A SON OF MISFORTUNE.
MENTCHIKOF was standing in the center of the great _salon_ when I
entered, and I was, at the moment, impressed by the conspicuous figure,
and afterwards mentally contrasted it with that other his master.
Peter’s favorite was one of those handsome men who attach great
importance to their dress; and this morning he was arrayed for the
court and was a gorgeous picture, from his white silk stockings and
white satin breeches and lace-trimmed brocaded waistcoat to his coat
of violet velvet. Peter had created several orders, and half a dozen
glittered on Mentchikof’s breast, with the blue ribbon of Saint Andrew.
His full white peruke was curled and perfumed, and his hands covered
with splendid rings; he was the perfect picture of a courtier, and his
naturally charming manners fitted him for the place that he held, and
was to hold in the future, as the personal representative of the czar;
although the spoiled favorite of fortune, he was also keen, brilliant,
profoundly ambitious. If the scandalous rumors of the court were true,
and he was indeed the son of a pastry-cook, he had reason to be proud
of the singular ability which had enabled him to reach the pinnacle of
success. He met me with cordiality, embracing me three times, in the
Russian fashion.
“So far all goes well, M. le Maréchal,” he said, smiling; “the bird has
safely flown, and I believe will evade pursuit, although old Madame
Zotof and her corpulent spouse are upon the track, but happily upon
the wrong track. As for his Majesty, you and I will presently have a
bad quarter of an hour, but I think Najine’s appeal for M. de Lambert
mortified the imperial vanity so much that he is likely to restrain his
ardor.”
“Nevertheless, your Excellency, I have but just rid myself of the
equerry Shein, who was sent by his imperial Majesty to my quarters to
arrest M. de Lambert and also, I fancy, mademoiselle.”
“Ah, sets the wind in that quarter?” Mentchikof exclaimed; “then,
as I anticipated, he repented very quickly of his lenity. Prince
Dolgoruky and a dozen more are probably at work; yet, nevertheless, M.
l’Ambassadeur, ours was a _coup d’état_, for with mademoiselle safely
out of the country he is likely to forget her. We have little to fear,
for kings can afford to be fickle.”
“His Majesty does not so impress me,” I replied thoughtfully; “his is a
mighty personality, and I have sometimes been amazed that Najine should
prefer a young French soldier to Peter Alexeivitch.”
Mentchikof smiled that slow, brilliant smile that made his dark eyes
light up and showed his white teeth.
“Women are strange creatures, M. l’Ambassadeur,” he said slowly; “they
are governed largely by impulse, and ruin their own best-laid schemes
by some outburst of feeling. Najine Zotof saw before her, not Peter as
you and I see him,--a great man, a soldier, a statesman, a reformer;
she saw only the cold-hearted husband of Eudoxia Lopukhin, the lover of
Anna Mons.”
I started; how had the man read Najine’s heart so perfectly? Najine,
who would not have spoken to him of any feeling of hers, who looked
upon Catherine Shavronsky as a bold woman of the court! How far those
keen eyes of his must have seen into the young girl’s mind; how quick
must be his understanding to recognize, at a glance, her repugnance
to the czar’s violence and his sensuality! I replied to him, however,
without betraying my surprise at his intuition.
“Women like mademoiselle are governed by their hearts, I think,
monsieur,” I remarked; “she loved Guillaume de Lambert, and a loyal,
simple nature like hers is not to be corrupted even by the dazzling
temptations of a throne. There are other women who are neither so
simple nor so devoted.”
Mentchikof laughed. “You mean especially Catherine Shavronsky,” he said
frankly; “truly, monsieur, she is made for the hour. A remarkable
woman,” he added thoughtfully; “of the humblest origin and yet moulded
on grand outlines. She is ambitious, but she is generous; she is
beautiful, but also strong-minded--if the czar--well, M. le Vicomte, we
will not forecast the future--yet look at the state of the empire. The
czar has divorced his wife, and there is only the Czarevitch Alexis,
a boy of thirteen,--and between you and me, M. l’Ambassadeur, not a
hopeful boy; morose, bigoted, small-minded, like his mother,--and
next in succession are the children of the late czar Ivan, himself
an imbecile. In case of his Majesty’s death,--which the saints
delay!--what would it be to Russia to have a czarina of intellect and
force and several children in the direct line of succession? No one
sees this more plainly than Peter himself; and if--”
Mentchikof paused and glanced at me obliquely. I smiled without
replying. I understood him, but my mind reverted to the stories of
the days of the great Henry, when Gabrielle d’Estrées quarrelled with
the Duc de Sully because her son could not be baptized as a child of
France, and Henry then was without legitimate heirs, and I recollected
the “fat bankeress of Florence,” and the birth of Louis XIII. After
all, the child of the despised queen had reigned in France, and I
wondered a little if they could set aside the son of Eudoxia. My mind
had then no conception of that frightful tragedy that was to clear the
path to the throne for the child of Catherine Shavronsky. With strange
thoughts I drew Mentchikof’s signet from my finger, and gave it to him
with an acknowledgment of my indebtedness for his ready assistance.
