AN IMPERIAL LOVER
[Illustration: Pierre le Grand.]
AN IMPERIAL LOVER
BY
M. IMLAY TAYLOR
AUTHOR OF “ON THE RED STAIRCASE,” ETC.
[Illustration]
CHICAGO
A. C. McCLURG AND COMPANY
1898
COPYRIGHT
BY A. C. MCCLURG AND CO.
A.D. 1897
_All rights reserved_
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. GUILLAUME DE LAMBERT 7
II. THE GOLDEN HALL 21
III. AUNT AND NIECE 34
IV. THE LIVONIAN PEASANT GIRL 49
V. THE TOWER OF IVAN VELIKI 64
VI. CATHERINE AND THE CZAR 79
VII. THE ENVOY’S CLOAK 93
VIII. A MEDDLESOME COUSIN 106
IX. MADEMOISELLE’S BRACELET 120
X. THE TRYST 131
XI. AN INTERCEPTED LETTER 146
XII. UNDER A CLOUD 160
XIII. TWO WARNINGS 172
XIV. A FAIR REBEL 184
XV. AN IMPERIAL INQUISITOR 196
XVI. A DUEL WITH TONGUES 207
XVII. MENTCHIKOF 223
XVIII. MISSING 233
XIX. THE MARRIAGE OF THE DWARFS 244
XX. THE FAITHFUL SPY 256
XXI. NAJINE 266
XXII. AN INTERVAL OF SUSPENSE 279
XXIII. A FAIR PETITIONER 290
XXIV. A DUEL WITH SWORDS 303
XXV. NAJINE AND HER LOVER 314
XXVI. MADAME ZOTOF 326
XXVII. THE CZAR’S EQUERRY 337
XXVIII. A SON OF MISFORTUNE 346
XXIX. THE GREATEST ROMANOFF 357
XXX. A FUTURE EMPRESS 369
AN IMPERIAL LOVER.
CHAPTER I.
GUILLAUME DE LAMBERT.
TWENTY years had passed since my last visit to Moscow, a visit made
memorable by my marriage with Zénaïde Ramodanofsky. For many reasons
we did not return to Russia until, in the spring of 1703, the King of
France said to me: “M. de Brousson, there is no one else whom I care to
send to Moscow on a delicate mission. You have married a Russian, you
know Russia and the czar. In short, monsieur, I desire that you should
go.”
The year before the king my master had bestowed upon me the bâton of
a marshal of France, a reward for my services with the Marquis de
Villars at the victory of Friedlingen. The king’s favors to me had
been conspicuous; owing him so much, I owed him also a ready obedience
to his wishes, although this second mission to Moscow was far from
acceptable. The king desired to have some one at the Russian Court to
watch the vicissitudes of the northern war. The Czar Peter had joined
the alliance recently formed between Denmark, Brandenburg, and King
Augustus of Poland, against Sweden. He had been drawn into it partly
by his friendship for Augustus of Saxony, the King of Poland, but more
because he desired to recover the Land of Izhora, lost to Russia in
the Troublous Times. France was embarrassed by the war of the Spanish
Succession, which had broken out after King Louis XIV. accepted the
conditions of the will of the King of Spain, Charles II., bequeathing
the Spanish crown to the Duke of Anjou, the son of Monseigneur. It was
because of this imbroglio that the king my master watched with interest
the struggle between the princes of the North, since it diverted
that mad young hero Charles XII. of Sweden from supporting the Grand
Alliance against France.
In the midst of these complications it was my duty to go to Moscow and
observe the course of events, and transact some delicate diplomatic
business with the czar. My mission was a secret one, and I travelled
ostensibly to take my wife to visit the home of her childhood and to
look after some estates recently bequeathed to my son. I was destined
to find an altered Russia since the days of the regency of my old
friend the Czarina Sophia, now imprisoned by her imperial brother in
the Novodevitchy Monastery. Peter’s journey through Europe had inspired
him with a desire for reform, and on his return he swept away the old
régime. The national costume and the beard, sacred in the eyes of the
devout Russian, were sacrificed by this young iconoclast. All the men
about the person of the czar wore German clothes, and shaved their
faces so that the aspect of the court was greatly changed. Peter no
longer permitted forced marriages, and had liberated the women from the
old Eastern seclusion, and they, at least, rejoiced in the fashions of
Europe.
