A FAIR REBEL.
THAT evening I went to the Kremlin for the sole purpose of gathering
information, and met with signal failure. The czar was closeted with
Prince Dolgoruky and Sheremetief, and the palace was almost deserted.
The few courtiers lingering in the ante-rooms stared at me curiously,
as if they knew of some matter with which my name was connected, and
I attributed their interest to Catherine Shavronsky’s unfortunate
letter. There are no secrets at a court; malice and curiosity pry out
every corner about a throne, and I had no doubt that every particular
of her foolish correspondence was known. I made an effort to see
Prince Dolgoruky, but to no purpose, and finally quitted the palace
much disturbed. I could not sift the situation, and was uneasy for M.
Guillaume, who had gone out again, in the hope of communicating with
mademoiselle, although I had endeavored to restrain his impetuosity,
fearing that some evil would result from it; but it was impossible to
control him. He departed upon his errand, burning with ardor to achieve
some enterprise, to rescue Najine, to thwart the czar. The absolute
recklessness of his courage made me smile. He dashed at obstacles in
his path, as if he were dealing with a man of straw, instead of with
one of the most resolute and autocratic men in the world. It looked
desperate to me, for I knew that Mentchikof was under a cloud, and
Catherine in a position that might terminate in exile, and the presence
of Dolgoruky in the imperial closet boded ill for any hopes of M. de
Lambert’s success.
It was early when I reached my quarters, and I was not surprised to
find that the anxious lover had not returned even to supper. Zénaïde
was disturbed; she knew even more than I about the perils of Najine’s
position, and felt a keen sympathy for the two lovers. It was cold, and
a great fire of logs blazed on the hearth, and I drew my chair before
it with a sigh of relief. After all, the pleasure of sitting by a
bright blaze on such a night diminished the trouble of court intrigue,
but Madame de Brousson’s mind was dwelling on M. de Lambert.
“I hope he will do nothing rash,” she said thoughtfully; “he is
determined to win, and sometimes that headlong impetuosity wrecks a
cause.”
“And sometimes it conquers,” I replied sententiously; “he can scarcely
see mademoiselle, even if he sees Zotof,” I added.
“Did he intend to see Zotof?” Zénaïde asked with surprise.
“He went mainly for that purpose,” I replied, “although what he
expected to gain by the interview I cannot imagine. The ‘Prince Pope’
is not likely to accept for his ward the hand of a poor Frenchman,
instead of the czar, even if her coronation is not an immediate
prospect. Peter would not insult her family by treating her with
neglect; moreover, I believe that he really loves Najine.”
Madame de Brousson shrugged her shoulders scornfully, her lip curling.
“I believe that some thought that King Louis loved Madame de
Montespan,” she said.
“The case is different, Zénaïde,” I returned quietly. “Madame de
Montespan could never have been more than the king’s mistress, Madame
de Maintenon can never be Queen of France, but it is different with
the Romanoff. He can make mademoiselle czarina, if he chooses, and he
undoubtedly will marry again. It is desirable that there should be
other heirs. Monseigneur with all his dulness is far more acceptable
to King Louis than is Alexis to his father. Peter might make Catherine
share the fate of Anna Mons, but Najine has too powerful a party behind
her, and he loves her. I have seen him strongly moved, and I know that
the man is genuine.”
“You have an admiration for him,” my wife remarked dryly; “he always
fascinated your interest. I confess that I remember that the Czarevna
Sophia saved us both, and I cannot love the czar’s treatment of her.”
“Yet there is no doubt,” I said calmly, “that she deserved it.”
“Alas, M. le Vicomte,” she replied, smiling, “if you fall back on our
merits, who can expect a better fate?”
“Hark! what is that?” I exclaimed, listening.
We both heard an unusual disturbance at the lower entrance, and the
sound of voices. In another moment the door of the room was opened
without ceremony by Pierrot, who stood aside to admit two closely
veiled women. My wife rose from her chair with an exclamation of
surprise, while I sat looking at them bewildered. It was not until they
dropped their mantles that we recognized them. It was mademoiselle
and her woman, Neonila. Najine threw back her hood, and her usually
pale face was flushed with excitement. Behind them stood Pierrot, for
the first time in his life too astonished to remember his duty and
withdraw. Madame de Brousson, recovering her wits first, went up to
Najine, and taking both her hands drew her to the chair by the fire.
“This is indeed a pleasure, mademoiselle,” she said easily, “and it is
the first time I have seen you since your illness.”
The young girl clung to Zénaïde’s hand with the first signs of weakness
that I had seen about her.
