“Hush! he is coming. Off with hats and caps.—Yakovlef, of what are you thinking? Do not kneel, man; he has strictly forbidden it.”
“Great St. Michael!” exclaimed Wertsch in another moment, “what a disappointment, and what fools we have all been making of ourselves!—Be quiet there, good people, and save your throats until you have something to shout for. That is not his Imperial Majesty; it is only one of his aides-de-camp, with some other person belonging to the suite.”
“Eh bien!” said Kanikoff. “It is no wonder the servant was taken for the master. He is handsome enough for that.” And he gazed in undisguised admiration at the splendid figure of the young aide-de-camp, with his plumed cap in his hand, and a galaxy of jewelled orders glittering on his breast, as he bowed gracefully to right and left in acknowledgment of the salutations of the crowd.
“That is Prince Ouvarov,” said Yakovlef. “You seem to admire him.”
“Who could help it?”
“Not the ladies of St. Petersburg, at all events. It is said he breaks a score of hearts every season. Once the Czar himself read him a lecture; and I am told he answered, with the utmost sang-froid, ‘How can I help it, your Imperial Majesty? The ladies are such fools about me.’ But would you believe it?—in war he is the Archangel Michael himself. He led the hussars at Austerlitz; and at Erfurt Napoleon asked, ‘Which is the brave general who punished my infantry so sorely?’ This young gallant, as beautiful as a girl, and as daintily curled and perfumed, stepped forward and said quietly, ‘Je, sire.’ ‘You may not speak very good French, but you are a very brave officer,’ said Napoleon, taking his hand kindly.”
“Have a care, Yakovlef. If the people hear us talking of Napoleon, ten to one they will tear us to pieces.”
“Not they, while the Czar is here.—Ivan Ivanovitch, what ails you? You seem lost in a dream. Wake up, my friend.”
Ivan started.
“True enough,” he said; “I feel in a dream. I am perplexed, haunted, by the face of that man.”