THE GOLDEN HALL.
THE morning after M. de Lambert’s disclosure the czar held an audience
at the Kremlin. All ambassadors and special envoys were expected to be
present, and though I laid no claim to either title I was privileged
to appear. I saw that M. de Lambert was anxious to shirk the duty of
attending me, but I was determined that he should not remain behind,
for I foresaw future trouble from his excited mood, and was convinced
that it would be necessary to keep him under my own eye. Therefore,
a little before nine o’clock, we left our quarters and proceeded to
the Kremlin. It was a frosty morning, and we felt the need of our
heavy cloaks. The sky was gray,--that cold, even gray that makes the
Russian winter so gloomy. The snow was deep, and the domes and turrets
of the Kremlin and its fanglike battlements were sheeted in ice. M.
de Lambert was still in an angry humor, and muttered some curses on
Russian weather which made me smile, for a few days before he had been
delighted with Moscow: a lover’s mood is as variable as the favor
of his mistress. I could not forbear tormenting him a little with an
occasional taunt that made the blood rise to his hair and his brown
eyes kindle with a dangerous light. His was one of those sensitive,
fiery spirits that flash out in quick resentment, and Madame de
Brousson accused me of playing with his mood as a cat would worry a
mouse, and yet the young fellow stood high in my esteem. However, he
took my pleasantry so ill that morning that I let him have his way at
last, and we accomplished the rest of our walk in silence. When we
arrived at the Granovïtaïa Palata, the entrance to the Golden Hall was
crowded, for the guards still stood before the door. However, we came
at the appointed hour, and in a moment the doors were opened and the
throng admitted. It was a splendid spectacle, the vast golden hall with
its arches supported by a central pillar, and upon the arches were
inscribed ancient legends in Slavonic characters, and here and there
was a darkly rich painting in the golden vaults; it made a magnificent
background for the brilliant scene. All the men of note in Moscow were
there, foreign residents, ambassadors, gallant soldiers, gay courtiers.
I noticed at once the czar’s especial coterie, the Princes Dolgoruky,
Repnin, and Kurakin, Prince Ivan Troubetskoy, Andrew Matveief, the son
of the old chancellor, Prince Boris Galitsyn, the cousin of the exile,
Count Feodor Apraxin, and the new favorite, Alexander Mentchikof. In
the center of the room stood the czar, a conspicuous figure. Peter was
now thirty-one years old, and there was something in his appearance
that suggested at once his tremendous personality. His stature was
immense, nearly seven feet; his deep chest and powerful limbs showing
his great strength, while his presence was commanding. His forehead
was high, and he wore an unpowdered brown peruke, which was too short
for the prevailing fashion. His complexion was of a clear olive tint,
and his nose short and thick at the end, and his lips full. His eyes
were handsome, large, dark, and brilliant, reminding me of those of
his mother, the Czarina Natalia, but unfortunately affected by the
_tic_ which occasionally convulsed his features. He had suffered from
a nervous affliction, accompanied by a twitching of the face and
body, since he had been poisoned in his youth. His dress was usually
conspicuous for its simplicity and carelessness, for he seemed to scorn
the insignia of rank, and, in the midst of that brilliant assemblage,
he wore a close-fitting brown coat with gold buttons, a linen collar,
and no cuffs, his waistcoat, breeches, and stockings being as plain
as his coat, which was unbuttoned. He wore no jewels, only the blue
ribbon of the Order of St. Andrew which he had created, and of which
he was the sixth knight, having received it at the first Russian naval
victory over the Swedes, off the Vassily Island in the Neva, in
1702. About his neck was suspended an ancient Greek cross of metal,
which subsequently became famous as his ornament at the victory of
Poltava. A man of coarse and even brutal instincts, who could look with
indifference upon torture and execution, yet withal the ruler born. As
I looked at him, it seemed to me a question whether the young Frenchman
at my side, undistinguished save by personal bravery, could rival this
august personage in the fancy of a young and probably ambitious woman.
The czar was no contemptible tyrant, but a suitor who might dazzle the
imagination of a girl. He was royal, and his person was conspicuous
for those very qualities of manly endurance and strength which usually
attract the eye and fancy of the fair sex.
My personal relations with Peter were cordial. His temperament and
manner were alike frank and unconventional. He had an indifference to
the forms and ceremonies of a court, and his love of freedom had led
him into many a mad frolic in the German suburb. Indeed it had been
whispered that these frolics, and the intrigues connected with them,
were at the root of the trouble between him and the Czarina Eudoxia.
That morning he greeted me with a little constraint, and I noticed his
hawklike eye resting for an instant on M. de Lambert, who stood behind
me, and who made his salutation with an air of gloomy dignity. At the
time Peter was conversing with two or three officials who stood about
him, and some moments elapsed before he had an opportunity to speak
to me. After a little while, however, the others fell back, and the
czar, finding himself for the instant alone, addressed me with some
abruptness.
