A FUTURE EMPRESS.
THE few weeks that followed were eventful. I received the long-expected
summons from France to return, for as yet the hour for a Russian
alliance was not ripe, and Peter was not held in high esteem until
after the victory of Poltava, which was yet to come. At this time
Charles XII. was in Poland intriguing with the Primate Radziejowski,
and intimidating the Diet at Warsaw. Augustus of Saxony had been
deposed, and Charles was engaged in selecting a sovereign for Poland
who would be his creature. It was already apparent that his choice
would be Stanislas Leczynski; and in the following July, in the field
of Wola near Warsaw, a few electors, surrounded by Swedish troops,
proclaimed Stanislas King of Poland. It was one of the comedies of the
King of Sweden, and the two dupes, Augustus and Stanislas, continued
their rôles, quarrelling for the Polish crown and being, in fact, mere
puppets, while Russia and Sweden wrestled for supremacy. Meanwhile the
Neva, precious to the heart of the czar, had been threatened by land
and sea, and there was the promise of sufficient occupation to keep
the northern princes out of the War of the Spanish Succession.
I was anxious to depart, for my own position at court was embarrassing.
Prince Dolgoruky and the faction opposed to Mentchikof were intensely
angry at my successful manœuvre, and M. Zotof and madame his wife were
feeding the flames. They had returned from their fruitless pursuit,
frantic with rage and disappointment, and both desired to wreak some
vengeance upon my devoted head. Indeed, madame lost no opportunity
of assailing me with her sharp tongue,--an annoyance which, while
failing of great harm, was yet offensive; however, I could endure it
with serenity since I had received the tidings of M. de Lambert’s
safe arrival in France with his bride. I did not lose the opportunity
to inform madame of her niece’s safety, and she replied that Najine
would doubtless soon be as glad to run away from France and her French
husband as she had been eager to leave her guardians. To which sally I
replied that it was a fair land, full of brave men and gentle women;
and madame, finding that the shaft was intended for her, darted a
glance of withering scorn at me, and swept on. In my heart, I was sorry
for the “prince pope,” for his wife cast all the blame upon him, making
him the scapegoat of the faction. Her protégé Apraxin was in exile,--a
miserable tale-bearer and spy, not worth the angry contempt that Peter
felt for him.
The Swedish spy was not a little troublesome to me; the day after my
interview with the czar, it was bruited about that there was a Swede in
Moscow on some secret errand. Doubtless the knave who had quarrelled
with him spread the report, and I found it difficult enough to keep
suspicion from my quarters, and more so to despatch the man in safety,
for he had found it impossible to get away at once. I owed him much,
and both Zénaïde and I felt a keen interest in him, so that we managed
to send him away at last under cover of darkness and with a full purse,
which had been increased by a contribution from M. de Lambert. I had no
desire to meddle with a Swedish spy, but the man Lenk had my pity, and
I gave him help with a free hand, although if he had been taken with my
money upon him it would have been a serious matter. The world is a hard
school, and the young man in a shabby doublet has the harder battle
because of its shabbiness. When we march up the road to the Eternal
City, will the gay coat of the cavalier precede the ragged shirt of the
beggar? Sometimes, methinks, I see the Angel with the flaming sword,
who keeps the Gate of Paradise, look strangely on the bedizened gallant
of the court, as upon one whose face he knows not. I am an old man
now, and I have stood on many a stricken field,--with Turenne, with
the Prince de Condé, with Luxembourg, Villars, Villeroi, Catinat,
and many more. I have seen thousands die, and, truly, the poor camp
follower makes as brave an end as the gallant gentleman. Nothing do we
bring into the world, neither take we anything from it; and the naked
soul before its Maker can give small account of the estates of earth.
An emperor and a slave are equal at the bar of Heaven; yet men still
contend for the kingdoms of this world, and the greatness thereof! And
what is the end but the grave and corruption?
In a few weeks it was manifest that there was a change at the Russian
Court. Mentchikof loomed up once more triumphant; the Austrian emperor
had lately made him a Count of Hungary, and two years later he created
him a prince of the Holy Roman Empire, and from that time honors and
emoluments were showered upon him. Almost immediately after Najine’s
marriage, Catherine Shavronsky was made conspicuous by the czar’s
notice, and there were rumors that she would be even more powerful at
court than Anna Mons; as yet no man dreamed that this Livonian peasant
who was to become Peter’s mistress would wear the crown of Russia,
that she would be untiring in her efforts, and never swerve until she
reached the goal of her ambition. I have often thought that those years
must have had their bitter humiliation for her; that she must have
hated that forlorn figure, the “nun Helen,” as the Czarina Eudoxia was
named, who stood like a shadow between her and the crown, even when the
czar acknowledged her children,--as bitter to Catherine in her triumph
as humiliation and exile must have been bitter to the unfortunate
Eudoxia behind her convent walls.
