UNDER A CLOUD.
I WAS awakened early the following morning by Zénaïde, who brought me a
summons from Mentchikof,--a few lines in French, asking me to come to
his house at my earliest convenience. I read the note with a smile.
“This also is the outcome of Mademoiselle Catherine’s letter,” I
remarked. “May the saints teach women to keep their pens from paper.”
“Such a woman cannot live without intrigue,” my wife replied; “she may
be remarkable, but she is not pure of soul.”
“My love, we have nothing to do with her soul,” I remarked
indifferently; “she is a splendid creature, but she is also the
daughter of a peasant. A few more letters, however, will send her where
neither beauty nor ambition nor intrigue will save her.”
“In which case it will be difficult to rescue Mademoiselle Zotof for M.
de Lambert,” my wife said astutely.
“Upon my soul,” I retorted, “I am half inclined to sympathize with the
czar. If this young Frenchman had not crossed mademoiselle’s path, she
would, no doubt, have rejoiced at the thought of becoming Czarina of
Russia; and, after all, is she not making a mistake? Peter is a goodly
man.”
Madame de Brousson uttered an exclamation of disgust. “You have no
sentiment, M. le Vicomte,” she said. “I often marvel that you were so
romantic twenty-one years ago.”
“The provocation was great, madame,” I replied, smiling; “you forget
that.”
Half an hour later, I was entering the courtyard of Mentchikof’s
palace. It was unusually quiet; not even a groom loitered by the gates,
and I was surprised that the master of the establishment was within
when there were so few signs of attendance. The steward who answered
my inquiry, however, corrected my mistake; Mentchikof was absent,
but Madame Golovin desired to speak to me. Supposing that Mentchikof
had been called away and had left his message with his sister, I
followed the steward up the broad stairs, and through three of the
long _salons_, into a small apartment, evidently dedicated to Madame
Golovin, for it was furnished with all a woman’s fanciful belongings,
and hung with gay tapestries. Madame kept me waiting but a few minutes,
and came in with a pale face. She greeted me cordially, but her manner
was abrupt and anxious.
“We are in trouble, M. le Maréchal,” she said at once, “and
Mademoiselle Shavronsky sent for you. She has made a painful
discovery. Give her what comfort and counsel you can. My brother is
with the czar.”
I was not in doubt as to the nature of their trouble, and felt my
position to be peculiarly delicate. Madame Golovin, however, did not
wait for a reply, but conducted me to the apartment where I had last
seen Catherine. At the door madame paused and whispered to me.
“Be gentle, M. le Maréchal,” she said. “Mademoiselle is overwrought,
and may speak unjustly, even wildly; but I trust your forbearance.”
“I am at your service, madame,” I replied with a gesture of reassurance.
She looked at me keenly, and I saw her lips compress, but after
an instant’s hesitation she threw open the door and we entered
unannounced. Near the threshold sat a young Russian girl, playing upon
a lute and singing a wild Cossack melody in a voice that seemed to me
to have only a keen high note that pierced the ear and could scarcely
have possessed the magic of consolation. Madame hushed the music with a
sign, and we passed on to the other end of the room, where, on a pile
of cushions and furs, lay the Livonian. As we approached, she rose and
confronted us. I saw a great change in her face; it was colorless, and
her large dark eyes were full of emotion; her flaxen hair had escaped
its bonds and hung in masses on her shoulders.
“M. de Brousson,” she exclaimed without preface, “did you receive a
letter from me last night?”
I smiled; it seemed to me that she would at last profit by her lesson.
“I received it, mademoiselle,” I said quietly.
A look of relief came over her face. “You received it,” she repeated,
coming a step nearer and looking searchingly at my face; “had it been
tampered with, monsieur?”
I returned her glance calmly. “It had, mademoiselle,” I replied in a
low voice.
In an instant the cloud came back to her face, and she clasped her
hands. “Alas!” she exclaimed, “we are undone.”
Madame Golovin made some sign to stay her impetuosity, but it was
without effect. Catherine’s nature was fully as impulsive and
passionate as that of the czar.
“M. le Maréchal,” she said, “my unhappy letter was taken from my
messenger, and must have been opened before it was delivered to you.”
“Doubtless, mademoiselle,” I said, determined to allow her to talk
rather than to talk myself. “It is unfortunate to write anything unless
you are certain of the messenger.”
