AN INTERCEPTED LETTER.
M. DE LAMBERT’S wound, though not dangerous, was troublesome, and kept
him confined to his room for some time; a fretful patient he was,
trying my wife’s forbearance, although she was in full sympathy with
his anxieties. There were no definite developments, but it was manifest
that Catherine Shavronsky was at this time more or less neglected,
while favors were showered upon the Zotofs, and mademoiselle’s name
was on every lip. In the interval she appeared once at court, and was
surrounded by a bevy of courtiers, and it occurred to me that perhaps
her silence toward her lover was caused by a change of heart, that the
splendors of a throne had dazzled her; but Zénaïde refused to believe
it. She had an unshaken confidence in Najine’s loyalty, and fully
appreciated the difficulties which beset the young girl. We endeavored
to send her a message explaining M. de Lambert’s condition, but neither
Zénaïde nor I believed that it ever reached her. Meanwhile Apraxin had
disappeared. It would have been impossible to obtain any satisfaction
in regard to the young villain, and I was more or less relieved at his
departure. There was no doubt that his attack on M. Guillaume had been
actuated entirely by jealousy, and that there was no deeper motive
behind it, which diminished the chances of obtaining any redress.
Madame de Brousson’s woman, Jeanne, had made several attempts to
penetrate the seclusion of the Zotof mansion without success, but at
last she was more fortunate, and it was while M. de Lambert was still
suffering from his wound that she returned one forenoon with important
tidings. Mademoiselle herself had been dangerously ill, and there were
whispers of suspicious circumstances attending her indisposition. She
had accompanied Madame Zotof to a fête at the palace, returning with
the usual gifts of sweetmeats; madame ate hers without ill effects, but
mademoiselle had no sooner tasted the comfit than she was seized with
a sudden and alarming illness, and madame summoned a physician in hot
haste. At first he almost despaired of saving Najine’s life, but after
a while the worst symptoms passed off, and she recovered consciousness.
The physician, after examining the fragment remaining, declared
that the comfit had been poisoned. Mademoiselle was now recovering,
Jeanne reported, and there was a close surveillance exercised, no
food reaching her room untasted. The retainers and serfs at the Zotof
mansion were in a state of profound excitement, and it was whispered
that the Czarevna Natalia, Peter’s sister, was endeavoring to poison
Najine. This, of course, was the idle gossip of the servants, and not
worth a thought; Natalia Alexeievna had too many noble qualities to
stoop to the assassin’s weapons. Nor could the princess have any real
choice between mademoiselle and the Livonian, unless, indeed, she
thought that an intrigue with Catherine would end as it had ended with
Anna Mons, while, on the other hand, mademoiselle would undoubtedly
ascend the throne if Zotof’s intrigues were successful. In any case,
the czarevna could have little interest in the matter; it was true that
she was the aunt of the czarevitch, but it was probable that she shared
her brother’s dislike of Eudoxia, and was therefore without personal
feeling toward the woman who was likely to supplant her. It was not
difficult to imagine that there were many at court who were jealous of
Najine. I had feared from the first some overt act after Mentchikof’s
veiled threat to me, that if fair means did not succeed, foul would. If
the czar was indeed enamored of mademoiselle, he would not be thwarted,
and neither Catherine Shavronsky nor M. de Lambert nor the young fool
Apraxin was likely to defeat his settled purpose; and this attempt to
remove her at once convinced me that the belief was prevalent that she
was the imperial choice. Zénaïde, who was a keen observer, was deeply
concerned, and, being a Russian, she understood the undercurrents. The
only hope that I saw lay in the fact that Peter had made no public
announcement, which would have been irretrievable. If we could but turn
him aside, and prevent such a declaration for Najine, we might yet save
the day. We had determined not to inform M. de Lambert of her illness,
but such secrets find their way to lovers’ ears too easily. I had
scarcely known it a day myself when he sent for me to his room. I found
him propped upon his pillows, still pale, for he had lost much blood,
but with the sparkle of health in his clear brown eyes. He responded
to my inquiries with impatience, and, dismissing Touchet, who was in
attendance, asked me to be seated opposite to him, where the light fell
full upon my face.