It was the day before we finally left Moscow that Catherine Shavronsky
sent for me, and I responded to her summons. Madame de Brousson and I
had taken formal leave of the czar, and our preparations were complete,
so that nothing remained but to leave Moscow on the morrow, and in
the evening I went to Mentchikof’s palace to hear what Mademoiselle
Catherine had to say. There was to be a fête that night, but when I
went, no one had yet arrived, and I was ushered into the empty _salon_,
and, while I waited, observed idly the splendid decorations of the
apartment, its magnificent hangings and long mirrors, which reflected
every object in the room. It was the house of a prince, indeed, and
I did not marvel that Mentchikof’s debts often overwhelmed him,
arousing even the czar’s displeasure. Yet in the years to come, when
he was Duke of Ingermannland and Prince of Izhora, with an immense
income and almost royal revenues from the many high offices that he
held, the favorite still ran into debt. He had few of Peter’s simple
tastes, although he had shared the czar’s hardy education; like all the
favorites of royalty, he was the victim of over-indulgence; yet he was
to owe his continuance in favor, more than once, to the intercession of
his own protégée Catherine Shavronsky, long after she had outstripped
him on the path to power; but she was generous enough never to forget
the debt that she owed him. “The journeyman pastry-cook,” as Mentchikof
was sometimes called in malice, and “the servant-maid” were to be the
powers behind the throne.
I had waited but a few moments, when the door opened at the farther
end of the _salon_, and Catherine came in alone. As she walked up the
long apartment toward me, I thought that I had never seen her more
queenly in her bearing. She wore a rich robe of some pale blue material
that clung to her figure and swept about her feet; her rich complexion
contrasted well with her fine dark eyes, and her smile was captivating;
in her light hair shone a single jewel, an opal that was radiant in its
varying hues, and on her breast was a miniature of the czar surrounded
with diamonds,--his gift, and a conspicuous token of his favor. Her
disposition was naturally amiable, and she had all the charm of youth,
and it was said that her soft voice had a peculiar attraction for
Peter. I made my salutation, and she responded with graciousness.
“You are welcome, M. le Maréchal,” she said, smiling. “I sent for you
that I might be assured of the safe arrival in France of Madame de
Lambert.”
“She is quite safe, mademoiselle,” I responded, “and also her husband.”
Catherine laughed. “Her husband,” she repeated slowly; “it seems
strange that we accomplished that marriage in the face of such
difficulties. It has been in my mind often, and you, M. l’Ambassadeur,
you saw the czar.”
She looked at me questioningly, and in an instant I divined her object.
She desired to fathom the matter, and to know just how much the czar
had cared for her rival; here, at least, I could be a match for her.
“I had the honor to bid his Majesty farewell but yesterday,
mademoiselle,” I replied gravely, “I leave Moscow on the morrow.”
“Ah! but I intended to say that you saw the czar immediately after
Najine’s flight and while his Majesty was still angry,” she said
simply, searching my face with her dark eyes. “Is it true that he
threatened to seize them, declare the marriage illegal, and throw M. de
Lambert into prison?”
I raised my brows in feigned surprise. “Mademoiselle astonishes me,” I
remarked; “I do not hear all these rumors.”
She cast an indignant glance at me, but smiled at the same moment.
“M. l’Ambassadeur, you never forget to be a diplomat,” she said archly;
“do you ever speak with candor?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “Frequently, mademoiselle,” I returned,
smiling also; “but an old fellow like me cannot wear his heart upon his
sleeve.”
“Alas!” she cried with feigned surprise, “have you a heart? It seems to
me that courtiers have none.”
“Nay, mademoiselle,” I said gravely; “but soldiers have, and I am a
soldier.”
“So is the czar,” she rejoined at once. “Truly, monsieur, do you think
he loved mademoiselle so deeply?”
She had assumed a coaxing manner, laying her white hand upon my arm;
but I am accustomed to woman’s wiles, and hardened my heart.
“How should I know, mademoiselle?” I asked her tormentingly, “being but
a weather-beaten veteran? Ask some fair dame of the court. Never saw I
yet a king who could not love.”
She stamped her foot impatiently upon the floor. “Ah, M. le Vicomte,”
she cried, “you mock me. You saw the czar alone--and in a moment of
passionate vexation: he showed his feelings to you, doubtless, and why
not admit it?”
“Mademoiselle,” I replied gravely, “when you have lived as long as I,
you will know that it is a perilous thing to know a king’s heart and
far more perilous to betray it. Moreover, you forget that to a soldier
his honor is as dear as his life.”
She looked at me a moment in silence, and then a smile broke over her
handsome, passionate face.
“Yet you have told me, M. l’Ambassadeur,” she said with a woman’s
triumph. “I know that he loved her--but she is gone!”
She paused, and stood there a picture of triumphant beauty; a woman
with the tigress in her nature, passionate, bold, ambitious; a peasant,
a slave, an empress to be. I have never forgotten her, her haughty
head erect, her eyes sparkling with emotion, her full red lips parted
and showing her teeth; young and handsome, and marked out by a strange
destiny to be the favorite, the mistress, the secretly wedded wife of
Peter the Great, and, at last, Empress of all the Russias.
She took a step toward a door near her, and I saw that, failing to draw
all the secret from me, she intended to cut short the interview.
