A MEDDLESOME COUSIN.
SINCE the first meeting with mademoiselle before the Tower of Ivan
Veliki, M. de Lambert had found it convenient to pass in that direction
at a certain hour every afternoon. Mademoiselle did not appear so
frequently, but Madame de Brousson and I knew the days on which he
was fortunate by his high good-humor; and the rest of the week we had
cause enough to regret Najine’s caprice, since his mood was usually
gloomy, and he found endless fault with Touchet, who was his particular
attendant. But one evening he came in from the Kremlin, having seen
mademoiselle, but still being in so terrible a temper that I divined
at once that something was wrong. He ate little at supper, and it
evidently cost him an effort to respond to Zénaïde’s pleasantry. She
made covert signs to me to observe him, and soon slipped out of the
room to give me an opportunity to sound him. When we were alone, I
rallied him on his gloomy mood.
“You were fortunate to-day, I know,” I said lightly; “you saw
mademoiselle, yet you have been but an owl at my feast. Forsooth, when
I was of your age, I had a lighter heart.”
He looked at me gravely. “I have had heavy tidings,” he said;
“mademoiselle had some information to-day. The intrigues of Catherine
Shavronsky are in vain. The czar has spoken openly to the Councillor
Zotof.”
I started; here indeed was a climax. Since the scene at Mentchikof’s, I
had hung high hopes on the Livonian girl; but if the czar was seriously
considering a marriage with mademoiselle, all my schemes dissolved in
air.
“Did she give you the particulars?” I asked.
“All that she knew,” he replied moodily. “Madame told her that she must
prepare to accept the formal proposals of the czar, as he had already
spoken of it to Zotof. When Najine protested that she would not listen
to him, madame became violent and screamed with passion, threatening
her with confinement and I know not what. Before she shall be coerced,”
he touched his sword, “I will settle the account with her uncle.”
I looked at his haughty face with secret admiration, but I laughed.
“You are a young fool,” I said dryly. “Zotof is only doing what he
thinks is best for his niece; it would be a mistake to chastise him. If
you bagged madame, I should congratulate you with all my heart, for she
has the tongue of a vixen. Her husband is following his lights. After
all, you make a great evil out of what would seem to many the climax
of a noble maid’s ambition,--to ascend a throne.”
I could not forbear tormenting him a little, and he fretted under it,
his blood rising to his hair.
“The czar is personally unacceptable to mademoiselle,” he said proudly.
I laughed. “Come, come, M. de Lambert,” I said lightly, “if you were
out of the way, would the czar be unacceptable? A gallant soldier, a
generous foe, a warm-hearted despot, and, above all, a man of imperial
presence. Kings are usually fortunate wooers; we know of one, at least,
who has been ever so. Are you not standing in mademoiselle’s light?
Ought you not rather to retire generously and behold her Czarina and
Grand Duchess of all the Russias? M. Guillaume, you are selfish.”
He sprang to his feet with a passionate gesture, his fine face flushed
and his brown eyes kindling; as he confronted me, I thought that I had
never seen a better picture of a soldier and a lover.
“M. le Vicomte,” he said, “I love mademoiselle well enough to be
generous. If I thought she desired the throne, I would withdraw,
but she assures me that she dreads the violence and the passion of
the czar; she has no wish to take the place of the wife whom he has
divorced. In thinking of the crown, she remembers a poor dishonored
woman, in an open postcart, going to hide her uncrowned head behind a
convent’s walls. And,” he added, looking at me proudly, “mademoiselle
loves me.”
I bowed my head. “Mademoiselle’s will is law,” I said at once; “you
have my congratulations, monsieur. When a woman prefers you to a
czar, you may consider yourself a fortunate man. I honor her for her
constancy.”
“She is an angel,” he replied briefly, as he walked to and fro,--his
habit when excited.
“Are you not over-anxious,” I remarked, after a little thought. “Has
not madame pushed matters, to alarm and intimidate mademoiselle?
Mayhap, there is more smoke than fire. I thought that I saw signs of
great favor for the Livonian girl.”
Without a word he walked to the table, and, thrusting his hand into his
breast, brought out a packet, and laid a splendid ring in my hand. I
recognized it at once, for it bore the double-headed eagle. Turning it
over in my palm, I glanced at him interrogatively.
“Madame brought it to mademoiselle as a present from the czar,” he said
significantly.
I looked at it again and smiled. “And mademoiselle brought it to you,”
I remarked. “A dangerous thing to possess, monsieur.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “As safe for me as for her,” he said.
“Perilous for both,” I replied. “Let me borrow it for a while,” I
added, after a moment, a sudden thought having suggested a new course
of action.
“Keep it,” he said indifferently. “Mademoiselle was anxious to be rid
of it, and I promised to lose it for her in the river.”
“It would have been wiser to have kept the promise, monsieur,” I
remarked. “The czar’s ring is an evil ornament for a foreigner, and
evil indeed for you; so I will even take it into my own custody for the
time.”
“I care not,” he rejoined indifferently; “do with it as you will. I am
determined only to rescue mademoiselle, if I have to carry her off by
force.”
