THE AUDIENCE-CHAMBER.
THE following day I went to the Kremlin, mainly for the purpose of
learning, if possible, the result of Zénaïde’s flight, for I was sure
that the disappointment of Viatscheslav Naryshkin would soon be known.
I reached the palace at the hour when the Czarina Natalia received
various petitions, and the anterooms of the audience-chamber were
crowded with courtiers and public personages. The etiquette of the
Russian court was rigid, and on such occasions no one could sit in the
presence of the sovereign; and it was not unusual to see boyars and
officials go out into the courtyard to sit down and rest.
As I entered the anteroom, Prince Basil Galitsyn was coming out, and he
passed me with a smile.
“Good-morning to you, squire of dames,” he said lightly, waving his
hand to me as he passed on.
I was puzzled, not only by the remark, but by the stir that my entrance
made. I saw Homyak dodging away amidst the crowd, and there was a
little hush in the murmur of talk, and more than one stranger craned
his neck to gaze at me over another’s shoulder. Without heeding this
unusual demonstration, I crossed the room to the reception hall, where
two _rhinds_, or guards of honor, in white satin and silver uniform,
stood on either side the door, and one of the chamberlains ushered in
the visitors.
The Czarina Natalia was seated on a throne-like chair at the end of
the apartment, and the ex-Chancellor Matveief stood at her right hand.
Her robe of silver brocade, covered with white lace and trimmed with
sables, made her a splendid figure. She was still a young woman, and
as I looked at her that morning, I was more than usually impressed
with the contrast between the tall and graceful form of Alexis’ widow
and her short and ill-proportioned step-daughter Sophia. Natalia was
handsome; her fine features and black hair were striking, and her large
dark eyes had a fire and beauty which suggested the attraction that had
won the heart of Alexis the Most Debonair. Only a czar could afford to
marry as he pleased; every other sovereign of Europe had his consort
selected for reasons of state, but the Autocrat of Russia could wed his
own subject and make her an empress. Matveief’s wife was a Scotchwoman,
and had introduced the freedom of western manners into the household;
and she and her husband’s ward, Natalia Naryshkin, served the _vodka_
and caviare when Alexis was visiting his chancellor, thus giving the
czar an opportunity to observe the young girl. A short time after this
interesting social occasion, the daughter of old Kirill Naryshkin
became the Czarina and Grand Duchess Natalia Kirilovna of all Great and
Little and White Russia. At the death of Alexis, Natalia as the dowager
czarina was, by virtue of the old Russian law, the head of the imperial
family.
It was the first time that I had ever seen the czarina’s former
guardian, the man whose influence and diplomacy had firmly established
his ward as Alexis’ wife in the teeth of as bitter opposition as was
ever met by a bride of Russia, and it was a peculiarly terrible ordeal
to be selected as the imperial bride. The custom was time-honored and
unique. When a czar desired a spouse, the maidens of Moscow and the
provinces were assembled, summoned according to certain restrictions
in regard to rank and beauty, and the autocrat made his choice. After
the imperial decision, came the hour of tribulation; the fortunate
(?) candidate was attacked by the malice and envy of every faction at
court, and more than one imperial bride-elect was drugged into the
semblance of illness, one having her hair twisted up so tightly by
her affectionate ladies-in-waiting that she fainted. The immediate
result of such accidents was the charge that the young woman was
afflicted with an incurable disorder; and as it was regarded in the
light of treason to present such a candidate, the unfortunate and her
family were sent to Siberia, if she did not die suddenly, as did the
Princess Marie Dolgoruky. So it may be seen that to be an aspirant for
the imperial matrimonial diadem was to be also a candidate for exile,
imprisonment, painful hair-dressing, and poison.
