THE TRYST.
MADEMOISELLE CATHERINE had fallen into a dangerous habit of sending
me little billets, written at her dictation by Madame Golovin. Subtle
enough in many ways, the Livonian had still a woman’s excitable
temperament, and was without patience to watch the results. In these
missives she and Madame Golovin veiled their meaning but thinly, and it
was not difficult to identify the czar, Najine, and Prince Dolgoruky.
Since Peter’s gift of a ring to mademoiselle, Catherine had been little
noticed, and those who thought they saw in her a possible successor to
Anna Mons began to doubt her influence, but I was not one of these.
She actually loved the czar, and her nature was one that would be
peculiarly adapted to his, and, knowing that she was aiming at the
throne, I believed that nothing stood between her and her desire but
Mademoiselle Zotof. Mademoiselle, however, had a tremendous advantage
over her rival; Catherine was of humble origin, and her passions and
ambitions were alike involved; on the other hand, Najine was noble and
entirely indifferent to her imperial lover; she would be betrayed into
no indiscretion, and her birth, her beauty, and her friends would all
demand the crown for her. It would be impolitic--almost impossible--for
his imperial Majesty to put a slight upon the faction that supported
her, and mademoiselle’s personal repugnance to the marriage only piqued
the pride of a suitor who had never before been rejected. Catherine
was quick to see all the disadvantages of her own position and the
advantages of her rival’s, and was therefore urgent in her desire to
forward M. de Lambert’s fortunes. Immediately after Najine’s message
reached him, Mademoiselle Shavronsky sent me a note warning me that the
czar’s personal attendants had been commanded to watch M. Guillaume.
I read the missive twice over to be certain that I understood it,
although not surprised that such instruction had been given. The czar’s
manner to the young Frenchman indicated extreme displeasure, but I was
astonished that the order had been issued so carelessly as to reach the
ears of Mentchikof. Either Peter was willing that his favorite should
see that he preferred mademoiselle, or else Mentchikof had so environed
him with spies that nothing was concealed and he could manipulate every
thread in the skein. It seemed almost useless to tell M. de Lambert; he
was in a heedless mood, bent only on seeing mademoiselle and with all
a brave man’s indifference to peril. In fact, I think the danger of
the situation had its own peculiar charms for him, and he counted every
risk for Najine’s sake a source of comfort and rejoicing. To Pierrot
I could speak with more confidence, and instructed him to be doubly
cautious, especially as we could place less trust in Touchet’s sagacity.
“Since M. de Lambert is sure to be watched,” I concluded, “you and
Touchet must exercise a peculiar vigilance and endeavor to evade the
spies.”
“Prince Dolgoruky’s equerry has been about here for two days, M. le
Maréchal,” Pierrot replied calmly; “after M. de Lambert threw him down
at the Kremlin he kept away for a while, but now he has returned to his
old vocation, and there is also another fellow with him, who, I think,
wears the czar’s livery under his cloak.”
“That is likely enough,” I said, thinking of Catherine’s warning;
“watch both of them, but especially Tikhon; he has a personal grudge
against M. de Lambert, and is therefore the more dangerous. It will go
ill with us, Pierrot, if we cannot outwit these Russians; we did it
in our young days, and if we fail now it will be because old age is
creeping on.”
A smile illumined Pierrot’s stolid face. “Ah, M. le Vicomte,” he said,
“we should never have returned to Moscow, for it is our fate here to
be constantly mixed up with love and desperate intrigue. I am getting
old and stiff, monsieur, and cannot defeat these rascals so easily as I
did twenty years ago.”
“Do not confess your age or your stiff joints, Pierrot,” I said,
laughing; “it is too soon to be laid upon the shelf by the wild young
gallants of to-day. Moreover, they need our counsel.”
“The more they need it, the less likely they are to take it, monsieur,”
he said dryly. “Touchet is a featherhead, and M. de Lambert is
over-rash, although a noble and gallant gentleman. He reminds me of
you, M. le Maréchal, in your youth; the same brave, loyal, and devoted
soldier. I think of the old days often, and of madame when she was
Mademoiselle Ramodanofsky.”