“I am, nevertheless, glad to be rid of the signet,” I added, smiling,
“for it has burned upon my finger as a symbol of responsibility.
Without it I should have found it impossible to secure a priest.”
“And it will go hard with the priest if the czar finds him,” Mentchikof
said dryly; “however, the imperial displeasure may pass away when it
appears how completely Najine has evaded all efforts to detain her.”
I was not so sanguine as he, for I feared a possible capture of the
wedded lovers at the frontier; but he was carried away with the success
of his diplomacy, and foresaw probably, too, the return of Mademoiselle
Catherine to favor. I saw that he had sent for me mainly to rejoice
at our apparent good fortune, and he did not regard Peter’s probable
displeasure now that mademoiselle was removed from his sight. Judging
from his relief at her departure, I concluded that he had attached
grave importance to the czar’s passion for her, dreading the influence
of the faction who supported Zotof. It was natural that a man who had
so long enjoyed the sunshine of royal favor should fear its eclipse,
and he was one to make enemies who would scheme for his overthrow. From
him I learned that Apraxin was slowly recovering from the effects of M.
de Lambert’s chastisement, and had been ordered into temporary exile at
Archangel by the czar, which seemed to me a light punishment for the
cowardly knave; but, no doubt, the Zotofs had interceded for him.
At parting, I sent a message of congratulation to Mademoiselle
Shavronsky, and Mentchikof laughed.
“So,” he said, “you are wise, M. l’Ambassadeur, and know which way to
look for the rising sun.”
“Nay,” I replied smiling, “I but do homage to a beautiful woman,
monsieur.”
But I left him still laughing at me and in a humor of confidence,
seeing no doubt before his mental vision success and triumph.
When I quitted the palace, I found it still storming, and the streets
so slippery that I made my way with care. I passed Zotof’s house, and
smiled a little as I looked at it, for its deserted aspect suggested
the absence of its inmates, and I fancied them in hot pursuit upon one
road while the fugitives were speeding along upon the other. Which
would progress the more rapidly? One on the wings of love, the other
upon those of wrath; a common spectacle in life, and not without a
lesson in it. So absorbed was I in thought that on turning the sharp
angle of the courtyard wall, I was startled at coming suddenly upon a
group of men who were standing about two combatants. A street brawl,
and I was passing, for I saw that one of them was tipsy, when suddenly
I heard a cry of “Let him go, you villain! what right have you to
fight a Russian?” and then a shout, “A foreigner--a Swede! a Swede!”
I stopped and looked back. The stouter of the two wrestlers had the
other, who was intoxicated, down in the mud; but the exertion had torn
off the victor’s hat and cloak and I recognized Gustavus Lenk. As I did
so, the Russians set upon him and dragged him off his adversary.
“A Swede, I tell you!” cried one fellow loudly, in answer to a doubt.
“He is no Russian, at least,” replied another, “and has no business to
whip an honest man.”
“Take him to the guard,” cried a third; and they fell upon him with
violence.
They were common brawlers and ignorant men, and I saw my opportunity
to requite the spy’s kindness and save him from a fate that would be
inevitable if he fell into the hands of the authorities.
“Stand back!” I exclaimed in a stern voice, stepping in their midst and
laying my hand on the Swede; “you will have to account for this brawl.
This man belongs to my suite.”
My appearance and manner were sufficient to dash their impudence, but
they were sullen and inclined to stand their ground.
“Who are you?” one of the leaders asked boldly; “this fellow has fought
an honest man, and ought to go to the provost.”
“I will examine into this matter, sirrah,” I retorted sharply; “it is
not for you to argue with your betters.”