“How is mademoiselle?” he asked me sharply, scanning my features with
the eye of a hawk; “how ill has she been?”
I smiled in spite of myself. “She is more nearly recovered than you,
monsieur,” I said, “and perhaps was never worse than you have been.
Some one has told you garbled tales.”
“I hope that you do not deceive me, M. le Maréchal,” he replied
distrustfully; “it would be a poor kindness.”
“Happily, I do not need to deceive you,” I replied; “mademoiselle has
had some illness from which she is almost recovered. The gossip of the
kitchen accounts it a poisoned comfit, but no breath of this is abroad.
It would be treason to whisper it, for the sweetmeats came from the
imperial table.”
He looked at me thoughtfully. “Can it be that the princess is against
her?” he exclaimed.
“Impossible,” I replied; “Natalia is too noble. Such treachery does not
belong to the Romanoff.”
“Some traitor in the kitchen, then,” he said gloomily; “and here I lie
on my back like a fool while her life is in danger!”
“Take comfort, monsieur,” I remarked calmly; “it has been a salutary
lesson, and mademoiselle will be watched the more carefully. Too much
hangs on her life for it to be exposed. Moreover, it may all have been
the veriest accident,--something dropped upon the comfit and falling
to mademoiselle by chance. Why work yourself into a fever over this?
I have tasted more than one Russian dish that I thought would shortly
send me to paradise, yet I live.”
He smiled in spite of himself, but I saw that his enforced helplessness
was fretting him like a thorn in the flesh, and could understand and
sympathize with his impatience, knowing how great would be mine in the
like case.
It was after leaving him that I entered Madame de Brousson’s closet and
found her with a letter in her hands.
“Here is another one of Catherine’s billets,” she said scornfully;
“but this one, I am certain, has been tampered with. Look at the
seal--look at the manner in which it is folded;” and she handed it to
me with a gesture of disdain.
Half amused, I took it and, holding it to the light, was at once
convinced that her keen eyes had discovered the truth. There was every
indication that the missive had been opened and re-sealed by some one
who scarcely cared to take the pains to conceal the work. Zénaïde,
seeing my face grow grave, came and stood by me, looking at the paper.
“It is true,” I remarked; “some one has tampered with it.”
“And who?” she said softly.
I shrugged my shoulders. “You have over-reached me there, madame,”
I replied; “I am no reader of riddles. But let us see what the fair
Catherine has to write to me in this careless way. Madame Golovin
should be wiser than to be her scribe; but when will women learn to
keep their pens from paper?” I unfolded it as I spoke, and together
we read a long note from Mademoiselle Shavronsky, full of too plain
references, hinting at a dozen ways of securing mademoiselle before the
czar should announce his choice or make any open sign in her favor,--a
mischievous note to fall into the wrong hands; referring to Najine’s
illness and to M. de Lambert’s wound and calling men by their names. I
read it through without a comment, and then Madame de Brousson and I
looked at each other.
“The woman is a fool, and Madame Golovin another,” I exclaimed
impatiently; “what would she have been in the hands of Madame de
Montespan?”
“Ah, well, we cannot look for a Madame de Maintenon every day,” Zénaïde
replied, shaking her head; “yet she risks not only herself, but all
this is dangerous to you. You must put an end to it, Philippe.”
“An end to it!” I exclaimed; “you are a woman, and yet fancy that I can
control another woman--and one like Catherine Shavronsky. You rave,
madame; I am no magician.”
“Appeal to Mentchikof,” Zénaïde suggested.
“Appeal to the moon!” I replied with impatience. “Catherine cares not
for him. Her head is full of fancies, and she must needs put them on
paper like a woman!”
“Now you are out of humor, M. le Maréchal,” Zénaïde said calmly; “you
are never discourteous except when you lose your temper. Then women
must bear the blame for all the errors of the world.”
I took her hand and kissed it, for I saw the flash in her blue eyes.
“If women were all like you, madame,” I said gallantly, “the world
would be fortunate indeed.”