“We are a couple of old fools, Pierrot,” I replied, “for I think of
it too, and perhaps that is why I have so much forbearance for M.
Guillaume.”
Pierrot shook his head and smiled. “Ah, monsieur,” he said, “you
were a gallant young gentleman too; and Mademoiselle Zénaïde--how
well I remember her as she looked when we brought you up the stairs
unconscious, after you had saved her life and the others! Those were
brave days, M. le Vicomte; you had the swiftest and the strongest
sword-thrust that it has been my good fortune to see; you--”
“Hush, man!” I interrupted, “you make me an old fogy. My hand has not
yet lost its cunning. You talk of me as an old fellow without a good
right arm.”
“The saints forbid!” Pierrot said devoutly; “but you are now a marshal
of France and you were then a young cavalier. It is the bâton that is
for you now, rather than the sword and the dagger.”
“True enough, Pierrot,” I assented with a sigh; “I must remember my
dignity and my years, and let the young have the adventures. Soon it
will be my son who has his father’s old tricks with the rapier, and I
shall be but a gouty old gentleman who was once marshal of France, but
is now a fossil too stiff for service in the field and laid upon the
shelf. Well, well, Pierrot, an old sword and an old servant, I hope,
will be left me.”
There were tears in the honest fellow’s eyes. “My father died in the
service of your house, M. le Vicomte,” he said proudly, “and I will die
in yours.”
At a later hour my wife came to me with a troubled face.
“M. de Lambert is determined to keep his appointment,” she said, “and
to go unattended; but it seems to me that Pierrot ought to follow him
without his knowledge.”
“I thought of that,” I replied, “but it looked unfair to follow him
against his wishes,--a betrayal of his confidence.”
Zénaïde shrugged her shoulders. “I would not draw such distinctions,”
she said, with a woman’s fine disdain of a man’s scruples; “his life is
the first object. You know, Philippe, I do not believe that Najine ever
sent that message; it is unnatural and unwomanly, but M. de Lambert
will not listen to me. I believe I admire him the more for his rash
devotion; still I would protect him, whether he wished it or not.”
I reflected, for her opinion and mine coincided, and I felt most
reluctant to allow the young man to expose himself to unnecessary risk.
So it was that I called Pierrot, who had withdrawn, and instructed him
to follow M. de Lambert when he departed at dusk to keep the tryst.
An appointment with the czar took me to the Kremlin two hours before
the important moment. At this time the Swedes were occupying the
provinces of Kalisz and Posen, in Poland, and the Polish Primate,
Cardinal Radziejowski, had summoned a Diet at Warsaw, ostensibly
that the Republic of Poland might make a separate peace with Charles
XII., but with the real purpose of deposing Augustus of Saxony. The
confederation of Schrod, or Great Poland, was under the protection of
the King of Sweden, who was proposing Prince Jacob Sobieski to succeed
Augustus. It was an intrigue to control Poland and dethrone her king,
looked upon with little favor by the powers. Peter was continually
endeavoring to feel the pulse of France; to ascertain how far the king
my master would interfere between him and Charles XII., and whether
the partition of Poland or the downfall of Augustus would be regarded
with indifference by the French. My moves were even more cautious
than his; sent to watch the disposition of Russia toward the Grand
Alliance, and to ascertain how far the czar would go in upholding
Augustus in Saxony, I played the game of cross purposes day by day,
though I often saw the hot-tempered czar fretted by my complaisance and
by the apparent indifference of France. While I never admitted that I
was an envoy of my government, Peter allowed me to see that he divined
my mission; but through all the manœuvring he did not forget to probe
me about M. de Lambert and mademoiselle. He was quite aware that she
preferred her French lover, and it must have been a keen annoyance to
his haughty nature. His personal feeling toward me was cordial; he was
easy to approach, his large nature scorning the trivial etiquette of
courts, and, in spite of his violent temper and mad outbursts, there
were many qualities that were kingly and commanded my regard. That he
regretted his occasional paroxysms of fury, I did not doubt. It was
not even difficult to understand his treatment of the Czarina Eudoxia.