Madame de Brousson and I set out upon our journey north without our
son, a young man of nineteen, who was enrolled in the king’s household
troops and on the road to early preferment. Our daughter remained in a
convent at Paris, for we did not care to take her to the Russian Court.
We were attended by Pierrot, my old and faithful servant, who spoke
the Russian language, and an equerry named Touchet, and my friend and
secretary, Guillaume de Lambert,--a young man of noble family related
to my own, in whom I had become interested. On the field of Friedlingen
he was sent with a message from M. de Villars to one of the squadrons;
when he returned to where the marshal stood, surrounded by his staff,
he was about to present a note from one of the officers, when there was
a flash, and some one cried out that M. de Lambert was wounded. “It
is nothing,” he said with a smile, “but M. le Maréchal must pardon my
left hand;” and he presented his despatches with a salute, but we saw
the blood on his right sleeve, and his arm hung limp, broken by the
shot. From that day I became interested in M. de Lambert. A man who can
endure a broken arm with a smile has the mettle of a soldier in him. As
soon as his wound was healed he served directly under me through the
remainder of the campaign, and we became attached to each other. He
was the very picture of a soldier, of medium height, powerfully built
and athletic, with a handsome face and bright hazel eyes; something of
a gay courtier, but keen, ambitious, and brave to a fault, so that I
forgave the tendency to the fashions and foibles of the day, which my
wife declared I often regarded with too much severity. M. de Lambert
was the figure for a romance, yet little did I suspect the labyrinth
into which he was destined to lead me.
I had supposed that my mission would be speedily accomplished, and
left France in May, expecting to return in two or three months; but
to my chagrin December found me in Moscow, waiting impatiently for my
recall and involved in a domestic drama of a nature far too romantic
and delicate for my taste. I was no longer the hot-headed gallant who
had wooed and won Zénaïde Ramodanofsky. I was now past fifty, a marshal
of France, and a man whose mind was full of many grave problems;
nevertheless M. de Lambert had succeeded in interesting me in his love
affair, and Madame de Brousson was full of sympathy for him,--for, like
all handsome young soldiers, he knew how to win a woman’s friendship.
On our arrival in May we had been introduced to the new court, and
soon became acquainted with the alteration in the manners and customs
of the people. One of the greatest changes seemed to me to be the
freedom permitted to the women, who now appeared at court and at all
the festivals. It was no longer difficult to become acquainted with the
families of the nobility, and M. de Lambert met Najine at the house
of her uncle, M. Zotof. Najine was an orphan, the daughter of Zotof’s
brother Alexis; and, to my discomfiture, my secretary promptly fell in
love with her. At first the incipient romance troubled me but little,
and I thought that his suit would prosper, since I had no doubt that
Mademoiselle Zotof would reciprocate his affection, and the uncle
seemed inclined to regard the young French soldier with favor. M. de
Lambert was noble, brave, and handsome, and there was no reason to
foresee any obstacle to his suit. I was even disposed to regard it with
amusement, as an example of the ease with which some men march on the
road to happiness and fortune. Time was to undeceive me.
My own mission progressed but slowly. The czar was arrogant and
arbitrary, a difficult man to meet on diplomatic grounds and full of a
hot, ungoverned temper. Many times my mind recurred to my old friend
Dr. von Gaden’s estimate of him as a child: ‘a Tartar’ he used to call
him, and a Tartar I found him, though a far different man from the
one pictured by the exaggerated reports current in Europe, which made
him an uncouth and ferocious monster. He was restless,--sometimes at
Preobrazhensky, where he had spent his early manhood; sometimes at
Voronezh, superintending his fleet, for ship-building was his mania;
and sometimes at St. Petersburg, his new city on the Neva, which the
nobility hated. In December he had returned to Moscow, and I was
endeavoring to make the best of my opportunities. In 1698 he had sent
his wife, the Czarina Eudoxia, to the Pokrofsky Convent at Suzdal
in an open postcart, and ten months afterwards she was compelled to
take the vows as the nun Helen,--a practical divorce. Since then his
mistress Anna Mons, a German woman, had been discarded, and there were
rumors that he would marry again. His son by Eudoxia, the Czarevitch
Alexis, who was destined to cause him so much trouble, was already out
of favor; and in fact the shining light at court was the new favorite,
Alexander Danilovitch Mentchikof, who claimed to be descended from a
noble Lithuanian family, but was said to be the son of a pastry-cook.