“I thank you, monsieur,” she replied, answering me with my own manner;
“the woman does not live who is not more patient than man.”
But our little comedy was ended by Pierrot, who appeared suddenly at
the door with a perturbed countenance.
“A message from the Kremlin, monsieur,” he said in a strange voice.
I glanced at him, surprised. “A message from whom?” I asked.
“It is the czar’s equerry,” he replied.
Zénaïde had risen and stood with her hand upon my shoulder, and I felt
her fingers tighten their hold a trifle.
“Let him come here,” I said, and Pierrot departed on his errand.
“What can it be at this hour?” Zénaïde exclaimed, for it was late in
the evening.
I could not answer her, for I was myself perplexed. In a moment Pierrot
returned and announced the equerry, a young fellow whom I knew by sight.
“You are charged with a message to me?” I said, responding to his
salutation.
“His imperial Majesty desires your immediate attendance, M. de
Brousson,” he replied with an air of importance.
I rose at once. “The hour is late,” I said calmly, “but I will be with
you in a few moments.”
Zénaïde followed me from the room with a startled face. “I do not
like this summons,” she said, “or the hour. Is it necessary to obey,
Philippe? Can you not evade it?”
I shook my head. “Impossible,” I replied; “moreover, I have nothing to
fear. The gravest offence would be a refusal to obey. Take comfort, my
wife; you are too brave a woman to be anxious over a trifle.”
In spite of my reassuring words, she accompanied me to the door with a
grave face, and when I looked back I saw her graceful figure outlined
against the light, like a picture framed by the doorway.
Pierrot attended me, and, escorted by the messenger, we walked directly
to the Kremlin at a rapid pace. I had small leisure for reflection,
but could not forbear some speculation upon the cause of this summons.
No explanation offered itself, but the thought of the Swedish spy and
Yury Apraxin, and I was therefore wholly unprepared for the humor in
which I found the czar. The equerry conducted me to a private entrance
of the palace, and the wicket was opened by one of the court dwarfs. We
ascended a long narrow flight of stairs, and were admitted to Peter’s
private apartments. Pierrot remaining at the entrance, I was ushered
into a long gallery, which could be entered by two doors, one being at
either end, and there I remained for some moments alone. The place was
lighted by three lamps, swung by chains from the low vaulted ceiling,
and the whole gallery was decorated in dark red and blue and gold.
Two narrow windows looked out upon the domes of the Kremlin, shining
in the moonlight; on the other side, through a golden lattice, I could
see the tapers gleaming on an iconostase in one of the private chapels.
The whole effect was one of Oriental color and splendor. It must have
been a quarter of an hour before the door at the farther end was opened
quickly and Peter entered unattended. The moment that I beheld him, I
knew that there had been a paroxysm of rage and that he was suffering
from its effects. His dress was disordered, his shirt thrown open at
the throat, displaying his brawny neck; his face was deeply flushed,
and he wore no peruke, his own dark hair hanging dishevelled on his
temples, and his eyes were brilliant with anger. He came striding
towards me with the air of a common brawler rather than a king, and I
saw that he held a paper in his hand. Not knowing what to anticipate,
I prepared for some outburst, but it was difficult to master my
astonishment when, without replying to my obeisance, he thrust the
letter into my hand, exclaiming,--
“Explain that, sir!”
Collecting my thoughts, I slowly smoothed out the crumpled paper, and
suppressed a start with an effort when I saw Catherine Shavronsky’s
letter to me that I had left in my own lodgings. The czar’s eyes were
searching my face, but I lifted my brows with assumed surprise and
looked at him with composure.
“It is addressed to me,” I said quietly; “but as it has been received
by your Majesty, doubtless the explanation would be easier for those
who delivered it at the palace.”
Peter was no hair-splitter; he looked at me with scorn. “The letter was
on its way to you, M. de Brousson,” he said sharply; “the fac-simile of
it was delivered to you, but this is the original. Am I to understand
that I have a traitor in Mentchikof’s household, that my affairs are
betrayed to the King of France?”
I drew myself up haughtily, and looked the czar straight in the eye.