“Najine is no longer here,” she said in a tone of exultation, “and
I owe much to you. The day of my evil fortune is past, and I will
remember always those who were kind to me. No man shall call Catherine
ungrateful. M. l’Ambassadeur, I kiss your hands!”
With these words we parted. From that day she continued to ascend the
path of ambition that was to lead her up the blood-stained steps of a
throne. The Livonian peasant girl died an empress.
THE END.
ON THE RED STAIRCASE.
BY M. IMLAY TAYLOR.
With Frontispiece. 12mo, 352 pages. Price, $1.25.
The scene of this thrilling story is Moscow, and the time, the boyhood
of Peter the Great. Much of the action takes place “On The Red
Staircase” in the palace of the Kremlin.
It is a thrilling tale of intrigue and barbaric plot. A French
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A most vivid and absorbing tale of love and adventure.... Miss Taylor
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we can almost see the savage mob, and feel ourselves to be in danger.
“On the Red Staircase” will give a far truer, because more striking
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After the many problem-novels and the myriad psychological
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A strong, bracing story it is, and one which gives us a clear view
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Herald._
OTHER THINGS BEING EQUAL.
BY EMMA WOLF.
12mo, 275 pages. Price, $1.00.
It is a romance pure and simple, and has the rare merit of artistic
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The picture given of Jewish life and feeling is very attractive;
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The struggle between orthodox ideas of marriage within the racial
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This is a well-told story of how the course of true love did not run
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the interest well kept up, and the lesson of Christian charity quite
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The lesson derived from this story is, that other things being
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BEATRICE OF BAYOU TÊCHE.
BY ALICE ILGENFRITZ JONES.
12mo, 386 pages. Price, $1.00.
A capital story, full of vigor and subtle knowledge of human nature;
and it is as vivid and picturesque as the Bayou.--_Octave Thanet._
The author writes with an attractive, graceful style, and with a
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Mrs. Jones’s writing is marked by gracefulness and by considerable
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best of stories.--_State Register_, Davenport.
The story is very well written, and is entertaining, though inevitably
sad. There is nothing exaggerated in it; and the kindly spirit which
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A wonderfully touching and pathetic story is that of Beatrice. It
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The writer has plunged into some of the omnipresent racial problems in
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Reviews._
It is more than ordinarily well written, full of fanciful turns of
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THE PRICE OF PEACE.
_A Story of the Times of Ahab, King of Israel._
BY A. W. ACKERMAN.
12mo, 390 pages. Price, $1.00.
It throws valuable light upon an eventful period of the history of
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The author has written a religious narrative of more than ordinary
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It is a vivid and thrilling picture of that wild and distant time, and
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The stirring events in the time of Ahab have been well wrought
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The descriptions of the region are good, the different scenes well
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In the “Price of Peace” we have a new presentation of the character of
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The author introduces us to a period of rare interest, and we learn
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regretfully in the thought of leaving her and the hills of
Zebulon.--_Evening Bulletin_, Philadelphia.
THE CRUCIFIXION OF PHILIP STRONG.
BY CHARLES M. SHELDON.
12mo, 367 pages. Price, $1.00.
The hero is a honest, forceful minister, who believes that he should
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The story is one of intense vigor and pathos. It will secure a very
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An original and realistic story, both interesting and suggestive of
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The story is often pathetic, sometimes dramatic, and always
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The book abounds in powerful and convincing arguments for
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A fine piece of realistic writing. The duty of the Christian and the
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TALES FROM THE ÆGEAN.
BY DEMETRIOS BIKÉLAS.
_Translated by Leonard Eckstein Opdycke. With an Introduction by Henry
Alonzo Huntington._
16mo, 258 pages. Price, $1.00.
The tales in this volume have a special value in that they reflect
the Greek life, thought, and feeling of to-day. They have, moreover,
a universal interest for their merit as works of literary art.
They are simple, pure, and elevating. Though tinged now and then
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Cincinnati.
This dainty little book is composed of several tales based upon the
life and customs of the inhabitants of the Ægean. It opens up a new
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the strength and vividness of the sketches, and the reality and truth
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Each tale is dramatic, and has as distinct a plot as is compatible
with short limits. There is no moralizing; the author is too eager to
tell his story to stop for that. The book should find a wide welcome
because of its novelty and high literary merit. It is admirably
translated.--_Literary World_, Boston.
The stories are delightfully told; humor and pathos in turn call forth
our admiration; and we owe our thanks to the publishers for having
introduced this new author to the English reading public.--_The Boston
Times._
The stories are fresh and striking, simple in style, elemental in
their sympathetic appeal.--_Independent_, New York.
The author portrays Greek life as it is with true poetic realism,
and depicts the defects as well as the racial virtues of his
countrymen. His stories are like so many dainty water-colors,--almost
luminous in feeling, and possessing the indefinable attribute called
“atmosphere.”--_Beacon_, Boston.
_Sold by all booksellers, or mailed, on receipt of price, by_
A. C. MCCLURG & CO., PUBLISHERS,
COR. WABASH AVE. AND MADISON ST., CHICAGO.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.