“A word with you, M. le Maréchal,” he said; “you have a young gentleman
in your suite, M. de --”
“M. de Lambert, your Majesty,” I said, supplying the name, as he
hesitated and waited for it.
“Ah, yes, M. de Lambert,” he continued; “is he your nephew or your
son-in-law?”
“Neither, your Majesty,” I replied; “he is a distant connection of my
family, and an officer of the household troops of the King of France.”
“Of noble blood, then,” the czar remarked, while I marvelled and tried
to divine his drift; “a good soldier, I presume?”
“A gallant one,” I replied at once, a little relieved at the turn of
his questions.
He paused and turned a searching glance on my face.
“A gallant soldier is always admirable in the eyes of the fair ladies,
M. de Brousson,” he continued deliberately; “perhaps it would be well
for you to remind M. de Lambert that while he is in Moscow I would
prefer to see him in his character of an attendant upon the envoy of
the King of France and not as an esquire of dames.”
I felt the blood rising on my cheek under the czar’s keen eyes. I was
angry, but I made an obeisance.
“Your Majesty’s wishes shall be respected,” I said calmly.
“You understand me, monsieur,” he went on coolly; “I rely upon
your amiable discretion. It is my good fortune to have so astute a
representative of the Court of France.”
Dolgoruky had approached while he was speaking; and when the czar
turned to address the prince, I took the opportunity to withdraw
a little from his immediate vicinity. I was angry and at the same
time amused. It was apparent that he regarded M. de Lambert as no
contemptible rival. It was equally obvious that the autocrat would
brook no interference in his dovecote, and my amusement threatened to
imperil my gravity. I was making an effort to pass through the crowd
unobserved and so effect an escape to some spot where I might consider
the situation, but I was not destined to accomplish my purpose.
Mentchikof met me on my way to the door, and laid a detaining hand on
my arm.
“I would speak with you a moment, M. le Maréchal,” he said pleasantly;
and we turned aside into a recess where we were practically alone.
“I have but just spoken to your young friend, M. de Lambert,” he began.
“_Ma foi!_” I exclaimed impatiently, “M. de Lambert is the only man
living to-day. Upon my soul, I did not know that he was so important.”
Mentchikof regarded me gravely, a certain intelligence in his glance.
“He is a very accomplished young gentleman,” he said, smiling, “and I
understand that he is betrothed to Najine Zotof.”
Now, I knew that Mentchikof was aware that there was no formal
betrothal, and I began to suspect his motive. Bearing in mind the
czar’s words, I was cautious.
“It is news to me, monsieur,” I said with assumed surprise; “surely M.
de Lambert did not inform you?”
Mentchikof shrugged his shoulders.
“Not in words, M. le Maréchal,” he replied suavely; “but such things
cannot be hidden. The little birds about a court carry the news.”
I felt a strong desire to make him drink of his own medicine and
replied in kind.
“It is sometimes dangerous, monsieur,” I said, “to listen to the
whispers of such little birds. In France I have known it to cost a man
his head.”
He flushed a little, and I saw a gleam of anger in his eyes; but he was
too astute to allow me to ruffle his serenity.
“An easy way of removing his ears, monsieur,” he replied calmly, “but I
regret to hear that there is so little foundation for my information.
I regret it, you understand. M. le Vicomte, it seemed to me, and to
others, that Najine Zotof’s marriage with M. de Lambert would be a
subject for rejoicing. I trust that it may yet be arranged.”
I looked at him keenly. While I thought that I understood his motive, I
was far from feeling any confidence in him.
“I am not here to arrange marriages, monsieur,” I said calmly, “but to
direct some business matters of my own.”
He smiled. “Twenty years ago, M. le Vicomte, you managed to accomplish
both missions with conspicuous success.”
I was accustomed to these references to my romantic marriage, and
accepted them in good part.
“I had a greater temptation then,” I said lightly.
“Nevertheless,” he continued persistently, “you cannot be without
interest in the welfare of your friend; and I have heard that the young
woman reciprocates his affection, and it is a genuine romance.”
“You are marvellously well informed, monsieur,” I replied serenely;
“for my own part, I do not pretend to know so much of such delicate
matters.”
“You tax my credulity, M. le Vicomte,” he said. “It is impossible for
me to believe that a man of your sagacity can be both blind and deaf.
M. de Lambert has made friends here, and we desire to see him happily
united to Najine Zotof; but it is well in Russia to accomplish these
things speedily and quietly. You doubtless understand me, monsieur.
There are many who approve of the marriage; it is not impossible to
accomplish now; later it might meet with grave opposition. I speak to
you as M. de Lambert’s friend and natural adviser.”
“I thank you, monsieur,” I rejoined with composure; “but why should I
counsel a Frenchman to contract a marriage which may meet such serious
opposition?”
His face hardened, and he looked at me sternly.
“You know Najine,” he said; “you doubtless feel some interest in her.”
“She is young and lovely,” I replied gallantly. “It is unlikely that
any man would regard her with entire indifference.”