She belonged to the old régime; an ignorant woman, narrow, bigoted,
and jealous, clashing with the temperament of her husband at every
point, unable to comprehend his intellect, hating his reforms, without
sympathy for his ambitions; tried, no doubt, beyond endurance by the
czar’s intrigue with Anna Mons, but, in any case, totally unfit to hold
his esteem. Unhappily, it was said that the Czarevitch Alexis, then
a lad of thirteen, was like his mother in disposition and in tastes;
already the wiseacres at court looked forward to the day when there
would be a breach between father and son. It was this probability
and the delicate constitution of Alexis which made Peter’s possible
marriage an event of keen interest to the opposing parties and of vital
importance to Mentchikof, who was determined to keep his place beside
the czar.
When I left the Kremlin and turned my steps toward my lodgings, my
mind was still full of these matters. France and the Grand Alliance,
Russia and Charles XII. filled my thoughts, and for the time I had
forgotten M. de Lambert and his love affair. Although my path took me
in the direction of the bridge, I walked toward it still too absorbed
to remember the tryst. It was now quite dark, and a mist hung over the
frozen river; the ground was white with snow and it was beginning to
sleet. It seemed unusually still, so that I heard the scream of a raven
disturbed in his rest. Suddenly there was a cry and a pistol-shot.
Remembering M. de Lambert, I dashed down the slope to the bridge. As I
did so, I ran against a man who was rushing up the bank, and, obeying
an instinct, I caught him in my arms, pinioning his; but the ground
was slippery and he threw himself on me, pushing me sideways on the
slope until I lost my footing and went down on one knee. Having me at
a disadvantage, he wrenched himself free, and, dealing a blow that
stretched me on the ice, dashed off in the darkness just as another man
came up from the bridge, and, seeing me upon my back, fell on me with a
cry of fury.
“You villain!” he exclaimed, “I have you now!”
It was Pierrot.
“Help me up, you knave!” I said, thrusting his hands from my throat;
“you will choke me here in the snow.”
He uttered an ejaculation and stood transfixed with amazement.
“I beg your pardon a thousand times, M. le Maréchal,” he said, after a
moment, recovering sufficiently to help me to my feet; “but where is
the other?”
“Gone while you were belaboring me,” I replied dryly. “What has
happened?”
“M. de Lambert is wounded,” he said, “I know not how badly. It was, as
you supposed, a trap; mademoiselle was not here.”
I did not wait to hear more, being anxious for my friend. “Where is
he?” I exclaimed.
Pierrot turned, and conducted me across the bridge to the farther side.
There in the snow were two dark figures.
“Who is with him?” I asked quickly.
“I know not,” my equerry replied; “but it is the stranger who saved his
life.”
As we approached, I saw that M. de Lambert was sitting up, supported by
the other.
“How is it with you, Guillaume?” I inquired, bending over him.
“I have a cut,” he said quietly, “but it is not serious; with your
help, I will go back to our quarters.”
I was straining my eyes in the dark to see the face of his companion;
when he spoke, I recognized his voice.
“If he will lean on my arm, he can rise,” he said.
It was the Swedish spy. With his help, M. de Lambert rose and stood
leaning his hand on the other’s shoulder. After a moment he recovered
sufficiently to take my arm and walk slowly in the direction of our
lodgings. The Swede followed us a few steps; then, seeing that the
wounded man could walk alone, turned to leave us, but I checked him.
“Not so fast, friend,” I said; “my man tells me that you saved M. de
Lambert’s life. You cannot escape our gratitude.”
M. de Lambert held out his hand. “You must return with us,” he said.
“Nay, your Excellencies,” the Swede replied with evident embarrassment,
“I should be an unwelcome visitor.”
“Not so,” I responded quietly, “and you alone can fully explain this
matter.”
After some hesitation he yielded, and we moved on slowly on account of
M. de Lambert, while Pierrot went for a surgeon. We had not a great
distance to walk; and when we reached our quarters, Touchet opened
the door and we helped the wounded man to his room. My wife, hearing
us enter, came to our aid, and we had M. de Lambert comfortably lying
on his couch when the surgeon arrived,--a German whom I knew, for I
would not trust him in Russian hands. An examination showed a stab in
the side, which had caused some loss of blood, but had not touched any
vital spot. Reassured as to his safety, I was at leisure to return to
the outer room, where I found Pierrot and the Swede talking together.
