AUNT AND NIECE.
M. DE LAMBERT had at least one friend whose sympathy was unfailing.
Madame de Brousson took the warmest interest in his trials, encouraging
him in his rash suit, and even chiding me because I endeavored to point
out all the perils and difficulties. “If you had been thus cautious
twenty-one years ago, Philippe,” she said to me, “I should not now be
your wife.” Which was like a woman, for women love to apply the same
rule to all cases. She understood, as well as I did, all the obstacles,
but chose to throw the weight of her influence in the scale with love
and knight-errantry. Between the two, Zénaïde and M. de Lambert, I was
sore beset. The possibility that Peter might demand our young lover’s
return to France was imminent, and in any case I could not discover
a way for him to defeat successfully his imperial rival. In spite of
Zénaïde’s indignant protest, I had grave doubts that mademoiselle would
remain loyal to her French suitor in the face of the czar’s wooing. I
had been working industriously to ascertain something of the drift
of affairs, and found that an impression existed at court that Peter
intended to choose a second wife. He had confirmed this by his own
words, spoken in his indignation at the discovery of the infidelity
of Anna Mons. In the heat of his passion he told her lover, the
Prussian minister Kayserling, that he had educated the girl to marry
her himself. If he had contemplated wedding Anna Mons, it was far more
probable that he would wed mademoiselle. A passing fancy might end in
a futile intrigue; but if the czar was indeed seriously considering
the idea of marrying her, she was exposed to the machinations of the
rival parties at court, and especially to those of Mentchikof. He was
now the favorite, and the center of a web of intrigue. His household
was conducted by his sister, Madame Golovin, the wife of Count Alexis
Golovin; and with her resided the two Arsenief sisters, one of whom,
Daria, was said to be beloved by Mentchikof,--they had both been “boyar
maidens,” as the maids of honor were named. To this group had recently
been added Catherine Shavronsky, whom Mentchikof was introducing as a
candidate for the czar’s affection. He doubtless desired to establish
her in the place of Anna Mons, and through the new toy to rule the
court factions. If, on the other hand, Peter’s fancy for Najine Zotof
interfered with this scheme, Mentchikof would leave no stone unturned
in the effort to defeat and ruin the young girl whose beauty had been
so unfortunate as to attract the imperial notice.
Such was the situation, and Madame de Brousson and M. de Lambert
understood it as fully as I did; but I saw that it was only acting as
a spur to his headstrong temperament. I spoke to Pierrot, and warned
him to aid Touchet in attending the young man, as I anticipated no
little trouble for him, knowing only too well that a sword-thrust or
a pistol-shot in the dark was not a singular occurrence in Moscow. My
wife did not permit my sympathy to cool, and we were both becoming
keenly interested in the little drama. Only one point disturbed my
appreciation of the romance, and that in spite of Madame de Brousson’s
protests: I had yet to feel assured of mademoiselle’s feelings. M. de
Lambert was loud in his denunciation of the Councillor Zotof and his
wife; they of course had grown cold to his suit at the first advent
of the czar, and now he accused them of endeavoring to coerce their
niece. Zénaïde continually urged me to go and see mademoiselle, and
so be convinced that she possessed a sweet and candid disposition;
and this would also give me an opportunity to observe the manner
of her guardians. My wife had no desire to go herself, because she
detested Madame Zotof, who was counted one of the greatest shrews in
Moscow. Moved partly by sympathy for M. de Lambert, and partly by a
desire to become better acquainted with the heroine of the romance, I
yielded to the domestic pressure and found an opportunity to visit the
councillor’s residence.
