A mist was rising, and in it gleamed like phantoms countless marble gods, a complete Olympus of risen deities. Here on the very verge of the world, near to the Hyperborean sea, in this pale night, which resembled the twilight of Hades, the dim shadows of dead Hellas wore an aspect of infinite sadness; as though, having risen they were dying a second death from which there should be no awakening.
Overlooking the close-clipt garden close to the sea, stood a small Dutch house, roofed with tiles, the Tsar’s palace Monplaisir. Here too all was quiet and empty. One window only was lighted, and that by a single candle, which was burning in the Tsar’s office.
At the writing table sat Peter and Alexis facing one another in the double light of candle and dawn. Their faces, in harmony with all their surroundings, were pale and spectre-like.
For the first time since his return to Petersburg the Tsar was questioning his son. The Tsarevitch answered in a calm voice; he no longer dreaded his father, but only felt weary and dejected.
“Who among the clergy or laity knew anything of your revolutionary designs, and what words passed between you on this subject?”
“I know nothing beyond what I have already admitted,” replied Alexis, for the hundredth time.
“Have you never said, ‘I spit upon them all, provided the mob are staunch to me.’”
“Perhaps I did say that. I was drunk. I cannot remember everything. When drunk I always speak without thought and with an absolutely unbridled tongue; therefore it is quite possible that I spoke defiantly in company, and gave vent to some such expression. You know yourself, Father, that a drunken man is no longer a human being—— But what does it matter!”
He looked at his father with so strange a smile that the father felt a shudder pass over him, as though a madman were sitting opposite to him.
Having searched among some papers, Peter pulled one out and showed it to the Tsarevitch.