In an oak grove, apart from the rest, so that none could overhear them, a group of servants and pages, belonging to the Tsar’s household, were discussing the love exploits of their friends, the court ladies or maidens, after the manner of true Scythians and Barbarians.
In the presence of women they were shy and bashful, but when by themselves they spoke about “women” with brutal shamelessness.
“The wench Hamilton spent a night with the master,” calmly announced one of them.
It was Mary Hamilton, the Tsaritsa’s lady in waiting.
“The master is gallant, he can’t live without mistresses,” remarked another.
“It is not her first either,” retorted a page, a boy of about fifteen, deliberately spitting and again puffing the pipe which made him sick: “Before the master’s time she had a child by Golitsin.”
“And how do they manage to get rid of the brats?” the first one queried in amazement.
“And the husband does not know what his wife is after!” giggled the lad. “I saw with my own eyes just now, from behind the shrubs, how Billy Mons made love to our mistress!”
Wilhelm Mons was the Tsaritsa’s Kammerjunker, a foreigner of low origin, yet very adroit and handsome.
Huddling closer together, they began to speak about the strange rumour, which said that, quite lately, when cleaning a stopped up pipe of one of the fountains in the royal garden, the body of an infant was found, wrapped in a palace napkin.