Zotof’s house stood within a spacious courtyard, and was a solid,
comfortable-looking building. The main door opened into a great hall,
usually full of serfs and retainers, while the living rooms were all
above,--a common fashion in Russia. It was towards evening when I
arrived, attended by Touchet; and a serf bearing a taper lighted me
up the stairs, ushering me into a spacious apartment furnished with
Russian luxuriousness in furs and heavy hangings. The councillor
was entertaining several friends, and his wife and niece were both
present. He received me courteously, but I fancied that I was less
welcome than formerly, and noticed his glance behind me at the door
as if he expected to see M. de Lambert enter also. Zotof was a short,
stout man, belonging to the old coterie, and a fair type of the
conservative nobility, having, I had no doubt, a wholesome abhorrence
of the czar’s innovations. Peter, who was fond of nick-naming the
older men, called him the “Prince Pope,” because he had assumed that
character at a masquerade. Zotof’s face, which was coarse and flushed
with high living, was not brutal, and I could imagine that he found
his position full of embarrassment. He had encouraged M. de Lambert
until he saw that his niece might hope for a crown, and now found it
difficult to extricate himself from his entanglement. Madame, on the
other hand, was the picture of a domestic tyrant,--a woman of medium
stature, but carrying herself with an erectness which increased her
appearance of height, her face pale and sharp-featured, her eyes keen
and unsympathetic, and her whole manner sharp and sometimes rude, while
not even her smile concealed her shrewish temper. I had long since
made up my mind about the pair, and was more or less amused at their
different attitudes in regard to me. In former days madame had been
gracious to the border of flattery in her address; she had welcomed me
as the representative of the king and a marshal of France, and M. de
Lambert, as my friend, was an honored guest; but now her ambition had
caught a glimpse of more splendid possibilities, she had a higher goal
in view, and was untroubled by her husband’s scruples about previous
engagements and obligations. She allowed me to see at once that while
she still respected my rank, she no longer desired my good offices
and was independent of my approval of her niece. I saw all this at a
glance, even while I was accepting their hospitality and exchanging
courtesies with their guests, and I found an opportunity to observe
the young girl who was the cause of all the intrigues and of so much
anxiety. Mademoiselle Zotof had remained modestly in the background,
but I saw that she was watching the little scene with keen attention.
I did not marvel at M. de Lambert’s infatuation, for her face was
peculiarly charming and vivacious. She had that clear white complexion
which is occasionally seen with intensely black hair, and her straight
black brows were strongly marked above dark blue eyes, her mouth having
tender curves that were contradicted by the firmness of her chin. She
was not tall, and was delicately formed, but she had the dignity of a
young princess. My wife declared that the Russian women had singular
ideas about the European fashions, and wore the tawdry clothes that
might disgrace even poor stage-players; but mademoiselle had certainly
evaded these eccentricities, for her robe was of simple white, edged
with ermine and girdled at the waist with a heavy silver cord, and it
dignified her girlish beauty without encumbering it with too superb a
setting. As I looked at the young face with its charm and animation, I
became not a little curious about her. She seemed to me to be the very
woman to grasp at an ambitious dream. Whatever she felt, she could hide
it well behind that inscrutable little smile, and she roused all my
interest.
Zotof’s guests had been enjoying an informal talk before my arrival,
but at my entrance there was a certain constraint in the conviviality,
although the liquor still flowed with Russian freedom, and we
stood about the table conversing in formal tones while madame kept
mademoiselle beside her in the background. I was determined to obtain
a nearer view of the latter, and after a little manœuvring managed to
make my way to madame’s side.
“I see you but seldom at court now, madame,” I said, making a direct
effort to sound her feeling, and I saw her quick glance at my face.
“I have always lived a retired life,” she replied calmly; “but now my
husband desires me to appear upon all state occasions, and I shall make
an effort to obey. I have heard with regret, monsieur,” she added,
“that you are so soon to return to France.”
It was my turn to glance at her in astonishment, for I thought for a
moment that she knew of some move of the czar’s; but the expression of
her face satisfied me that it was a haphazard shot and that the wish
was father to the thought.
“Madame is misinformed,” I said; “I have been delayed, and do not now
expect to leave as soon as I supposed.”
I saw her disappointment, and could scarcely restrain a smile.
“I am so fortunate,” I continued gallantly, “as to be permitted to
enjoy the society of my kind friends here for a yet longer period.”
“And Madame de Brousson remains also?” she asked a trifle tartly, for
she had doubtless detected my observation of her niece and knew the
cause. “Your wife is a Russian, I believe, M. le Vicomte?” she added.
This was my opportunity, and as soon as she gave it, she regretted it
and stood biting her lip.
“Yes, madame,” I returned, glancing at mademoiselle, “my wife was a
lovely Russian girl about the age of your fair niece when I won her.
