MADEMOISELLE’S BRACELET.
WHEN I warned M. de Lambert of Apraxin’s jealousy, he treated it
with the scorn that I had anticipated. To him the disappointed lover
seemed but a sulky boy, and he attached no importance to his threats
until he found that mademoiselle came no more to the cathedral. It was
evident that the ill-tempered youth had become a tale-bearer; failing
to execute his threat in any other way, he separated mademoiselle
from her lover by the interposition of her uncle’s authority. M.
Guillaume fretted and fumed to no purpose; if he had met Apraxin he
would undoubtedly have given him a thrashing, but the young fellow
had cleverness enough to evade him, and time passed with no news from
mademoiselle. The day arrived for the semi-annual blessing of the river
Moskva before this silence was broken.
The blessing of the river was a ceremony as old and as sacred in the
eyes of the Moscovite as the holy white city of Moscow itself. Four
years before, Peter had made one of those changes which shocked the
conservative Russian. It had been the custom to begin the year on the
1st of September, dating from the beginning of the world, for the
Russians believed that the earth was created in the autumn with its
perfected fruits. By an imperial decree, his Majesty ordered the year
to begin on the 1st of January, dating from the birth of our Blessed
Lord, as all the nations of Europe were accustomed to date it. This
was in 1700, and his people received the change with as little favor
as they received the czar’s other innovations. The custom of blessing
the river fell upon the Feast of Epiphany, and was a solemn event. The
patriarch and all the clergy of Moscow were present with the czar and
the court officials, foreign ministers and residents; rich and great,
poor and humble, assembled on the banks of the river to witness the
benediction.
The day was fair; the sun shone on the white walls and buildings
of the Kremlin and on domes of gold and green and azure, and on a
myriad cupolas, all studded with stars and surmounted by crosses, and
everywhere touched by the white hand of the snow; and circling around
them, soaring high overhead, flew the ravens of the Kremlin, their
croaking voices making a strange monotone through all the ceremonies,
their black forms now sweeping around some tower, now floating, with
suspended wings, above some great cathedral. The city was full of
activity, its narrow streets thronged with people, crowding toward the
one spot, until every avenue was choked with the masses. M. de Lambert
and I were fortunately placed, and could look down upon the scene. It
was an orderly assembly, for the Russian has a deep reverence for holy
things, and there was no confusion even where the populace pressed
close upon the soldiers. The river was frozen, and the troops were
drawn up upon its bosom, phalanx after phalanx, war-worn veterans and
raw conscripts, Russian and Cossack, presenting a curious spectacle
to the eyes of the foreigners. I marked the great improvement in
organization, in bearing, in clothing. Here was an army where there
had been none, and it was due to the untiring energy and ambition
of one man. The sun flashed on polished arms, on coats-of-mail, on
helmets, and on the blades of Damascus, as the troopers waited there
upon the ice, a great, compact, unwavering mass of men; and in their
midst, mounted on his favorite horse, Lisette, was the czar, more like
an image than a man, his great stature and huge limbs seeming to make
other men diminutive. The center of all the pomp and panoply of war,
surrounded by his glittering staff, he wore the simple uniform of a
Colonel of the Preobrazhensky regiment, his personal guards, and there
was no order, only the Greek cross on his breast. The Preobrazhensky
regiment was the outgrowth of those boy soldiers that the common people
had called the _Potieshnie Koniukhi_, “troops for sport,” and Peter
had risen from the rank of bombardier sergeant, having enlisted in
that capacity under the name of Peter Alexéief. It was his peculiarity
to court a simplicity that was sometimes an offence to the pride of
the Russians accustomed to look upon the person of the czar as sacred.
That day, the expression of his face was stern and even sad. He was
subject to seasons of melancholy, and for the time was under the shadow
of some depression. A man who stands above his fellows, not only by
virtue of his rank but by a certain greatness of soul, is alienated
from their sympathy,--isolated in his elevation. Peter was a reformer,
and since the world began reformers have been more or less hated by
their contemporaries. I think the czar felt peculiarly alone, and there
was, too, some shadow on his soul that no human sympathy could reach.