Sitting down by the table, I signed to them to advance.
“Now,” I said, “tell me, if you can, exactly what occurred at the
bridge.”
Pierrot pointed to the Swede. “He can tell you more than I,” he said;
“obeying your instructions, I followed M. de Lambert at a distance
and saw him go down to the bridge. A moment later, I heard the noise
of a struggle, and running forward reached the bridge as another man
sprang upon it, and, turning aside the assassin’s pistol, saved M.
de Lambert’s life. I had almost caught the villain, but he wrenched
himself away from me and fled up the bank. You know the rest, monsieur.”
“And now your story, Lenk,” I said, turning to the spy.
“I was coming along by the river, your Excellency,” he replied quietly,
“and saw a man, muffled in his cloak, loitering by the bridge in a
manner that arrested my attention. Then seeing who it was, I suspected
a greater plot than even this.”
“Who was it?” I asked sharply.
The Swede looked at me an instant before he answered. “It was Yury
Apraxin,” he said.
“Ah!” I exclaimed softly, knowing at once that he had supposed that the
young man was waiting to avenge the czar’s insult, aware of Peter’s
careless habit of going unattended.
“So suspicious were his movements,” the spy continued, “that I too
loitered about in the shelter of the wall and watched. After a long
while M. de Lambert appeared, and walked rapidly towards the bridge.
Then I observed that Apraxin had let his mantle fall until he looked
almost a woman in the dusk, and it flashed upon me that it was a trick.
I ran to the bridge, reaching it just as he stabbed your friend. I
caught the fellow’s arm, and he drew his pistol with his left hand.
I struck his wrist, and the weapon went off. Pierrot came, and the
assassin escaped in the struggle and confusion. That is all, your
Excellency.”
“It is to your swift action, then, that we owe M. de Lambert’s life,”
I said, looking at him attentively. “What motive prompted you to risk
your own for his?”
The Swede’s fair-skinned face flushed, and he returned my look with a
flash of feeling in his light eyes.
“I owed him a life,” he replied stolidly, “and I do not forget my
debts.”
Remembering M. de Lambert’s relief and mine to be rid of him on that
night, I smiled.
“You are an honest fellow; accept our thanks,” I said, drawing out my
purse.
He started back with an expression of resentment.
“Not that, your Excellency,” he said proudly; “my life was worth more
to me than French gold. I did but discharge my just debts. Keep your
money for those who seek it; I am a free-born Swede and have saved a
life. That requires no thanks.”
I looked at him with growing interest. This was no common spy, or if
the lower classes were of such noble stuff, how worthy must be the
higher orders! King Charles was fortunate. I rose and held out my hand.
“You must accept, at least, my thanks,” I said.
As I spoke, I saw my wife coming forward. She had entered the room
unobserved, and overheard the conversation. Her cheeks were flushed,
and her blue eyes kindled with a look they had when she was deeply
stirred. She came across to the Swede, and drew a ring from her finger.
“Accept this, my friend,” she said in her gracious way, “for your
sweetheart, as a gift of recognition for a gallant service to a
Frenchman.”
The Swede, looking at her fine and animated face, took the ring and
made her a profound obeisance.
“Madame,” he said in a low voice, “I esteem it an honor to accept your
gift. In a manner I have regained my reputation. His Excellency your
husband and his friend thought me a cowardly spy because I dreaded to
die a shameful death; but I do not fear to die--as a brave man should.”
Zénaïde gave me a glance in which were mingled triumph and reproach.
“You have not only won our respect,” she replied, “but you have earned
our gratitude, for we both love M. de Lambert. We do not forget such a
service.”
“Madame, you are good,” the Swede said quietly; “and I will wear your
ring always, to remind me of the nobler purposes of life.”
Kneeling down, he kissed the hem of her robe, and then, rising, left
the house without another word.
“And you thought him a coward!” exclaimed Zénaïde, looking at me with a
smile.
“He is not only a brave man, but a courtier, it seems, Madame de
Brousson,” I replied dryly.
She laughed, looking down at her robe and flushing like a girl.