She preferred the heart and sword of her French lover to the rank and
fortune of one of the imperial family, and I am happy in the assurance
that she has never regretted her choice.”
I was looking at mademoiselle while I spoke, and she raised her eyes to
mine with sudden comprehension, a beautiful blush suffusing her fair
face. Madame, following my glance, and seeing mademoiselle’s confusion,
gave me a look that would have annihilated a timid man; but I was too
old a soldier to shrink under a woman’s disapprobation, and I took the
opportunity to address her niece.
“Mademoiselle has never been to France?” I asked, changing my position
so as to stand between the two women.
“I have not had that happiness, M. le Vicomte,” she replied in her soft
voice, which had none of her aunt’s shrewish tones.
“It is a fair country, mademoiselle,” I said pleasantly, covertly
watching madame’s growing anger; “I wish that you might see it and know
my daughter, who is, I think, nearly of your age.”
“It would give me much pleasure, monsieur,” she replied softly, her
blue eyes glancing at me with a certain penetration which showed me
that she had a character of her own behind that modest and blushing
exterior.
“Mademoiselle would love France,” I went on easily, watching both aunt
and niece; “it is the country of beautiful women and brave men.”
Madame laughed harshly. “M. le Maréchal has an excellent opinion of his
own countrymen,” she said sharply.
“Naturally, madame,” I replied suavely; “although Russia is equally
fortunate with us in the beauty of her women, I will not admit that her
men are more brave.”
Madame swept me a mocking curtsy.
“The men of mature years are doubtless worthy of every panegyric, M. le
Vicomte,” she said tartly; “but the young French gallants whom I meet
lack discretion.”
Mademoiselle’s face was crimson, whether from embarrassment at her
aunt’s rudeness or at the cut at her lover, I could not divine; but I
saw that madame was unwittingly playing into my hands.
“What young Frenchman has been so unfortunate as to meet with madame’s
disapproval?” I inquired with assumed anxiety. “There are so few French
in Moscow; I trust it is not my own friend, M. de Lambert.”
Madame frowned; she had not anticipated my candor.
“My observation was general and not personal, monsieur,” she replied
shortly.
“You relieve my mind of much uneasiness, madame,” I said with feigned
earnestness. “I know there is unjust prejudice against my countrymen
here, and I should be sorry to have you misjudge M. de Lambert, one of
the most gallant and true young soldiers of France. It would interest
you, mademoiselle,” I added, turning pleasantly to Najine, who had not
yet recovered from her embarrassment, “to hear of his conduct upon the
field of Friedlingen. His Majesty the King of France has been pleased
to acknowledge personally the conspicuous gallantry of this young
fellow.”
And I proceeded to tell her with picturesque detail some stories of M.
de Lambert’s courage, and had the pleasure of seeing her eyes kindle
with excitement, while madame stood by fuming and tapping the floor
with her foot, no doubt wishing me back in my native land. I could not
repress a malicious amusement at her expense, she was so little adroit
in handling the weapons of intrigue and so honestly ill-tempered.
Her niece, on the other hand, changed visibly, her face flushing and
her manner relaxing as she listened to my eulogium, and I knew well
how to touch upon those points of courage and devotion that hold the
admiration of a young girl. Mademoiselle was convent-bred, and to her
mind men were either the bold villains of the ballads or knights of
the cross, and she probably comprehended her flesh-and-blood lover
as little as she understood the world. It seems to me that there is
nothing so sublimely ignorant of life, as it is, as a young girl just
looking out from the seclusion of her home; and it occurred to me, as
I watched the innocent candor of her emotion, that her marriage to
the czar would be a sacrifice for the saints to weep over. Innocence
and purity, youth and beauty, how sad the immolation! I thought of my
own daughter, and was drawn towards the maiden. Perhaps it was the
father in my tones that won her confidence, for she looked at me with
growing kindness in her glance, asking more than one question about
my country and my home. On one point I was reassured: she was not at
all afraid of Madame Zotof. I saw that. She was even a little amused
at the older woman’s anger, and I perceived too that she had plenty of
spirit, and was not likely to yield herself an easy victim to any of
their intrigues; indeed, there was decision in her manner, and she had
a proud way of holding her head that rejoiced my heart.
