue, Michaud, “I would be there now and, perhaps, murdered. But the
good youth let me out and that woman made known to me many things,
many----”
“For instance, how to cook sterlet!” I interrupted contemptuously.
“Saint Denis!” murmured Maître le Bastien, “be still--your rashness
will cut our throats!”
“She told me what the good youth said; she has learned enough of their
heathen tongue to interpret,” continued Kourbsky, “and if I may speak
privately with your serene highness, I will unfold all--all. I know who
brought the miniature and the locket, and who ordered them changed.”
I stood near Michaud, and at this I turned a fierce look on him.
“Villain,” I said, “for this alone you should hang.”
He looked down sheepishly, but sullen still, and I saw his hands
shaking as if with palsy. He had not counted the cost. Sophia’s silence
during this scene had been singularly ominous, and now she spoke
calmly.
“Go on, Vasili Ivanovitch,” she said; “who brought the locket to the
goldsmith’s house?”
“Princess,” I said, forestalling Kourbsky, but speaking with courtesy,
“permit me to warn you that the knave who has talked with your
chamberlain is but a lying servant, and the woman a cook; neither of
them knows anything of the matter.”
“That is so,” added Maître le Bastien gravely; “these people were never
in my confidence. Your highness may be greatly misled by them.”
But she was too keen to be thrown off the track. She narrowed her small
eyes, drooping her lids, and looked at us, but she signed to Kourbsky
to proceed, which he did joyfully.
“The man tells me--through the woman,” he said, “that the locket was
brought to the shop one afternoon by the Princess Daria Kirilovna.”
I saw the czarevna draw a deep breath, and her eyes sparkled with
something akin to fierce joy. I tried to speak, but she ordered me to
be silent, beckoning to Advotia.
“Come hither, woman,” she said sternly, and then to Michaud, “come
hither also, knave.”
They both obeyed; Advotia dropping on her knees in great agitation, her
fat cheeks quivering, while Michaud--comprehending her gesture rather
than her words--stood forth, half sullen and half frightened. The
princess began to question him in Russ, but as he understood not a word
of what she said, he could only shake his head and stare blankly. Then
she addressed her questions to Advotia.
“So you cook for the Frenchmen?” she said.
“Yes, your highness,” faltered the cook, evidently afraid that her
service would be accounted a crime, “but if your highness is offended
at them, I will cook for them no more--forever!”
“Why not?” asked Sophia maliciously; “could you not the more easily
poison them, if I desired it?”
Advotia stared, and then crossed herself in the orthodox fashion.
“I have never poisoned anyone before,” she said piously; “but if you
desire it, little mother----”
She broke off, folding her fat hands, the picture of submission. _Ma
foi_, I thought, with what security one eats soup in Moscow! But Sophia
received the offer with perfect composure.
“Who brought this locket to the goldsmith?” she asked, showing it.
“The Princess Voronin,” said Advotia, so glibly that I could have wrung
her fat neck for her.
“She knows nothing, Princess,” protested Maître le Bastien, “she was
never in my workshop.”
“You hear what your master says; how do you know, then?” asked the
czarevna of our cook.
“There is a keyhole in the door,” said Advotia, with perfect simplicity.
Sophia cast a triumphant look at us. I, meanwhile, remembered the Boyar
Kurakin’s adventure with the skillet of soup.
“What I did not see, he told me,” our faithful cook continued, pointing
at Michaud, who hung his head now, the picture of dejection; “he told
me secrets for choice morsels; he is a great pig,” she added; “he can
never eat enough!”
“The locket was brought by the Princess Daria Kirilovna, and the
pictures changed by her order,” said Kourbsky triumphantly; “and,” he
added, with unusual penetration, “’tis my belief that yonder rogue,
after locking me in the turret, went to the princess for your beautiful
miniature, little mother, and if your serenity has it now, it is
through his cleverness in getting rid of me.”
“I have the picture,” said Sophia.
Kourbsky’s face beamed. “I knew it!” he exclaimed; “I divined the
manœuvre; my wisdom could not be deceived.”
“You are a fool, Vasili Ivanovitch,” retorted the czarevna sharply.
The poor chamberlain collapsed; even his fat cheeks seemed to shrink
and shrivel. Meanwhile the princess turned to Maître le Bastien and me.
“You deserve the _pravezh_,” she said, in a terrible tone, “but as I
have recovered both the locket and the picture, I will only confine you
for the present that you may plot no more mischief.”
Maître le Bastien protested. “We are French subjects, madame,” he said;
“the King of France----”
“Is in France,” said Sophia arrogantly; “not a word from either of you.