Mentchikof was the only one who seemed likely to take the place of
Lefort in the czar’s regard.
The difference between the old days and the new was great. My friend
Prince Basil Galitsyn had been sent into exile at the fall of the
regency, and was to die in poverty and obscurity. The old régime was
swept away. I found myself in a network of intrigue and malice, beset
with a thousand annoyances, for the French at that time were regarded
with suspicion at Moscow; the Russians had never forgiven what they
imagined to be the bad treatment received by Sophia’s embassy to
Versailles, which was in reality due to the Russians’ ignorance of
French and their violation of all the etiquette of embassies. I had
asked the king for my recall again and again, but he would not hear of
it, and I was still struggling with my difficulties.
It was near Christmas, and I had been all day at the Kremlin wrangling
with the court officials over the minor articles of an agreement which
had consumed six months in the making and was unmade in six hours. The
obstinacy and the distrustfulness of the Russians made me think of
the Duke de Cröy when he exclaimed at the battle of Narva, “The devil
would not fight with such soldiers!” The Duke de Cröy was the prince of
the Holy Roman Empire into whose hands Peter confided his forces too
late to save them from defeat, and the Russians suspected the foreign
officers of betraying them into the hands of the Swedes.
I returned to my quarters sick at heart and in no pleasant humor.
Madame de Brousson was that day visiting at the house of a friend, and
I found that Pierrot had prepared my supper and had the tapers burning.
I sat down wearily, at first scarcely noticing the absence of M. de
Lambert; but presently I inquired if the young gallant had been there
during the day, but Pierrot replied in the negative.
“He went out early, M. le Maréchal,” he said, “and he has not yet
returned. Touchet attended him.”
“Humph!” I muttered, “little use is Touchet. He stands gaping when a
Russian speaks to him.”
“He is trying to learn the language, monsieur,” Pierrot replied
discreetly, “and he was ever better with his sword than with his
tongue.”
“Just as you were ever better with your tongue than with your sword,
you knave!” I retorted with amusement.
As I spoke, I heard steps in the hall, and Touchet opened the door for
M. de Lambert. The young man came in, arrayed in the richest of court
costumes, his coat of blue velvet and his white satin waistcoat ruffled
with lace, his graceful figure showing to advantage; but his brow was
like a thunder-cloud, and he barely controlled himself to salute me
with respect.
“You are late, monsieur,” I said jestingly; “love is often a laggard
at supper, but yours is wellnigh cold.”
He did not receive my pleasantry in good part, but muttering some
excuse seated himself at the board, and began to eat with the air
of a man with whom the world is at variance. Seeing his ill-humor,
I shrugged my shoulders and let him alone, giving my attention
to my meal, although I was not a little perplexed by his obvious
perturbation, for he was one of the most courteous of companions; and
it was the more incomprehensible because his dress told me plainly that
he had been in attendance either at court or upon mademoiselle. It was
not until Pierrot had retired and we sat over our wine that I addressed
another personal remark to him.
“You are ill at ease, M. de Lambert,” I said lightly.
“Not without reason, M. le Maréchal,” he replied sullenly; “one cannot
see a hawk about a dove without anger.”
“So ho, monsieur!” I said, laughing. “I read the riddle. You have a
rival!”
“Even so,” he replied in a low voice, “and a dangerous one.”
“What!” I exclaimed in surprise, “does mademoiselle regard him with
favor?”
“How can I tell, monsieur?” he retorted impatiently; “few young girls
would regard such a suitor with disfavor.”
I looked at him without understanding.
“Your meaning is obscure, monsieur,” I said.
“Have you not heard, then?” he asked; “it is whispered about already.”
“I did not know that there was any talk about Mademoiselle Zotof,”
I said; “she lives in comparative retirement. The new suitor is of
importance?”
He looked at me with a certain exasperation in his face.
“It is the czar,” he said.