“There is sometimes a hard fate in store for just such young and
lovely maidens, M. le Maréchal,” he said coolly. “You remember the
Princess Marie Dolgoruky and Euphemia Vsevolozhsky, and even the late
czarina,--the nun Helen. Archangel and Siberia are both not impossible
futures for candidates for the throne.”
I started. This was plain speaking, and I was certain now of his
motive. He had a candidate of his own, and Najine had been so
unfortunate as to rival her in the eyes of the czar. I saw it all in a
moment, and a grim picture it was. However, I did not permit my face to
betray me.
“You should speak to mademoiselle’s natural guardians, monsieur,” I
said quietly; “her interests are dear to them, while I could not even
suggest such dangers.”
He measured me with his penetrating glance, but I returned it with
amused serenity. Two or three nobles were approaching him, and
interruption was inevitable. He leaned a little towards me.
“Nevertheless, M. le Vicomte,” he said in a low voice, “you will
inform M. de Lambert that his best friends in Moscow desire to see him
speedily and quietly married to Najine Zotof.”
I was saved the necessity of a reply by his friends, who joined him
now and gave me my opportunity to withdraw. Near the door stood M. de
Lambert, and I signaled to him to follow me. In a few minutes we had
passed through the guard-rooms and left the palace. When I found myself
alone with him, I was at a loss to decide upon my next move. I knew
him well; brave, loyal, passionate, impulsive, and headstrong, how
could I trust the complicated situation to his discretion? How could I
counsel him? With him there would be but one course of action. He loved
Mademoiselle Zotof, and would save her, if he could, both from the
czar and from the intrigues of her rivals. But how could he accomplish
this? I asked myself that question again and again as we crossed the
square. He was singularly silent, as if he divined my perturbation or
was possessed with a similar anxiety. I cast a sidelong glance at him,
mentally comparing him with the czar, and wondering how the two would
contrast in the eyes of mademoiselle. I was forced to admit to myself
that he was a goodly man; he carried himself with the proud erectness
of a cavalier, and his clean-cut, candid face was good to look upon.
What he lacked of the czar’s powerful muscle, he gained in grace. I
smiled a little as I looked at him, thinking that he was a dangerous
rival even for an emperor. I could not decide upon any course, but
determined to try his temper. We had passed out of the Gate of the
Redeemer, and, his foot slipping on a piece of ice, he stumbled and
recovered himself with a muttered exclamation of impatience.
“You are out of temper again, M. de Lambert,” I said tauntingly. “You
should have more fortitude; there are worse slips than those upon
Russian ice.”
He darted an inquiring glance at me.
“I do not take your meaning, monsieur,” he said dryly, “I am not much
of a diplomat.”
I smiled. “No, I think not,” I replied, “and you may have need to be
one. The path on which an emperor treads is too slippery for other men.”
He understood me, and his face flushed.
“There can be no open path which an honest man can fear to tread,” he
said haughtily.
“No,” I acknowledged calmly, “fear is not the word; but royalty gives
no elbow-room, monsieur.”
He shut his teeth, and I saw his hand playing with the hilt of his
sword.
“No man,” he said slowly, “crowned or uncrowned, shall ever thrust me
aside unjustly without a struggle.”
“You are a young man, M. de Lambert,” I said quietly; “be warned. The
dangers that would assail you would not be half so serious as those
which would encompass one--whom we know.”
He started perceptibly. We took a few steps more and then he stopped
me. We had turned aside from the Red Place into a narrow lane; on
either hand were the blank walls of the courtyards of two houses. I
can see his face to-day as plainly as then, when it stood out in such
relief against the background of stone. He was pale, and his brows were
bent over his troubled eyes, while a lock of his own light brown hair
had escaped from beneath his peruke and was blown across his cheek.
“M. de Vicomte,” he said in a low voice, “have you been warned of any
danger threatening Mademoiselle Zotof?”
I felt the warmest sympathy for him. His manner convinced me of the
sincerity of his passion. I put my hand on his shoulder as I would have
laid it on a son’s.
“I will be frank, monsieur,” I said, carried out of all resolution of
reserve. “I have been assured to-day of two things,--the czar has a
serious fancy for mademoiselle, and Mentchikof is determined to induce
him to transfer it to Catherine Shavronsky.”
“May the saints speed his efforts!” exclaimed M. de Lambert, devoutly.
“In either case,” I went on, “mademoiselle is in danger. If the czar
loves her, you cannot hope to oppose him; and if he vacillates between
mademoiselle and the Shavronsky woman, Mentchikof and his faction
will find a way to deal with Najine Zotof, as other court factions
have dealt with rival candidates for the czar’s heart. Poison, exile,
death--the course is easy; and if they fail the czar will win, and you,
M. de Lambert--must lose.”
He heard me calmly to the end; then, throwing back his head, he looked
me in the eye, and I saw the fire kindling in his own.
“Monsieur,” he said, “no tyrant shall crush the spirit and happiness of
the woman I love, were he a thousand times a czar! If she loves me, I
will win her yet!”