While I was still talking to mademoiselle, I heard madame utter an
exclamation, and, following her angry eyes, saw M. de Lambert entering
the room. He had never looked so handsome, and he carried himself
haughtily as he advanced towards M. Zotof. Madame made a swift movement
to intercept his approach to her niece; but I was too quick for her,
and stood directly in her path, suave and smiling, ready to converse
with her; and she hesitated, her face red and her sharp eyes trying
to look over my shoulder at M. de Lambert, who was bending low over
mademoiselle’s hand. Madame and I looked at each other in mutual
defiance, and I stood my ground.
“I have always desired to ask you, madame,” I began, saying the first
thing that came into my mind, “if you were personally acquainted with
the Czarina Natalia? I had the honor to know her Majesty, and always
desired to hear something of the last years of her life.”
“Monsieur had better ask one of the court functionaries,” she replied
tartly. “I was living in the provinces, and knew little of her imperial
Majesty. Have the kindness, M. le Vicomte, to permit me to speak to my
niece.”
I stood aside with a profound bow. I had gained my point, and madame
knew it, for M. de Lambert had had his opportunity, brief though it
was. Madame Zotof swept up to Najine, and, laying a hand upon her arm,
spoke a few words in her ear which were not difficult to interpret,
for the young girl flushed hotly, and with a formal curtsy to M. de
Lambert and to me withdrew, leaving her aunt triumphant and her lover
furious. It required all my diplomacy to relieve the situation, for M.
de Lambert had a quick temper, and the contempt that a noble nature
feels for intrigue. I interposed between them, and, drawing her into
conversation, gave him time to recover his equanimity, but was glad
of the arrival of more guests, which furnished an excuse for our
departure, for I felt that I could not trust the hot-headed gallant in
madame’s hands. As mademoiselle had withdrawn, he was willing enough to
depart with me, and I breathed more freely after we had made our formal
exit and I had him once more in the street.
“You young coxcomb,” I said, addressing him with that freedom which
our relative positions and my age permitted me to use, “why must you
anger madame at the outset, and so exile yourself from the house which
enshrines your divinity? You are indeed a poor diplomat.”
“Sanctus!” he exclaimed, “that woman! If she were a man I could run her
through, but she delights in the immunity of her sex. A termagant! A
meddlesome vixen!”
“Upon my soul!” I exclaimed. “A French gentleman--a soldier, and
calling a woman such names!”
His cheek flushed hotly, and he quickened his pace.
“She deserves them all, and more,” he said; and then I saw that he held
a scrap of white paper in his hand, and in a moment divined the truth.
“Ah,” I said wickedly, “I see that madame’s vigilance is not
unwarranted,--signs and tokens.”
For a moment he was embarrassed, and then threw himself upon my
confidence without reserve.
“It is but a line,” he said, with some manly confusion that pleased me,
“a line which I begged for--to tell me the reason of the change there
of late. It is as I feared; the czar is interfering with my happiness.
The Zotofs have announced to her that they have other schemes for her
future and that she must not see me again, and she bids me farewell.”
He was deeply moved, and for the moment we walked on in silence.
“Mademoiselle does not strike me as one who would surrender so easily,”
I remarked quietly.
“She shall not,” he said passionately; “she shall not be crushed into
submission to the dictation of that woman.”
“And how do you propose to avert the impending catastrophe?” I asked,
tormenting him at will, for he was wrought up to the height of his
temper.
“I mean to marry mademoiselle and carry her off to France,” he
exclaimed in so clear a tone that I laid my hand on his sleeve; but at
that instant there was a scuffle behind us, and I turned in time to see
Touchet, with his sword half bare, staring angrily at a tall stranger
who was muttering an apology in Russian, entirely uncomprehended by the
angry Frenchman.
“What is it, Touchet?” I called out to him.
“The fellow was so busy listening to you, M. le Vicomte, that he nearly
walked over me, and now only stands gibbering,” my equerry answered
angrily.
I translated what the Russian had said, and Touchet let him pass, but
not before I had obtained a view of his face, and he looked back at
me again after getting past my attendant. He appeared to me a poor
gentleman who might be of the suite of one of the noblemen.
“A word to you, M. de Lambert,” I said to my companion as we went on;
“do not speak your mind so freely in Moscow.”