“Will you see the children?” asked Katherine, in order to bring him into a milder mood.
“No, not to-day! Yesterday I beat them, and they would think I was running after them. Keep them at a distance. Keep them under, or they will get the better of you!”
Katherine had taken the last letter, as though absent-mindedly, and began to read it. Then she coloured, and tore it in two. “You must not write to actresses. That is too great an honour for them, and can only disgrace us.”
The Czar smiled, and was not angry. He had not intended to send the letter, but only scribbled it in order to excite his wife, perhaps also to show off.
There was a sound of approaching footsteps underneath.
“See! there is my friend, the scoundrel!”
“Hush!” said Katherine, “Menshikoff is your friend.”
“A fine friend! Already once I have condemned him to death as a thief and deceiver; but he lives still, thanks to your friendship.”
“Hush!”
Menshikoff (he was a great soldier, an able statesman, an indispensable favourite, enormously rich) came hurrying up the wooden stairs. It was in his house that the Czar had found his Katherine. He was handsome, looked like a Frenchman, dressed well, and had polished manners. He greeted the Czar ceremoniously, and kissed Katherine’s hand.