“Is she willing to submit to your guidance?” I asked quietly. “As a
rule, the Russian maiden is too strictly trained to contemplate a
stolen marriage, especially under such peculiar conditions.”
“That is the trouble,” he replied gloomily; “she is full of doubts and
hesitations. She fears for me and for herself. There are a hundred
obstacles, and yet is she a brave woman and a true.”
“I doubt it not, monsieur,” I replied gravely, “but you would marry her
at the risk of your life. You remember the scene at Mentchikof’s? That
was caused by a trivial incident. The czar has violent moods, and it
would rouse him to fury to be thwarted in this matter. We are treading
on dangerous ground, and it behooves us to be careful.”
“I count the danger of small consequence,” he said calmly; and I knew
that his absolute fearlessness was as likely to be disastrous as his
impetuosity.
“The risk must, however, be considered on mademoiselle’s behalf,” I
warned him; and he acquiesced.
I looked again at the ring, and then, wrapping it carefully, put it in
my pocket, for I had a purpose in regard to it. The czar was liberal
with his tokens, it seemed.
“I marvel what he has done with his portrait, framed in diamonds, which
he took away from Anna Mons,” I said to myself, and then laughed aloud,
although M. de Lambert did not understand the drift of my thoughts,
and was piqued at my boisterous merriment. But I could not forbear; it
was too absurd. Would mademoiselle fall heir to the picture that had
belonged to Anna Mons--and also to Eudoxia’s crown? How happy is the
woman whose destiny depends upon the caprice of a tyrant!
An hour later, I summoned Pierrot, and, covering my figure with a dark
cloak, made my way on foot to the palace of Mentchikof. The night
was dark, for the young moon gave no light and there was a cold wind
blowing that cut my face, and Pierrot and I both walked with our heads
bent to avoid it. Entering the courtyard, I passed around to the side
of the house, where a short flight of stone steps built in the wall
led to a private door where only a few favored guests were admitted. A
porter answered my summons and held up his light to examine us, while
yawning prodigiously, as if he had been asleep at his post. I sent a
message desiring to see Mademoiselle Shavronsky. He left me waiting in
an ante-room, and was some time absent, returning at last to conduct
me through a long corridor into a suite of apartments that I had never
seen. I expected to be received by the family or by Madame Golovin,
at least, but was surprised to be ushered into a large room where I
found only Catherine herself and a young Russian attendant, who sat
in a corner over her embroidery, never once raising her eyes from her
work. When I entered, Catherine was half reclining on an ottoman that
was covered with a rug of sable, but at my appearance she rose, and
greeted me with a manner at once frank and dignified. In spite of her
short stature, there was majesty in her bearing, and she had never
looked more handsome, although her attire was simple, and she wore no
jewel, not even in her hair, which was rolled back from her brow after
the fashion affected by the ladies of the French court. This Livonian
peasant girl was, after all, a singular character; she had the intrepid
courage and the unflinching purpose of a man, together with the charm
of a woman.
She was the first to speak. “This is, indeed, an honor, M. le
Maréchal,” she said pleasantly, “and if I mistake not, you have tidings
for me.”
I looked at her and smiled. If it pleased her to be direct, why should
I not humor her?
“Mademoiselle,” I said, “I am a seeker after information. Mentchikof
stands so near the person of his imperial Majesty that I felt that in
this household I should learn the truth. I have heard that the czar is
soon to wed again.”
She started violently, the color leaving her face.
“Your authority, sir?” she exclaimed sharply.
Watching her, I drew the ring out and laid it on my palm. She took a
step nearer, and stood looking at the bauble, and I saw her breath come
quickly and her eyes dilate. We were both silent; after a moment she
looked up into my face.
“Whence came it?” she asked in a low voice.
I shrugged my shoulders and laughed.
“Mademoiselle, you press me too closely with questions,” I said
quietly, “but you know the ring?”
She put out her hand to take it, but I evaded her.
“Give it to me, M. le Maréchal,” she said petulantly; “lend it to me,
if only for a day.”
“No, no, mademoiselle,” I said lightly. “It was only lent to me. I
cannot take the risk.”
She looked at me like a wilful child, but I saw the tigress gleaming in
her eyes.
“I beg it of you, monsieur,” she said passionately, “I--who never sue
for favors. I pray you give me this ring for a day, for an hour.”
“Not for a moment, mademoiselle,” I replied, returning it to my breast.
“I have been your friend to-night, but I cannot give you this. I must
remember the person who gave it to me.”
“She cannot value it,” Catherine exclaimed.
I looked at her calmly. “He, mademoiselle,” I said quietly; “you
confound the sex.”
She gazed at me a moment in amazement, and then a sudden intelligence
illumined her eyes. She knew that Mademoiselle Zotof had given it to M.
de Lambert.
“Tell him,” she said with emphasis, “to be loyal in his devotion, and
happiness will crown it.”
“Mademoiselle,” I responded gallantly, “I know of no one who deserves
it more than you, and I count myself fortunate to be your friend.”
She gave me a peculiar glance, and stood trying to devise some way to
obtain her wish.
“Let me look at the ring once more, then,” she coaxed, changing from
angry demands to a pretty persuasion that did not suit her passionate
face so well.
