The butler filled two cups, M. Petrovitch taking the second from the tray as I lifted the first to my lips.
“You know our custom,” the financier exclaimed smilingly. “No heeltaps!”
He lifted his own cup with a brave air, and I tossed off the contents of my own without stopping.
As the fiery liquor ran down my throat I was conscious of something in its taste which was unlike the flavor of any vodka I had ever drunk before. But this circumstance aroused no suspicion in my mind. I confess that it never occurred to me that any one could be daring enough to employ so crude and dangerous a device as a drugged draft at a quasi-public banquet, given to an English peace emissary, with a member of the imperial family sitting at the board.
I was undeceived the next moment. Petrovitch, as soon as he saw that my cup had been emptied, sat down his own untasted, and, with a well-acted movement of surprise and regret, turned to the Grand Duke.
“I implore your pardon, sir. I did not ask if you would not honor me by taking the first cup!”
The Grand Duke, whom I readily acquitted of any share in the other’s design, shrugged his shoulders with an indifferent air.
“If you wish your friends to drink vodka, you should not put champagne like this before us,” he said laughing.
Petrovitch said something in reply; he turned and scolded the butler as well, I fancy. But my brain was becoming confused. I had just sufficient command of my faculties left to feign ignorance of the true situation.