MENTCHIKOF.
AN hour after daybreak, Touchet came to me with the information that
one of the imperial equerries was in waiting. I had been endeavoring
to snatch a few hours’ rest, but roused myself at once, and throwing
on some clothing went out into the _salon_ and received the czar’s
messenger. He was a young fellow, who had been instructed to see me
before delivering his document,--a packet with the imperial seal. I was
not surprised, on opening it, to find M. de Lambert’s passports, with
a formal note to me requesting that the young man be sent at once to
France.
“M. de Lambert is absent,” I said to the equerry, “but as soon as he
returns I will inform him of the czar’s pleasure.”
The Russian seemed satisfied with my assurance, and with a few civil
words departed, evidently having been instructed to serve his notice
with all due respect to me.
The whole affair was profoundly annoying, and I wished from my heart
that M. de Lambert had found it convenient to fall in love at home. I
was well aware that nothing but force would induce him to leave Moscow
at this crisis, and bitterly repented my folly in bringing a young
court gallant in my suite. How to get him out of the imbroglio with a
whole skin was a difficult question, and I was not reassured by the
thought that Catherine Shavronsky was still under a cloud. I determined
to see Mentchikof at my earliest opportunity and feel his pulse on the
situation. His threats against mademoiselle were not to my comfort, but
I was convinced that he would never resort to extreme measures while
there was a possibility of reinstating the Livonian in favor.
The day passed without event, and the inaction of all persons concerned
was not altogether satisfactory. I feared that some trouble was
brewing, and was not quieted by the delay in the return of M. de
Lambert; he and Pierrot did not arrive until the following morning.
They were travel-stained and weary, but exultant; they had conducted
mademoiselle safely to her aunt at Troïtsa. Before allowing M. de
Lambert to remove the dust of the journey, I handed him the czar’s
document without comment, watching his face while he read it. His
expression was both scornful and perplexed, and his cheek flushed
scarlet as he flung the packet on the table.
“_Ma foi!_” he exclaimed with impatience, “the czar takes me for a
fool if he fancies that I can be packed off at his pleasure and leave
mademoiselle to his tender mercy!”
“You forget, monsieur,” I said gravely, “that he is master here.”
“I do not forget,” he returned passionately,--“_parbleu!_ it is thrown
in my teeth at every turn,--but I am a French soldier, and forty czars
shall not intimidate me.”
“Bravo, monsieur!” I retorted, clapping my hands; “but how do you
propose to beard the lion in his den?”
“I will find a way to defeat him,” he replied quietly; “he cannot
always conquer circumstances.”
While he was talking, Touchet came to the door and addressed him.
“There is a youth below, sir,” he said, “who would speak with you
alone.”
M. de Lambert looked up in surprise. He had not had the opportunity
to lay aside his cloak, and he picked up his sword from the table and
started, as he was, to the door.
“Be careful,” I said to him at once; “you are in a delicate
position--take no hasty step.”
“It can be nothing of importance,” he replied, “but I thank you for the
caution, M. le Maréchal.”
With those words he went down the stairs to the door, and, Pierrot at
the moment bringing in my breakfast, I sat down by the fire to eat it,
while my equerry, giving place to Touchet, went to seek a little rest
himself. In a moment Zénaïde came in through the corridor and joined me
at the table.
“Who went out the door, Touchet?” she asked.
“M. de Lambert is talking to a lad there,” I explained.
“Not now,” she said at once; “some one went out and closed the door.”
I rose and went to the window in time to see M. de Lambert walking away
alone and at a rapid pace.
“On some fool’s errand,” I muttered to myself, and went back to the
chair, explaining the departure with impatience.
Zénaïde looked disturbed, and was yet more troubled when I found an
opportunity to show her the passport.
“You should not have allowed him to go unattended, Philippe,” she said
gravely; “he is surrounded by dangers and so rash and headstrong.”
“By all the saints, madame!” I exclaimed, “I cannot be his guardian.
He has been here scarcely more than a quarter of an hour, and has not
removed the dust of his long ride; how could I foresee his immediate
departure?”
Madame de Brousson sighed. “I feel as if we were responsible for him,”
she remarked pensively, “and you and I both know the methods here more
thoroughly than he.”
“I am half thankful for his passports,” I grumbled, “since Russia is no
place for a young courtier.”
As I spoke, I looked up and caught my wife’s eyes fixed upon me with an
arch glance of amusement. She laughed softly.
“If you had possessed your mature wisdom twenty years ago, M. le
Vicomte,” she said gravely, “we should never have met.”
I had risen from my chair and I made her an obeisance.
“I am convicted, madame,” I replied with mock gravity, “and crave your
permission to withdraw.”
Touchet came, at the moment, with my mantle and sword, and, taking
him for an attendant, I went to Mentchikof’s house. As I approached
it, I noted with amusement the certain indications of the humor of a
court. A week before, he had been the czar’s favorite, the patron of
a beautiful woman who was likely to be the successor of Anna Mons,
and the courtyard and hall had been crowded with courtiers and those
miserable creatures who fawn upon the man of the hour. But for a few
days the sunshine of imperial favor had been obscured, and lo, the gay
host of butterflies had fluttered to some brighter spot. The entrance
was deserted, and a solitary usher conducted me through the splendid
_salons_ to the small room in the wing where the great man worked
alone. I had not seen Mentchikof since the day that we parted on his
stairs, with his veiled threat against mademoiselle in my ears, and
I approached him now with some feelings of curiosity. How would the
pampered favorite endure this season of neglect? how would the darling
of a court face the solitude of a discarded counsellor? Without any
ceremony, the usher threw open the door and I stood face to face with
Alexander Mentchikof. He sat in a large chair by his writing-table,
in an easy attitude; his left elbow resting on the arm of his chair,
his right arm thrown across the table; the pen, still wet with ink, in
his fingers, while his left hand supported his chin, for his head was
bent in thought and his fine face was unusually grave in its repose.