He sat there on his splendid horse, a solitary figure amidst those
tens of thousands, a soldier, a statesman, an emperor, and alone in
the presence of his people. Every eye in that vast assembly was upon
him, but he was as unconscious as a statue. Near him was the patriarch,
his pontificals blazing with gold and silver and jewels, his miter
surmounted by a jewelled cross,--an imposing figure surrounded by his
priests in their Byzantine robes, their copes of silver and gold, and
the acolytes in vestments of nacarat velvet and gold. They went down
into the little open chapel that had been erected over the square cut
through the ice to the dark water below; the slender pillars of the
chapel supported a dome in which was suspended the dove with its golden
rays, and about it stood the silent, statuelike guard of soldiers,
and in the biting cold every head was bare. In the silence that falls
upon a multitude when hearts are stirred, the priests chanted the
solemn service, and at the final moment the cannon boomed heavily
upon the air, then again came the low, even chant of the priests. The
patriarch’s voice, though clear and loud, did not reach the outskirts
of the vast assembly, and many there could only follow the ceremony
by his gestures; but the responsive tones of the people rose in low
deep notes, one mighty wave of sound, which was echoed from the
battlements of the Kremlin and rolled away toward those vast plains
that, surrounding the city, extend as far as the eye can reach to be
lost in the horizon. Yet, impressive as was the ceremony, splendid as
was the figure of the patriarch, all were alike insignificant beside
that silent man upon his horse; the ruler of the Russias held the
throng fascinated by that peculiar power that made Peter always the
central figure; something about his individuality that was more than
the mere habit of command and was born with him, constituting one of
those influences which exalted his personality in the estimation of his
people, in spite of a hundred faults and weaknesses that would have
ruined a lesser man.
The scene left an enduring impress upon my mind; the clear atmosphere,
the pale blue sky, the white Kremlin, the frozen river, and the
brilliant assemblage, blazing with gold and jewels, against the
background of the populace in their dark and often ragged clothing,
brightened here and there with a touch of scarlet or of blue.
After the ceremony was concluded, there was a procession to the
churches, and a banquet at the Kremlin, at which the czar entertained
all the ambassadors and the nobility,--one of those tedious and
interminable feasts which were so burdensome with their ceremonial
and their inevitable termination in carousal, for the Russians and
the Germans, of whom there were many, were heavy drinkers. I noted a
significant indication of the drift of intrigue in the presence of
the Councillor Zotof in the personal circle of the czar, and saw that
Mentchikof was as uneasy and watchful as his opponent was complaisant.
Zotof was one of those blatant fools who congratulate themselves too
soon on an apparent victory, and was not keen enough to measure the wit
and the resources of the favorite. The czar’s gloomy mood cast a shadow
upon the fête, and I observed that he did not respond at all to M. de
Lambert’s obeisance,--another sign of the times. King Augustus’ private
envoy had departed, and I could not avoid some speculation about the
Swedish spy. I fancied that he had either followed the Pole or was
still loitering about the court in quest of valuable information. We
had so happily escaped all responsibility in regard to him that I
congratulated myself on my good fortune in finding a solution of the
difficulty.
In the course of the day Alexander Mentchikof found an opportunity to
speak to me privately.
“M. le Vicomte,” he said, “I thank you for your visit to my house.
Mademoiselle Catherine told me all, and I shall not forget your
friendship. Tell M. de Lambert to be of good cheer; the game is not yet
lost, and it will be many a day before I yield to that old fool across
the way.”
He referred to Zotof, who was standing opposite, talking to a group of
his friends, and the picture of self-satisfaction.
“Mademoiselle Shavronsky is well?” I inquired courteously, anxious to
avoid a too personal conversation.
The favorite smiled, and gave me a keen glance. “Mademoiselle is under
a cloud at present,” he said significantly, “but there must be a change
erelong, unless we surrender at discretion, and you know how probable
that is.”
“I cannot imagine it, monsieur,” I replied dryly, “and you have my good
wishes.”
“I thank you,” he said with dignity, as he turned to rejoin the czar.
Peter had been observing us, and it was sometimes unpleasant to find
his keen eye upon you; it must have been peculiarly uncomfortable for
Mentchikof at a time when he was straining every nerve to thwart his
master’s fancy for Mademoiselle Zotof.