She made a gesture of impatience. “He was trusty enough,” she said,
“but was overpowered and the letter taken from him; he knew nothing
more of its fate. This morning Mentchikof was summoned by the czar, a
peremptory message. Alas, monsieur, we fear that the unhappy billet
has reached his Majesty.”
She was standing close to me, her hands clasped and her eyes fastened
on my face. I felt her glance searching me, although I did not meet it,
but stood gazing at the logs that were blazing in the great chimney.
“Mademoiselle,” I said quietly, “I am old enough to be your father,
therefore permit me to advise you. It is true that I have not been so
much at court as in the camp, but I am not without my experience. Never
write anything, mademoiselle, that can be conveyed by word of mouth;
never write plainly if you write at all. That which is written is
written.”
“Alas!” she exclaimed, “you are a man, it is easy for you to be always
cautious. I have been foolish. I see it and deplore it, but must I
suffer for the fault of too much anxiety? My heart misgives me! I fear
that evil will come of it.” Then turning to me abruptly, she added,
“Have you heard anything of the letter save from me?”
“I heard of it last night, mademoiselle,” I admitted reluctantly.
She started, and caught my sleeve. “Tell me all, monsieur,” she cried;
“had it reached the palace? Who spoke of it to you?”
“The czar.”
My words were spoken low, but a pistol-shot could scarcely have
shocked her more. She released my arm and started back, her face
flushing scarlet and then becoming deadly pale. It was a moment of
weakness, and I pitied her. She was a strong woman, a woman of will
and brain, but she knew the peril of her situation, and for the moment
tottered under the blow, while Madame Golovin sank down upon a chair,
completely unnerved. Catherine was the first to recover.
“You saw him,” she exclaimed; “was he violently angry?”
I was most reluctant to speak. I neither desired to alarm her nor to
betray the czar, but saw that she would have an answer.
“Mademoiselle,” I said gently, “I am sorry to be able to give you no
comfort. His Majesty was sorely displeased.”
“He had--seen the letter?” she faltered.
“He had the letter,” I replied.
“Yet you also received it,” she exclaimed with momentary dulness; “I do
not understand.”
“Mine was a copy, mademoiselle,” I replied quietly; “his Majesty had
the original.”
She was silent, her face pale with contending emotions. She was far
too clever not to realize her position and all its perils, but she
was also a woman of resource, and I saw that it was not despair that
had overcome her,--far from it. Her quick wit was searching for some
expedient that would deliver her from the snare into which her own
folly had led her. Madame Golovin, her fellow conspirator, on the
other hand, gave way to her feelings. She foresaw not only the fall of
Catherine, but that of her brother, which would involve the ruin of her
husband.
“Alas!” she exclaimed, “we shall share the fate of Prince Basil
Galitsyn, of Sophia, of Eudoxia. Exile, imprisonment, perhaps death!”
Catherine glanced at her with contempt. Her own nature had rallied to
meet the crisis, and she looked more queenly at that moment than ever
before. There were no tears, there was no weakness; if disaster came,
she would face it with unflinching courage.
“M. de Brousson,” she said quietly, “what did the czar say?”
“Mademoiselle,” I replied with dignity, “you forget to whom you speak.
It is not for me to repeat the words of his Majesty. It would be
conduct worthy a court spy, but not of a marshal of France.”
She bit her lip, for the moment baffled, and the blood rose to her brow.
“Pardon me, M. l’Ambassadeur,” she exclaimed bitterly; “I forgot that a
diplomat could have no feeling for an unhappy woman.”
“You do me an injustice, mademoiselle,” I exclaimed with impatience; “I
would gladly serve you, as far as my honor permits me. I would advise
you now with sincerity, if you would allow me.”
“Ah, M. le Maréchal, help us if you can!” Madame Golovin exclaimed with
feeling.
“We would be your debtors,” Catherine added, with less excitement,
giving me a haughty glance, which I interpreted to signify that she
would remember my refusal to answer her, if she ever mounted the ladder
of success, and remember it to my cost.
“Mademoiselle Shavronsky,” I said calmly, “I would advise you to go to
the czar, and, confessing your error frankly, pray his forgiveness.
His Majesty is generous to a fault, and his anger passes like a cloud
before the sun.”
“M. de Brousson is right, Catherine,” madame exclaimed; “the czar is
generous. Remember that, for your sake, he forgave Yury Apraxin.”