“Madame de Brousson and you, M. le Vicomte,” she said in a low voice,
“I know you think me demented to come here, and at this hour, but I
have need of advice, of help. I am sore beset, and yet I fear my visit
here will be only an embarrassment to you both. I am unfortunate.”
“And we are fortunate, mademoiselle,” I replied gallantly, “to have so
fair a visitor. In all things you may command me.”
She gave me a keen glance, as if she had already learned to sift men’s
souls, and was slow to give her confidence, but I saw that my wife had
won her heart. It was to Zénaïde that she mainly addressed herself, as
if she felt sure, at least, of a woman’s sympathy.
“I am not without natural affection for my uncle, madame,” she said
quietly, as if collecting her thoughts. “I would gladly submit to his
guidance, but his mind is full of dreams of greatness, and he forgets
my personal happiness, or believes that it can be assured by the
fulfilment of his wishes.”
She paused as if choosing her words, and I looked around to see that
Pierrot had withdrawn and her woman was standing by the door watching
us, as if she doubted the wisdom of her mistress’s action.
“He has determined to marry me,” mademoiselle continued, looking still
at my wife; “and I will not yield, even if it is--” She paused and,
glancing at me, framed the words with her lips, “the czar.”
Madame de Brousson was holding her hand and patting it gently, while
I sat and looked at her beautiful young face and the spirited pose of
her head. To advise her seemed impossible. She read my thoughts, and
glanced from my face to my wife’s.
“I will not marry him!” she cried passionately. “I have no desire to
share the fate of Eudoxia.”
“Nonsense, mademoiselle,” I exclaimed, smiling; “you cannot compare
yourself with the unfortunate czarina.”
“And why not, monsieur?” she asked with spirit. “I, too, would be at
the caprice of a tyrant. How soon might he weary of me? I am young
now, but in a few years a change might come,--illness, sorrow, loss of
youth,--and then I too should be sent in a postcart to the convent.”
She spoke with superb contempt, and I listened, thinking that if Peter
could hear her disdainful young voice it would be a salutary lesson
for the autocrat. My wife was smiling; the thought of this proud young
beauty sharing Eudoxia’s disgrace was absurd, and yet she was terribly
in earnest as she sat looking at us, her dark blue eyes kindled with
passionate anger.
“You are unlike other women, mademoiselle,” I said; “the splendors of a
throne have no attractions for you.”
“I do not say that, monsieur,” she replied with a sudden smile; “but
when I must share it--its attractions depend upon the partner of my
honors. I cannot purchase a crown at the price of my self-respect.”
“And yet,” I remarked quietly, “the czar is a ruler, a brave man,
a reformer, and with a certain simplicity of nature that makes him
lovable.”
“I did not think to find his advocate here, M. le Maréchal,” she said,
her cheeks flushing. “I came rather to find a way to escape, since the
matter is pressing.”
“It is hard for us to advise you, my dear,” Zénaïde replied gently; “we
feel as if we might injure rather than aid you. It is a grave step.”
“I know it,” she exclaimed, her lips quivering, “and I would not bring
trouble to you, but I saw no way. They have kept me as close as a
prisoner, and are deaf to my entreaties; they believe that their wisdom
is best.”
“There are two ways, mademoiselle,” I said slowly,--“one, to go to a
convent for temporary protection, but that would scarcely avail you;
the other--” I paused, and looked at Zénaïde. She, reading my thought,
laid her finger on her lip. She felt that M. de Lambert must speak for
himself.
“And the other?” repeated mademoiselle, looking at me inquiringly.
I smiled. “The other would be to go to France, mademoiselle.”
Her face flushed crimson, and she gave me a haughty glance, as if she
thought that I intended to reproach her for coming to us.
“That is possible, mademoiselle,” I hastened to explain; “we would
protect you, and if you could cross the border in disguise, all would
be well.”
She bit her lip, and sat looking at the fire. I knew that she marvelled
at M. de Lambert’s absence, but it would have been unfortunate to
mention his name while she was so sensitively conscious of her
precipitation in coming to us. In the pause I heard his voice in the
lower hall and rose to call him, but mademoiselle detained me.
“No, no!” she cried, blushing deeply, “I did not come to seek M. de
Lambert--nor would I have him think it, for the world. I came to you
and to Madame de Brousson for advice. I--I have put myself in an
unfortunate position.”
I took her hand, and, looking at her agitated face, understood how
she felt. “Mademoiselle,” I said gently, “are you not unkind to M. de
Lambert? He has but just returned from an effort to see you; he has
been ill--wounded in your quarrel--”
“Ill--wounded?” she cried in amazement, “I knew nothing of it! They
have kept me like a nun.”