I let her look at the ring, and then had much ado to keep it from her
covetous fingers. She was eager enough to snatch it if I was but an
instant off my guard, and she began, too, to be piqued at my obstinacy,
so that I saw that I was in a delicate place and half regretted my
manœuvre. Putting her off and arguing with her, I managed to evade
her; but I found it expedient to withdraw as speedily as possible,
foreseeing only endless contention, for she had the kind of persistence
that achieves success.
I was glad enough to be in the open air again, and quickened my pace as
I crossed the court. I had warned Catherine, and I did not doubt her
activity. After all, she was much better suited to the czar’s temper
than a woman like Najine Zotof. When mademoiselle would not understand
him, and would shrink from his violent moods, this Livonian girl would
be full of sympathy for his ambitions, and unrevolted by the coarser
aspect of his nature. I could see that she had a feline temperament,
full of passion and intrigue, and that she was not scrupulous as to the
means by which she could further her ends. My mind was so full of these
thoughts that I almost stumbled upon a man at the gate of the court. As
I apologized, he recognized me.
“A word with you, monsieur,” he said, in bad French.
I was, at first, perplexed; then something in his figure suggested a
memory, and I knew him. It was Yury Apraxin.
“I am at your service, monsieur,” I said, not a little surprised.
“By your leave, then,” he replied, “I will walk with you to the end of
the street.”
“As you will, M. Apraxin,” I said.
He turned and accompanied me along the narrow way. He was a stranger,
and I was curious to know what he wanted from me. For a few moments he
was silent, and we could hear Pierrot’s even tread close behind us,
which made me smile, for I knew that he was on the watch.
“M. de Brousson,” Apraxin said at last, “I am a relative of
Mademoiselle Zotof, and, as such, I desire to warn you to restrain your
friend M. de Lambert from persecuting her.”
“Persecuting mademoiselle!” I exclaimed with unfeigned astonishment.
“Those were my words, sir,” he replied haughtily. “I pray you tell M.
de Lambert that he cannot dog mademoiselle’s footsteps to and from
church unobserved, and that if the Councillor Zotof does not interfere,
he will have to account to me.”
“You take a high tone, monsieur,” I said tauntingly, for the boy’s
insolence annoyed me, “but you forget that a French gentleman is not
likely to submit to the dictation of a sulky lad.”
“Your gray hairs should be respected, M. de Brousson,” he said in a
choked voice, for he was furious, “but it is unnecessary to insult me.
I have a right to protect my _fiancée_, and I will. No French coxcomb
shall pursue her here against her guardian’s wishes.”
“And yours, monsieur,” I added dryly. “You are a young man, M. Apraxin;
be advised, and meddle not too much with one of the most expert
swordsmen that I know.”
We had reached the turning of the street and he stopped. I knew, even
in the darkness, that he could ill suppress his rage.
“You think me a coward, sir,” he cried fiercely, “because I did not
strike back at the czar, but you mistake me. That insult burnt through
my face to my soul, and I will not endure such from a lesser man. ‘An
expert swordsman,’” he added with an oath. “I care as little for his
sword as I do for a straw. I have given him a fair warning. Najine is
betrothed to me, and I will brook no interference with my affairs.”
“Rumor supplies another destiny for mademoiselle,” I said, unable to
suppress a desire to lash the ill-tempered fool to fury.
“Rumor lies!” he answered with fierce emphasis. “She is to be my wife,
and no one else shall wed her.”
“I trust that mademoiselle is of your mind,” I replied, turning away
with feigned indifference, “otherwise I fear she will think you but
a sullen bridegroom. I wish you good-night, monsieur; a good rest
will clear your brain of many of these hallucinations. Take a sleeping
potion and seek your couch.”
I heard him muttering some passionate reply, but passed on unheeding,
although secretly disturbed, for here was a new difficulty for
Guillaume de Lambert. An ill-tempered boy spying upon him was enough
evil to make his interviews with mademoiselle a source of anxiety to
me. Moreover, I foresaw that they would speedily cease, since it was
improbable that Apraxin would fail to use the simplest means to end
them, by informing her uncle; and, once mademoiselle was confined
to the house, communication would be difficult in the extreme. Yet
I smiled a little over the situation; what a trio of lovers had
mademoiselle! A czar, a French soldier, and a violent-tempered boy,
whose face had been slapped by his imperial rival. What would be next?
And, on the other hand, the women. Catherine rose before my mental
vision, a distinct and remarkable figure; her fate could be no common
one; natures cast in that mould must achieve the highest or fall to
the lowest. By contrast, I saw mademoiselle, delicately formed, but
stately, high-spirited, charming, with that fine quality of soul that
spurns the mire, that is free from vulgar ambition, noble, generous,
and before all tenderly affectionate, not formed of the stuff that
makes an empress, and yet imperial enough, in her young beauty and
purity, to adorn the most brilliant court in Europe. What a strange
tangle in the skein of destiny had brought these heterogeneous
characters together, and caught them in the meshes of the glittering
net of court intrigue? Even so the fisher, when he casts his net into
the sea, draws forth all manner of fish.