Artemon Sergheievitch Matveief was now an old man of commanding
presence. He wore the rich, flowing robe of a boyar, and his white hair
and full beard added a dignity to a countenance at once astute and
benevolent. He had tasted the stinging humiliation of political defeat,
and eaten the bitter bread of exile in the province of Archangel; he
had been pardoned by the Czar Feodor, and was on his way home at the
time of Feodor’s untimely death; but it remained for Natalia to summon
him, in an hour of great difficulty and peril, once more to grasp the
helm of state. Was it too late? Alas! for him that question was to
be too certainly answered in a few short days, on that Red Staircase
which he had ascended to-day in the joyful emotion of reunion with his
kindred, and the exhilaration of a return of political prestige and
power, sweeter than ever to a long banished statesman. At this moment,
he was conversing earnestly with the patriarch, and a group of nobles
stood at a little distance waiting his convenience. The czarina was
speaking to her own brother, Ivan Naryshkin.
On the other side of the room, I saw Viatscheslav and Ramodanofsky,
and in the group nearest me recognized, to my surprise, one of the
opposing faction, Larion Miloslavsky. He greeted me with the same air
of raillery affected by Prince Galitsyn, and I observed the smiling
glances cast at me by the young noblemen about him.
“Have you heard the rare bit of gossip that is afloat this morning, M.
le Vicomte?” he inquired gayly.
I replied that having just reached the Kremlin, I was ignorant of the
news. At this, he glanced archly at his companions, and there was a
smile which annoyed me not a little.
“I do not understand the drift of your humor, gentlemen,” I said, a
trifle sharply.
“Is it possible that you do not observe the black looks of Ramodanofsky
and Viatscheslav Naryshkin?” Miloslavsky asked, with more gravity.
In a moment I caught the reason of their amusement, but was at loss to
understand their readiness to apply it to me. I feigned astonishment,
and looked inquiringly in the direction of Ramodanofsky and his
companion, only to encounter a black look from the former.
“What is the story?” I asked carelessly, meeting Miloslavsky’s
quizzical glance with one of calm interrogation.
“It appears that the old boyar, who is, as you may have divined, of
an amiable disposition, intended to marry his beautiful niece to
Viatscheslav Naryshkin this morning,” replied Miloslavsky. “He had the
sanction of the czarina; but it transpires that he forgot to consider
the feelings of Zénaïde Feodorovna, and lo and behold, this morning her
apartments are vacant, and she and her French governess have flown! The
priest and Viatscheslav were ready, but the bride had vanished, and
there is the sound of lamentation in the gentle boyar’s palace; it is
even rumored that he has murdered a lackey or two and roasted a maid,
because of their failure to detect and report the movements of his
ward. The bridegroom is, of course, inconsolable; and, a word with you,
M. le Vicomte, it will not be wise to irritate his gentle temperament
to-day.”
This last was addressed to me in an aside. I glanced at Larion keenly,
but could not read his meaning in his face; I was sure of only one
thing,--that they knew more than they would divulge, and that, in some
mysterious way, my connection with the affair had been whispered about.
I was not surprised at Miloslavsky’s tone in speaking of Ramodanofsky,
for I knew that all that faction detested him.
I endeavored to turn the conversation away from myself. “I can scarcely
fancy Viatscheslav as a forlorn lover,” I said lightly; “I imagine he
can easily console himself.”
“It is not the loss of his lady-love which troubles him,” replied
Miloslavsky, “but the mortification of such a defeat, and at the hands
of an inexperienced girl.”
“Picture to yourself his feelings, M. de Brousson,” said one of the
other young nobles; “he has fancied himself an irresistible gallant,
and here is a young bride running from him as from the plague. It
is the rarest joke upon him, and he takes it ill enough. Look at his
scowl; it has been gathering like a thunderstorm all the morning.”
Following the young fellow’s glance, I beheld Viatscheslav standing in
his former position, and lowering at us as if he knew that he was the
subject of our discussion. The man’s surly face struck me with a new
horror, and I understood Zénaïde’s desperation.
When I passed on to make my obeisance to the czarina, I noticed at
once a change in her manner; it was even more marked than on previous
occasions, and I felt not a little chagrin at her decided coldness.