Vasili Ivanovitch, take them to the guard-room and keep the two more
securely than you kept the one, or else----” She raised her eyebrows
and looked at him.
So significant was her expression that poor Kourbsky turned from purple
to white.
“They shall be kept, O Princess,” he stammered; “on my head be it!”
“On your head be it!” she replied, and walked slowly out of the room,
leaving us surrounded by our guards, and at the tender mercy of the
angry chamberlain, who had a double cause to hate us.
_XIII: THE TOCSIN_
IN a little while Maître le Bastien and I found ourselves locked
in an unused guard-room of the _terem_, and for company we had the
rogue, Michaud. If my scorn had not been equal to my anger, I would
have beaten him, but the vermin was not worthy of chastisement from a
gentleman. The goldsmith had seated himself in the centre of the room
at a table, and was strumming on it with idle fingers, his sober glance
bent on the culprit. Michaud, meanwhile, feeling our wrath, and, no
doubt, conscience-stricken, stood in the farthest corner, hang-dog in
expression, his face drawn and his lips bloodless, while he linked and
unlinked his hands before him in a fever of unrest.
“You are an ungrateful dog,” his master said to him at last. “But for
me, you would be grovelling for bread in the gutters of the rue de
Boucherie. I made you.”
Michaud raised his eyes sullenly.
“I did not mean to harm you, Maître le Bastien,” he said. “I did not
know that it would hurt you.”
“You villain!” I exclaimed sharply, “did I not tell you?”
He stared at me. “I did not believe you,” he replied bluntly. “I
thought it was some trick of yours--for your own advancement--and I
would spoil it. I was tired of your airs; you think yourself better
than you are!”
“Silence, you cub,” cried Maître le Bastien; “this gentleman is the
Marquis de Cernay.”
Michaud fell back open-mouthed; his face turning from white to red. His
crazy jealousy of me had made him betray us, and now he was dumbfounded.
“If I had my cane here, I would lay it over the rascal’s shoulders,”
said the Master Goldsmith grimly; “these varlets that insult their
betters deserve hanging.”
“Tut!” I said, laughing; “if it had only been the disrespect to me,
it would not matter; the fellow is not worth the caning, but he has
imperilled a noble lady and lost us our liberty. However, as we cannot
hang him, let his conscience do it, Maître le Bastien.”
“He shall be dismissed from my service without a sou,” said the
goldsmith sternly.
At this the knave began to whimper, overcome with shame and
consternation.
“I vow I meant no harm, but the spoiling of monsieur’s trick,” he
protested. “I did not know what the great brute said, until Advotia
told me, and then he had whistled up his men and had me fast enough. I
do swear to you, Maître le Bastien, that I never dreamed of any peril
for either of you; I thought that M. le Marquis only meant to frighten
me. I am not ungrateful to you, my master, or unfaithful,” and the
fellow drew his sleeve across his eyes.
“Much cause you have to talk of gratitude and faith,” retorted the
master harshly; “you are a rascal from head to heels!”
“Was I a rascal when I stood between you and the dagger on the rue
Saint Denis?” cried Michaud hotly. “Was I a rascal when I nursed you
through the fever at Blois, in ’79?”
Maître le Bastien was silent, his face changing. As for me, I saw now
the whole matter; the fellow had been jealous of his master’s favour.
I was a new apprentice, or claimed to be one, and had been admitted at
once to a greater intimacy and confidence than he had ever attained; I
had eaten at his employer’s table and done no work.
“Let the matter pass, Maître le Bastien,” I said lightly. “He has
erred, and he is like enough to atone for it here. I forgive him--I
pray you, follow my example.”
I did not add that I would never trust the varlet more; it would have
seemed a poor revenge on an inferior.
A cloud passed from Maître le Bastien’s face; he was a man of an
exceeding kind heart, and loved to give or take offence less than any
man I ever saw.
“He must win my confidence again,” he said, relenting; “which will be
no easy matter.”
A deep flush passed over the apprentice’s face.
“I will win it, monsieur,” he said.
Willing to let the matter pass, I walked to the window and looked out,
trying to locate our position in the palace. The room, which was square
and marble-floored, had three narrow windows in it, which were not
barred, but, as I found, too high from the ground for the most daring
to leap from them. I saw that we were in the front of the palace and
our windows all overlooked the Red Place and the Red Staircase. There
were wide sills, wide enough for a man to stand upon, both inside and
out, and beside the third window on the right, a fretwork of iron ran
upward to the roof. I looked at it sharply, to see if it would afford a
possibility of escape, but it seemed too slender to uphold a man, and
besides it ran up, not down, and the chances of escape by the roof were
too remote to tempt anyone to take the risk.