While I was telling her of her lover’s misadventure, there was a tap
on the door, and Zénaïde opened it for M. de Lambert. At the sight
of Najine, he uttered an exclamation, and in a moment had both her
hands in his and was trying to express his amazement and delight,
while her face was covered with blushes, and her long lashes hid the
brightness of her eyes. I glanced at my wife, and we smiled; there was
even a smile on the face of the Russian woman who stood so patiently
by the door. After all, they were like two children, and it was a
shame to think of separating them. He led her back to her seat by
the fire, sitting down himself on a low stool at her feet, while I
told him briefly mademoiselle’s errand, and pointed out the gravity
and difficulty of the situation, although I knew that his impatience
would scoff at obstacles. I was rather astonished that he listened
with attention, and was willing to give the matter deep thought before
proposing a way out of it. I knew well enough the expedient that he
would suggest, for I saw it in his kindling eye, and imagined that
mademoiselle divined it too, for her embarrassment increased. He let me
finish my argument before he spoke at all.
“There is but one way,” he said at last. “Her guardians will have their
own wishes obeyed as long as she remains here; but--” He stopped and
looked up into mademoiselle’s face. “It is hasty,” he went on; “but if
she will marry me now--I can and will carry her back to France.”
“Oh, I could not now!” mademoiselle cried with a crimson face. “It
would be as if I had sought it!”
He caught her hand, and pressed it to his lips. “Najine,” he said
softly, “is that truthful? I could not break into your uncle’s house,
but I should have found a way to bring you out of it at last. Perhaps,
though,” he added, with a rare touch of diplomacy, “I am too poor a man
to be compared to a czar.”
“For shame, M. de Lambert!” Najine cried angrily; “why taunt me with
that? Have I deserved it?”
“Forgive me,” he replied, smiling; “you drove me to it. Najine, you
will wed me?” he went on with emotion. “There is no other way to rescue
you now. If you hesitate, they will not, and they will marry you to the
czar. You must choose between us.”
She looked down at him with a charming smile. “I have chosen,
monsieur,” she said softly; “but I will not have you risk your life for
me. We could not escape to-night or to-morrow, and I must not go back
to the house. I cannot again evade my aunt’s vigilance; she is more
bent upon this unhappy matter than my uncle. Another aunt, my mother’s
sister, whose husband is with the army in Livonia, is at Troïtsa. She
has gone there as a pilgrim to pray for her family; she is very fond
of me, and will be full of sympathy for my troubles. I have almost
determined to go to her for the present, especially as I believe they
would scarcely think of seeking me there, and if they do, she will help
me.”
I saw the wisdom of her decision as, I think, did M. de Lambert,
although he protested.
“Can you not stay with us to-night?” suggested Zénaïde; “why need any
one know that you are here?”
“Impossible!” she exclaimed at once. “My aunt will search Moscow for
me; she is very angry with me. I must go from the city.”
“Your aunt is certainly at Troïtsa, mademoiselle?” I asked.
“She has been there for some days, monsieur,” she replied.
I looked thoughtfully at M. de Lambert. “I believe that would be her
wisest course,” I said gravely; “it would be a temporary security and a
cause of desirable delay, which would enable us to find some way out of
this labyrinth.”
He was reluctant to assent to this arrangement, for he was manifestly
determined to carry Najine off in the teeth of all opposition. While we
sat looking at one another, each thinking of a different scheme, there
was a sudden noise below and the sound of loud talking. Mademoiselle
sprang up in quick alarm.
“They have come to seek me!” she exclaimed in excitement; “is there not
some other way by which I can escape? They must not find me here.”
“No harm shall come to you, Najine,” M. de Lambert exclaimed.
I had been listening, and heard heavy steps upon the stair. An instinct
warned me that there was danger.
“Take her away,” I said quickly to Zénaïde; and she, reading my face,
caught mademoiselle’s hand, and drew her through the door that opened
into the next apartment. Neonila followed, but had not time to close
the door when the other, by the stairs, was thrown open and a stranger
entered unannounced. I looked about, and saw, with relief, the door
close on the Russian woman; then I rose, and confronted my visitor.
He was a large man, and muffled in a long scarlet cloak, edged with
sables, the collar turned up about his face and his plumed hat set low
over his eyes. I raised the taper, and held it to throw the light upon
his figure, but he neither moved nor spoke.
“Your pleasure, monsieur?” I said sharply; “you intrude strangely upon
my privacy. It is not usual for a visitor to enter a house with such
noise, and then break in upon his host unannounced and bonneted.”
Without a word, he dropped his cloak and stood regarding me. It was the
czar!