At last they succeeded in putting him on his feet. They wanted to lead him into the adjacent room and lay him on a bench. He looked around him with a troubled, blank gaze and murmured, trying to recall what had happened, “What is it, what is it?”
“Don’t be afraid,” Tolstoi said to calm him, “you swooned, fell, and probably hurt yourself; it will soon pass. Here is some water, drink it, and the doctor will be here presently.”
“What is it? what is it?” Alexis repeated mechanically.
“Had we not better inform the Tsar?” whispered Tolstoi to Shafiroff.
The Tsarevitch heard him; he turned round, and his pale face suddenly grew livid. A fit of trembling seized him, and he started tearing the collar of his shirt as though he were choking, while he began to cry and laugh so wildly that all were frightened.
“What Tsar? Fools, fools, don’t you see anything? That is not he, that is neither the Tsar nor my father. He is a drummer, an accursed Jew, an impostor, a pretender. Gregory Otriópieff—a were-wolf! Ram a pike down his throat and that will finish him!”
The Court Physician, Areskin, hurried into the room. Tolstoi, unseen by the Tsarevitch, pointed to him, then touched his own forehead, as much as to say, “The Tsarevitch is going out of his mind.”
Areskin placed Alexis in an arm-chair, felt his pulse, made him smell ether, take some soothing medicine, and was just going to bleed him, when in came a messenger who stated that the Tsar was waiting in the Church and desired the Tsarevitch to come at once.
“Go and say that his Highness is ill,” began Tolstoi.
“There is no need,” interrupted Alexis, awaking as from a deep slumber. “No need. I will go presently. Only give me a moment’s rest and a little wine.”