Natalia’s manner could be haughty in the extreme. She had tasted
the vicissitudes of fortune herself, and they had probably left a
permanent impression upon her character. She was neither as subtle nor
as diplomatic as her great rival, Sophia, and showed her feelings with
more openness. She undoubtedly valued the men about her only as she
could estimate their devotion to her son, and she resented at once any
friendship for the cause of the Miloslavskys. Matveief, on the other
hand, was anxious to conciliate; willing, too, to make a favorable
impression upon a foreigner, his courtesy to me being as marked as the
czarina’s coldness. My chief annoyance, however, was to find myself
the center of observation, and there was a continuous murmur of talk,
which was suggestive that I was the object of remark. Before finding
an opportunity to depart, I came in immediate contact with the group
about Ramodanofsky and Viatscheslav, and they watched me in silence
as I approached, intending to pass them on my way out. But I was not
destined to escape so easily; Viatscheslav, by a sudden movement,
placed himself directly in my path. I made an attempt to turn aside to
avoid him; but he checked me by a gesture.
“You have doubtless heard the tattle of the court to-day, M. le
Vicomte,” he said in a loud voice, which drew general attention; “the
Boyar Ramodanofsky has suffered an affront; some one has assisted his
niece in her flight from his house.”
“This is a matter which cannot concern a stranger, monsieur,” I replied
coldly, although in a fever of anger and embarrassment, for I saw that
we were on the edge of a _dénouement_, and dreaded the consequences of
a colloquy before such an audience. Ramodanofsky was listening, but
took no part in the conversation; his dark brows bent low over his
eyes as he lowered at us.
“A servant of yours, M. de Brousson,” Viatscheslav said, with
an emphasis on the word servant, “has been seen lurking in the
neighborhood of the house; perhaps you can satisfactorily explain his
presence there.”
My choler was rising fast. My hand was resting on the hilt of my
sword, and I looked Naryshkin straight in the eye; I knew him to be an
inveterate coward unless liquor inspired him with temporary bravado.
“Since when has it become necessary for me to account to you for my
servants or my conduct, monsieur?” I exclaimed haughtily, and in a
clear voice. “You forget that you address a French subject, the Vicomte
de Brousson.”
One could have heard a pin drop; even the czarina and Matveief were
listening to the dispute; but my blood was up, and it was a matter of
indifference to me whether I offended against court etiquette or not.
“Since when has it been the right of French subjects to violate Russian
laws, M. le Vicomte?” he retorted angrily. “You will find that the King
of France cannot save you from being called to account in Moscow.”
“This passes my patience, monsieur!” I replied coldly. “If you have
any grievance against me, you should prefer it at the proper time.”
“I am at your service at any hour, M. de Brousson,” he said,
misunderstanding me.
Then, remembering how vile the man was, my anger passed the bounds of
prudence. I measured him with my eye, from head to foot, with a glance
which made the blood burn under his swarthy skin.
“You mistake me,” I said with mocking suavity; “no gentleman of France
would consent to meet you on the field of honor. The sword of a
Brousson would be forever contaminated!”
This goaded him to fury, and before any one could check him, his sword
flew from the scabbard, and he made a pass at me, which was thrust
aside by the czarina herself. She stood between us with a gesture of
indignation which suddenly lent an imperial dignity to her aspect.
“You forget in whose presence you stand,” she said haughtily; “if I
cannot be an empress even in my own palace, it is time that I laid
aside my crown. Viatscheslav, leave the room at once; and you, M. le
Vicomte,” she said, turning on me coldly, “have you considered the
courtesy due a hostess, if you do not recognize the honor due a queen?”
I made a profound obeisance.
“I crave your majesty’s pardon and indulgence,” I said; “the quarrel
was provoked by the other side, but I recognize my error, and regret it
deeply.”
She accepted the apology haughtily.
“It is well,” she said; “but let it not occur again, or I shall begin
to doubt that Natalia is a czarina.”
And she turned coldly away, leaving me to make my exit with what grace
I could assume, under the curious gaze of fifty pairs of eyes.