But Catherine shook her head. She knew that the offence was of a
different nature, and knew also that if Peter pardoned her with
indifference her defeat would be as certain as a decree of exile. She
was essentially a proud woman, and half the sting of her position
lay in the thought of the triumph of the Zotofs. Madame Golovin’s
nervous terror had no response in her heart; a bold nature like hers
is untouched by little fears. She was playing for high stakes, and
knew that to lose would involve not only her own ruin, but that of
others, and was ready to play desperately. Looking at her face, gloomy
and disturbed as it was, I was convinced that the hour had come for
Mademoiselle Zotof to be cautious; this woman would sacrifice her
dearest friend to gain her ends. It had gone too far for retreat, and
she was beginning, no doubt, to hate the young girl who stood between
her and her ambition. I thought of the poisoned sweetmeat, and wondered
a little if Catherine would have regretted fatal consequences if they
had resulted from it. Najine’s demise would be such an easy solution of
one of her difficulties that it presented a perilous temptation.
My position was difficult, and I was casting about for a pretext to
withdraw, when the door was thrown open and Alexander Mentchikof
entered. He did not, at the moment, notice me, and came across the room
with a rapid step, his face clouded with some deep anxiety. Madame and
Catherine both stood looking at him with eager inquiry, oblivious of my
presence.
“It is as we thought, and worse than we thought,” he exclaimed, and
then, discovering me, stopped short and broke out with a hard laugh.
“On my word, M. le Vicomte,” he said, “I did not see you. But it is
of little consequence; it appears that we can keep no secrets in this
household.”
“The czar sent for M. de Brousson last night,” Catherine said quietly;
“therefore he knew more than we.”
I made haste to seize upon this opportunity to depart. “By your leave,
I will not intrude further upon your confidence,” I said; “madame and
mademoiselle, I bid you adieu.”
Madame Golovin responded warmly, but Catherine’s reply was haughty. She
had not yet forgiven my implied rebuke, and was visiting her folly on
my head. Mentchikof walked with me to the head of the stairs, and I was
never more impressed with his grace of manner. Anxious and disturbed
as he was, he did not forget the courtesy of the host. As we stood a
moment before parting, he laid his hand on my arm.
“M. le Maréchal,” he said in a low tone, “tell M. de Lambert that the
hour has come when Mademoiselle Zotof must either escape to France or
be sacrificed.”
I looked gravely into his face, and read determination in his eyes.
“Monsieur,” I said quietly, “you mean that mademoiselle will be a
czarina.”
“I do not!” he replied emphatically; “she shall not be. There is a
party yet at court strong enough to defeat her, even if Catherine’s
folly has ruined her cause; the other faction shall not triumph. Do you
think me so poor a fool? Zotof is a braggart, an old fossil; he could
never hold the regard of the czar. The beauty of the niece may have
touched the royal heart, but the wit of the uncle will never establish
her upon a throne.”
Remarking his somber expression, I began to apprehend serious trouble
for mademoiselle, and made an effort to turn his purpose.
“Remember, M. Mentchikof,” I said, “that mademoiselle is a young girl,
and I think I may safely say that her heart is in French keeping;
therefore be patient in your thoughts of her, however angry towards
Zotof.”
He looked back at me with an unmoved countenance.
“M. l’Ambassadeur,” he replied, in his suave way, “I have no doubt
of mademoiselle’s innocence; it is as conspicuous as her beauty,
but both are dangerous. Statesmen cannot see their dearest wishes,
their favorite ambitions swept aside for the sake of a young girl. If
mademoiselle desires to live long and happily, let her avoid the dizzy
paths to eminence. Greatness has its peculiar perils, and she who would
wear a crown must seek it at the risk of her head. I speak thus freely,
monsieur, not because I bear ill-will to mademoiselle, but because I
feel so much for her youth and her helplessness that I warn her that
the steps of the throne are slippery--with blood.”
I had descended a little way and stood below him on the stair, looking
up at his graceful figure and handsome face.
“Yet, monsieur,” I said lightly, “you are willing to risk one of your
own particular friends.”
He smiled, and the fire kindled in his eyes. “Ah, monsieur,” he
returned, “some women are born to walk where others fear to creep. I am
a believer in destiny!”
And I left him standing there with a smile upon his lips.