Evening was approaching, and below the court of the Kremlin lay in
the shadow; a purple dimness wrapped the distant places, and swathed
itself, cloud-like, about the foundations of cathedrals and palaces,
creeping upward, as a vapour creeps, while above the white domes and
minarets caught the afterglow, and the golden crosses gleamed against
the deep, clear sky.
I stood leaning on the window-sill, looking down and reflecting on the
strangeness of our position, and deeply troubled, too, over the peril
that I knew threatened the Princess Daria, and that I was powerless to
avert. I could not even warn her. If I could only find Maluta and speed
him on an errand to her, I thought, but the dwarf had disappeared when
I entered the presence of Sophia; and I had no means of communicating
with him. Knowing that accidents of a sudden and mysterious nature
often happened in Moscow, that even the young women chosen as brides by
the various czars had been summarily disposed of by jealous factions
at court, I had no reason to feel comforted in regard to the princess.
That Sophia was jealous of her I could not doubt, and it was not
difficult to conjecture the result, and I was helpless! It was this
that drove me well-nigh to distraction and made me give tart answers
to Maître le Bastien when he began to talk of our situation. Naturally
enough the worthy man thought more of his own peril and inconvenience
than of anything else, and I had no mind to betray the cause of my
uneasiness, so we talked often at cross-purposes, and with little
sympathy.
“This is a most unhappy matter,” he said gravely, “and may end in a
worse way still.”
“It is,” I retorted, “for a woman’s jealousy is like a fire kindled in
a stubble field, and consumes all before it.”
He stared. “I hope the Prince Galitsyn may discover the true situation
and deliver us,” he remarked.
“I hope he may,” I said, “and withdraw his ridiculous pretensions.”
“I do not understand you, monsieur,” replied Maître le Bastien.
“I beg your pardon,” I rejoined, “but we both hope for similar results,
though from different causes, so we are both of the same mind in the
end.”
He looked perplexed. “I do not believe that the czarevna will dare to
carry matters to extremes against two Frenchmen,” he said.
“Bah!” I retorted; “she has no conception of the greatness of France,
of its splendour, its resources, its power! These Russians think that
Moscow is the centre of the earth; their arrogance is absurd!”
“It is,” said the goldsmith; “but it is ever the smallest cock in the
barnyard that crows the loudest.”
I replied in kind, and we continued, for some time, to give vent to our
feelings by similar expressions, and then, finding that no one came to
our relief and that we could not escape, Maître le Bastien produced a
pack of cards from his pocket and we fell to playing picquet as long
as our one taper lasted. As for supper, we had none, and were forced
to go hungry, and to sleep on the wooden settles in the corners; for
they gave us no beds, and we would have suffered from thirst as well
as hunger, if we had not found a pitcher of clear water on one of
the window ledges. In these dismal quarters, therefore, we passed
the night, and, awakening with the sunrise, found the prospect still
unchanged.
Hunger does not mend the temper, and we began the day grumbling at our
treatment, and we were not destined to immediate relief; it was on in
the morning, toward seven o’clock, when the door opened, at last, to
admit Kourbsky and a serf who brought a meagre meal and set it on the
table, so meagre indeed that I began to wonder how three men were to
partake of it, when the chamberlain solved the mystery.
“The master goldsmith comes with me to Prince Galitsyn,” he said
pompously; “his excellency has interceded for him to her serene high
mightiness Sophia Alexeievna.”
Maître le Bastien rose joyfully from his seat at the table and Michaud
and I followed his example, but here Kourbsky interfered.
“The master goldsmith,” he said, “and this man,” pointing at his
favourite Michaud; “but not you,” and he regarded me maliciously.
Le Bastien halted. “We cannot be separated,” he declared generously.
“That is a short-sighted policy, Maître le Bastien,” I said, in French;
“for when you have your liberty, you can obtain mine.”
“You can choose,” said the chamberlain amiably, “between parting with
your apprentice or your head.”
The good goldsmith, though by no means a coward, was not a soldier by
profession, or even a reckless man. He yielded, saying to me in French.
“My first care shall be for you, monsieur.”
“It is well,” I replied, smiling; “but I hope you will first get a
breakfast.”
“Come, come,” said Kourbsky, casting a suspicious glance at me, “we
have no time to lose--forward, march, sir goldsmith!” and he hustled
master and man out of the room.