His rich dress of black velvet was arranged as carefully as if for
some court function, and the blue ribbon of the Order of Saint Andrew
showed on his breast. He greeted me without emotion and with his usual
urbanity, asking me to be seated.
“There are chairs in plenty to-day, M. le Maréchal,” he remarked,
smiling, as he glanced at the vacant room; “you find my state reduced,
and my friends”--he laughed, looking at me with those keen brilliant
eyes, “my friends are running for a safer covert. It reminds me of an
ancient legend,--of a great lion to whom all the beasts, through fear,
paid court. The lion had a favorite, a mouse, whom he guarded tenderly,
and all the other beasts paid homage to it, telling it that it
resembled its patron, until the mouse, through conceit, offended, and
the lion deserted it in anger. Immediately all the beasts departed,
save one, who swallowed the wretched little mouse. Presently, the lion,
returning, found his pet gone, and was enraged, and fell upon the
beast who had eaten it, and tore him and drove off the others, and was
afterwards a scourge because no animal dared any more to try to soothe
his mood.” Throwing out his hands with a gesture of disdain, he added,
“I am waiting to be devoured.”
“It is easy to draw a parallel,” I said thoughtfully, “for afterwards
no man will rule the heart of this lion.”
He laughed bitterly. “Fools rush upon their fate, M. le Maréchal,” he
rejoined; “each man thinks that he is born to scale the dizzy heights
of fame. The greater the fool, the more eager he is for the attempt.
Unhappily, they find their error out too late, and run headlong to
their ruin.”
“I have often considered whether it was worth while or not,” I remarked
quietly, “the glitter of a court dazzles, but its honors are hollow.”
Mentchikof smiled. “It is easy to philosophize in the hour of good
fortune, M. l’Ambassadeur,” he replied dryly, “but in the day of evil
it is difficult to apply it. We who have tasted the sweets of power
find the loss a bitter one. However, sometimes our friends desert too
soon, and Fortune changes when it is least expected.”
“It will be so with you, monsieur,” I said with conviction; “meanwhile
I find myself also in embarrassment. This morning I received this
communication from the czar.”
He held out his hand for the papers with an expression of curiosity; he
was far from suspecting their contents, for, after glancing over the
documents, he looked at me in open astonishment, smiling a little at
the gravity of my face.
“When a man is a king, it is easy to dispose of rivals, monsieur,” he
remarked quietly; “it makes the less fortunate envious.”
I laughed. “The case is peculiar, however,” I replied, “for M. de
Lambert is a young hot-head and ill to guide; it will be difficult to
send him away. I have had some hope that this order might be reversed
or, at least, a delay permitted.”
“It might have been,” Mentchikof replied thoughtfully; “but,
unhappily, Mademoiselle Shavronsky’s folly has made it impossible for
me to arrange it. His Majesty would be instantly suspicious of any
interference on my part. I fear, M. le Maréchal, that the young man
must go.”
I did not reply at once, and he folded the papers gravely and returned
them to me; as he did so, he glanced at me keenly and smiled.
“Where is Mademoiselle Zotof?” he asked abruptly.
For the moment I was taken unawares and hesitated to reply, and he
laughed.
“You must inquire of the Councillor Zotof,” I said with composure,
meeting his eye.
“If rumor makes no mistake, sir,” he rejoined quietly, “the councillor
is anxious to know.”
I had risen to take my leave. I was disappointed at the failure of my
effort, and no longer disturbed by his inquiry.
“You ask a good deal, monsieur,” I remarked calmly. “If the young
lady’s uncle cannot find her, certainly a stranger could not.”
He was still laughing softly and regarding me from beneath his drooping
lids.
“The czar may not think the same,” he said gently, “and it will be
difficult to avoid an explanation. As your friend, M. le Maréchal, I
warn you.”
I thanked him and withdrew, satisfied that he was really unable to
prevent M. de Lambert’s dismissal, but still gravely uncertain of
his intentions toward Najine. He would never accept his defeat with
resignation, and I had no doubt that he and Catherine were deep in plot
and counterplot. Meanwhile M. Guillaume would remain in Moscow at his
peril, and I shared Zénaïde’s feeling of personal responsibility. I
must send him away at once, or conceal him; and he would dispute either
expedient. Never was man more perplexed than I, as I walked slowly
toward my quarters. Mademoiselle, for the time, was safe, but it was
manifest that the Livonian girl was still out of favor, and the czar’s
fancy for Najine was likely to prevail; and, after all, would she still
persist in her repugnance to a crown?
When I entered the house, Pierrot met me with a grave face.
“M. de Lambert has not returned,” he said quietly, “and he went out
without eating a morsel.”
I paused to think. It was not reassuring, and yet there was a
possibility that there was no cause for apprehension.
“We will give him a few hours more, Pierrot,” I said; but I was ill at
ease.