“Your Majesty forgets that you address a marshal of France,” I replied
coldly; “a soldier cannot descend to the level of a spy. Any man but
the czar would answer for those words at the point of the sword.”
His cheek flushed darkly, but he was not without generosity. “High
words, Maréchal de Brousson,” he said impatiently; “but I did not
accuse you, but--” he hesitated and then went on frankly, “I accused
Catherine Shavronsky.”
I was delicately placed and required patience. “Your Majesty,” I
replied calmly, “I have ever regarded Mademoiselle Catherine as a
devoted subject of the czar.”
He took two turns across the gallery, his face working as it did at
times, and his eyes on the ground. Then he faced me, and I saw that he
was more composed.
“M. de Brousson,” he said hoarsely, “I would send her to a nunnery
to-morrow, I would send her to Archangel, if I believed what they would
have me believe of that letter. If she writes these notes to you, it
will be well to warn her that she does so at her peril. These women
think that because they are beautiful, Peter is too great a fool to
give them their deserts, but I will tolerate no traitor, petticoated or
not, about my person. I will have satisfaction!”
He stood there looking at me like a thunder-cloud, his great figure
towering in the poorly lighted gallery and his large eyes full of
passion.
“Your Majesty,” I said calmly, and with what dignity I could command,
“I am a subject of the King of France, and it is outside of my province
to detect traitors here, neither do threats prevail with such. If I
have erred through ignorance, and violated the courtesy and respect due
to your person, I crave your Majesty’s indulgence. For Mademoiselle
Shavronsky I am in no way responsible.”
“By our Lady, M. l’Ambassadeur,” he exclaimed with violent excitement,
“she is the traitor to pen such lines to a stranger and a Frenchman. I
would rather give up the Neva to Charles of Sweden than have my heart
and thoughts betrayed to a foreign court! I have trusted her too
deeply, there is no truth in woman!”
His voice rose as he spoke, and his lips quivered with passion. He was
a man of strong emotions, violent and erratic. I stood silent; there
was nothing that I could say with safety, and I folded my arms and
leaned against the arras, regarding him with keen interest. He was
muttering to himself in German, the language that he loved and used
most frequently. I caught the name of Mentchikof, coupled with such
expressions as “mein Bruder” and “mein Herz.” He felt that he had been
betrayed in the house of his friend. Suddenly looking up, he caught my
eye, and perhaps read my secret amazement that a sovereign could so far
forget the reserve that belonged to his dignity.
“M. de Brousson,” he said, speaking with more composure, “I forget that
you are a stranger. You have seen me in a moment of weakness. A king
should scorn the intrigues of women, and my heart is indeed with the
state; my most earnest thoughts are with the commonweal. It is only
when the man feels the sting of deceit and of treachery that he forgets
that he is royal. To rule an empire is to be a friendless human being,”
he added, with a touch of passionate sadness.
I was strongly moved. I knew that he was too far in advance of his
countrymen, too far above the level of mediocrity, to be in touch with
sympathy. The isolation of this strange and violent man was almost
complete, and all at once I understood that mayhap he really cared for
mademoiselle’s love; that he craved one single human heart, amid the
adulation of a court. I remembered how Mademoiselle de la Vallière’s
devotion to Louis XIV. had contrasted with the intrigues of her
successor.
“Your Majesty,” I said in a low voice, “to be exalted is to be alone.
The rulers of the world stand before the nations in splendid solitude.”
His stormy mood was passing, and his face began to assume its natural
expression. Something in my speech stung him. He took another quick
turn across the gallery, and then paused before me, his eagle eye
searching my face.
“M. le Maréchal,” he said abruptly, “you are a brave man and a true.
You have seen Peter of Russia in an hour of weakness, betrayed by a
woman. It is unworthy of me and of your remembrance. Forget it!”
I made an obeisance. “Your Majesty, it is already forgotten,” I replied.
He responded with a dignified gesture, which was at once an
acknowledgment and a dismissal, and turning from me walked slowly down
the gallery and went out at the other end, closing the door behind him,
and leaving me with Catherine’s ill-starred letter in my hand.