“He shall not go,” the knave persisted, holding the Swede, “until I
know who you are who dare to take a man from the officers?”
I looked at him with a mocking smile. “Sir justice,” I said, “I am the
Vicomte de Brousson, a marshal of France.”
He let go his hold on the Swede and fell back abashed, for he was an
ignorant knave and feared some punishment for his audacity; but I was
too eager to take advantage of my opportunity to get the Swede safely
away to waste words upon him. He muttered an apology, but I cut him
short.
“Learn the deference that is due your superiors,” I said sharply, and,
signing to Lenk to follow me, I hurried him out of reach of the crowd.
“What folly is this?” I asked, as soon as we were out of sight; “have
you not learned wisdom enough to avoid street brawls?”
“The fellow was tipsy, M. le Vicomte,” the Swede replied ruefully, “and
set upon me about some trifle, but I am again indebted to you, for if
I had fallen into the hands of the guard, nothing would have saved my
neck.”
“Your neck!” I remarked dryly; “you would have tasted the joys of
the torture-rooms at Preobrazhensky, and after this you are not safe
here another day. That knave let you go because he dared not gainsay
me, but I saw the ire in his eyes and he will be revenged, and the
drunken hound you whipped will be also, and how can you conceal your
nationality?”
“I was about to leave the city, in any case,” he said thoughtfully,
“and I must leave sooner than I intended, for, as your Excellency says,
there will be no safety for me in Moscow.”
“I cannot understand,” I said with impatience, “how a man like you can
be so easily betrayed into folly. A street brawl, and you a secret
agent of Charles of Sweden! I cannot do much for you, it is not
consistent with my honor, but I owe you much for M. de Lambert’s sake;
therefore come to my lodgings, hide there until nightfall, and then
leave Moscow. This much I will do, and no more.”
“It is enough, M. de Brousson,” he replied quietly, “and I thank you.
You have been twice the means of saving my life, and I believe that you
know I do not forget.”
I glanced at his face thoughtfully. “Lenk,” I said gravely and kindly,
“you are of too honest stuff for your profession,--you a Swedish spy!
There is no profession more contemptible. Is there no higher service in
the gift of Charles of Sweden for an honest man?”
The spy’s face flushed crimson, and his lips quivered.
“M. le Vicomte,” he said slowly, in a tone of deep emotion, “to you I
owe much, and from you I forgive the taunt, though it is bitter. I am a
ruined man, and I have an aged mother;--the fortunes of our family were
destroyed by the malice and deviltry of an enemy, and I was without
means to keep my mother from want. The king offered money--a large sum,
enough to keep her gray hairs from destitution--for this service here.
M. de Brousson, poverty is cruel; a man who is penniless is blasted in
the world’s regard; he is without the weapons to fight the battle of
life; he must needs fawn upon the hand of power; he must eat the bread
of humiliation; he must bear insults, curiosity, misrepresentation,
and all the world’s contumely. His shabby dress brings him scorn; his
empty purse denies him bread; his broken spirit falls far below the
effort that commands success. Such was I--and I sold my honorable
employment--I laid down a soldier’s sword and took up a spy’s mask--to
feed my mother!”
There were tears in the young fellow’s eyes, and his face from the
crimson of embarrassment was white with shame. I turned and took his
hand.
“My boy,” I said, “take up the battle of life,--cast behind you your
shame, forget the sting of poverty. Take your sword and carve out a new
future. To the noble soul there is always the star of hope. Go to your
king and serve him openly, and forget--live down the past.”
He bent his head and kissed my hand, and I felt his hot tears upon it;
from my heart I pitied him, and resolved that when we parted, he should
have cause to remember that Philippe de Brousson was neither ungrateful
nor ungenerous. More than once in my career I have seen young men
crushed by the cruel load of poverty that others fought with a better
heart. We are not all made in the same mould, happily; for if we were,
there would be too great a press upon the road to fame, and the less
hope for individual success. The trial that burns the dross from one
soul consumes another, and not all of us can look fate in the face or
laugh at destiny.
The walk to my quarters was concluded in silence, and on reaching our
destination I fortunately sent the Swede to the rear door, else he
would have stumbled upon the guest whom I found waiting, thus leaping
into the teeth of another danger; for when I opened my door I found
within the imperial equerry, M. Shein.