I set down my glass, which had been half-way to my lips. I was
conscious of staring at him with amazement; my mind was really grasping
the situation in terrible detail. Here was a new complication for me. I
knew M. de Lambert, and was fully aware that not even an imperial rival
would daunt his courage, that opposition would only add fuel to the
flame. On the other hand, I knew the czar and the Councillor Zotof, and
I saw a tremendous climax. For my life I could not forbear laughing.
It was so perfectly in harmony with my usual fortune. M. de Lambert
regarded me with a frown.
“I am glad that you find it amusing, M. le Vicomte,” he said, his
temper showing itself.
“I beg your pardon, monsieur,” I said at once, “I do not find your
situation amusing, only my own. Frankly, my friend,” I added gravely,
“I advise you to resign your pretensions to mademoiselle’s hand. It
is impossible to meet a royal suitor on equal terms. You remember the
fate of M. de Bassompierre and the Prince de Condé in the old days, and
we might point a nearer example. Your position is already difficult.
A subject of the King of France and my secretary, you cannot offend
the czar. Mademoiselle Zotof is lovely, but there are many beautiful
maidens in our own country.”
M. de Lambert had risen from his chair and was pacing the room. From my
heart I sympathized with his impotent anger.
“Monsieur,” he said, pausing in front of me, “I have heard of your
romantic wooing. Did you apply the same argument to your own case?”
He had caught me fairly, and I smiled.
“I was a young man, M. de Lambert,” I said lightly, “and my rival was
not a Romanoff.”
He flung out his hands with a gesture of impatience. “It does not
matter, M. le Maréchal,” he exclaimed passionately. “I will not
surrender without a fight.”
“And mademoiselle?” I asked after a moment. “Have you any assurance
that she looks favorably upon your suit?”
He chafed a little under my inquiry, and his color rose.
“I believe that I am not indifferent to her, monsieur,” he answered
proudly.
“Then it is quite another matter,” I said gravely, “but how do you
propose to thwart the czar?”
He knit his brows, and I saw him gnawing his lip. He was violently
angry, and my composure fretted him. He writhed under my
interrogations, as I have seen a high-spirited horse restive under the
whip.
“That is a hard question, M. le Vicomte,” he said angrily; “emperors
and kings take an unfair advantage against honest men. But I am
determined that no man shall blast the future of mademoiselle.”
He was walking to and fro across the room, his face working with
contending emotions. I read his thoughts easily.
“You take a curious view of it, monsieur,” I remarked; “mademoiselle
could hardly desire a more brilliant future than to be Czarina of
Russia.”
He stopped short in his walk and gazed at me fiercely.
“The Czarina Eudoxia still lives, monsieur,” he said, “and you forget
the intrigue with Anna Mons.”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“The czarina is divorced, monsieur,” I said quietly, “and Mademoiselle
Zotof will never share the fate of Anna Mons. Mademoiselle is noble,
and there is no reason why she should not ascend the throne. Peter has
no heir but the czarevitch, and there is little love between the boy
and his father. There is no doubt that the czar will marry again, and
you can scarcely expect that the guardians of any young Russian girl
would prefer a poor French gentleman to the czar. I presume that the
Councillor Zotof is only too anxious to forward the interest of his
niece.”
I saw that his agitation was increased by my argument, and was heartily
sorry for him, even while I felt it my duty to show him the case in its
true aspect.
“There can be no doubt that the uncle is anxious to propitiate the
czar,” he remarked moodily.
He sat down as he spoke, and, leaning his elbow upon the table, shaded
his face with his hand. Remembering the days of my own youth, I pitied
him.
“You have one consolation, monsieur,” I said reassuringly;
“mademoiselle has many rivals. There is scarcely a maiden of noble
blood who will not be presented as a candidate for his hand. I have
heard rumors that his favorite Mentchikof has a candidate for the
czar’s favor, a young woman of obscure origin, Catherine Shavronsky.”
M. de Lambert brightened at this. “I had heard that also,” he said, and
then added dubiously, “there is no chance that she can outshine Najine.”
I rose from the table.
“A lover’s view of it, monsieur,” I said, smiling, and then added with
a sudden impulse of sympathy: “mademoiselle is indeed lovely, but her
beauty has a purity and delicacy that may be less attractive to her
imperial suitor than the coarser charms of Mentchikof’s candidate. Take
heart, monsieur; even a czar can fail in affairs of love!”