It was near midnight when M. de Lambert and I left the Kremlin
together. We were not in a talkative mood, and traversed the streets
in silence, each wrapped in his own thoughts. Mine were anxious, and I
fancied that his were gloomy, since there had been little to reassure
him at court to-day. We had reached the door of our lodgings when a man
stepped out of the shadow of the house and, approaching M. de Lambert,
addressed him in Russ.
“A word with you, master,” he said.
My foot was already on the doorstep, but I stopped, feeling some alarm
for my companion.
“You may speak here,” M. de Lambert said sharply.
The fellow hesitated. “I was directed to deliver my message to you
alone,” he replied, drawing a small packet from under his cloak.
“I am alone,” M. Guillaume said.
“My mistress directed me to place this in your hands,” the man
explained, giving him the packet and turning away.
“Hold!” exclaimed M. de Lambert, excitedly; “there is some answer?”
“None,” the messenger replied, “and I dare not linger. I have waited
too long already.”
He turned as he spoke and walked rapidly away, his figure soon
disappearing in the darkness. M. de Lambert, following me into the
house, went directly to a table in the hall where Pierrot had left the
tapers burning. The packet was a small one, tied with a gold cord. In
a moment M. de Lambert had it open, disclosing a band of gold with a
single large emerald on the clasp, a bracelet that I had myself seen
on the arm of Mademoiselle Zotof; wrapped about it was a strip of
paper which her lover unfolded eagerly. I confess that I was nearly as
curious as he, and watched his face as he read it.
“She has been closely guarded,” he said after a moment, “but she can be
at the bridge to-morrow at dusk.”
“At the bridge at dusk,” I repeated; “this is a strange appointment,
monsieur. If she has been closely guarded, it is marvellous that she
can evade them at such an hour and that she should select such a spot
Are you sure that it is her writing?”
He was half indignant at my criticism.
“It is not only her writing, monsieur,” he replied, “but this is her
bracelet.”
“I recognize the token,” I said, “but older blood is cautious, and I
like neither the place nor the hour of the appointment. However, you
can take both Pierrot and Touchet with you, which will be a greater
protection for mademoiselle.”
“That cannot be,” he answered quickly, “since she especially requests
me to come unattended, for some reason of her own.”
For the moment I was silent. Not only did mademoiselle’s request
surprise me, but it seemed unnatural and without justification. She
knew that her lover was encompassed by a net of intrigue, and it was
more like a woman to surround him with precaution than to desire him to
risk his person unprotected in a lonely spot at nightfall, and I could
not suppose that she intended to bring a sufficient guard, for in the
very act of evading the authority of her guardian she could scarcely
command a numerous escort. The whole business seemed to me suspicious,
but I saw that he was carried away by the one thought of seeing
mademoiselle once more.
“At least, monsieur,” I said, “you will permit me to accompany you
as a friend, if I stand at a distance and do not offend against
mademoiselle’s rules.”
He smiled a little at my words.
“I cannot even permit that,” he replied. “I must obey not only in the
letter but the spirit.”
“A faithful lover,” I said, smiling also; “I wish I shared your
confidence in the authenticity of the document. At least, monsieur, go
armed and be watchful. There are many here who would rejoice at your
undoing; the fact that we have not lately seen a spy at your heels does
not reassure me. Prince Dolgoruky saw that we were over-watchful, and
it may be that he would disarm our suspicion, if he could. I know the
ways of Moscow, and I warn you to beware upon what ground you tread.”
He was standing on the opposite side of the table, holding
mademoiselle’s bracelet in his fingers, and he looked at me and smiled.
“In the old days, monsieur,” he said, “were you as cautious? If Madame
de Brousson had sent for you, would you have waited for an escort?”
I laughed and shook my head.
“Young blood,” I said, “young blood! I do not criticise you, monsieur,
I only suggest caution. I cannot say that I exercised it. Fortunately
for me, I got off with my life. The dangers which surround you are less
violent, but far more subtle. Be warned, M. de Lambert, and look well
to sword and pistol before you keep the tryst.”