“But do you remember the lecture you read me with that poisoned wine for a text?—To use assassination as a weapon against political foes is abominable, and all those who do so are cowardly villains! The murder of the Duc de Berri shows to what a length those knights of the dagger and pistol are prepared to go, and ought to frighten all honest people away from their intrigues. I am sorry to say, Prince Ivan, the army that has come back to you from France is deeply tainted with the spirit that has prompted such crimes. Most of your officers are members of secret societies; and the wildest talk is rife amongst them. I have heard it said, by one who ought to know, that it would have been better for the Czar to drown his fine army in the Baltic than to bring it back to his own country.”
Ivan grew visibly pale, but suppressed the emotion he felt. “The Czar is quite aware of the existence of these secret societies; he knows, too, that they have extended ramifications even in Russia,” he said. “But have you any idea, Emile, from so much of their talk as may have reached your ears, what it is that these gentlemen really want?”
“Scarcely more than they have themselves, I dare say,” Emile answered with a rather bitter laugh. “I suppose they would tell you, if you were admitted to their councils, that they want a constitution for Russia.”
“What kind of a constitution?”
“Oh, every one differs as to that. I have heard it said that every Russian officer carries a constitution about in his pocket. I suppose, for the most part, they are like those constitutions of revolutionary France, which were excellent on paper, only they would not ‘march.’”
“And, of course, every one of these gentlemen expects the Czar to satisfy his own particular aspirations. Suppose he fail to do it?”
“Suppose he fail to do it—” Instead of finishing his sentence, Emile heaved a long and bitter sigh, flung the ashes out of his pipe, sat up, and gazed sadly into the fire. Presently he resumed: “The iniquities of Alexander are twofold. He has not, as yet, bestowed upon Russia a perfect liberal constitution, as new and as faultless as a louis d’or fresh from the mint; and he has used, and is using, his enormous influence to repress in other countries the party of progress,—or of revolution, which you will,—such as the insurgents of Spain and the Carbonari of Italy. He even hesitates to assist the Greeks, who, by the way, seem really to deserve assistance and compassion.”
“Ah,” cried Ivan with excitement, “there indeed the Czar’s perplexity is great. Every true Russian longs to trample in the dust that abominable Ottoman tyranny—cruel, cowardly, treacherous as it is—and to deliver our suffering fellow-Christians, from whom there is going up daily to the throne of God ‘the cry of the oppressed that have no comforter; and on the side of their oppressors there is power, but they have no comforter.’ Need I tell you that the first of Russians longs for it more than any of his subjects? But hitherto it could only have been done at the price of another European war. And even then it might have been done in vain.”
“Why so?” asked Emile.
“Because unless the Czar had a fleet in readiness to support his army, every Christian in Greece might be massacred before our troops could reach Constantinople.”