As for Tsar Peter, after hiding himself for a day or two in the forests, the prey of helpless terror, he found heart of grace and came to Troitsa, from which safe retreat he dictated terms to his sister the Regent, which terms were no terms, indeed, since she herself was now compelled to take the veil, while he possessed himself of the throne, whence from this time he reigned as undisputed Tsar, though Ivan, for a while, made a show of sitting conjointly with his brother upon the highest seat.
Now that Peter reigned I had great hopes to turn the tables upon Mazeppa. This time surely the luck was mine! for here was I in Moscow, driven hither, moreover, by Mazeppa himself, just in the nick of time! Destiny had dealt the good cards into my hands for once, and the old fox, Mazeppa, should be smoked out of his hole!
Meanwhile I went, not without anxiety, to see my Vera. Mazeppa’s words, even though I did not believe them, had been somewhat disquieting. Had the Tsar stolen her from me? Not her heart, indeed—I felt sure that that was my own—but her hand. If he should have announced his intention to choose her for his bride, what could she have done, with none to help her escape the undesired splendour of this betrothal?
I found the house of Boyar Kurbatof, like many another mansion in Moscow during these days, in trouble and disorder—the Boyar himself under arrest, Vera almost beside herself with helpless misery, knowing not what she should do or where she should go.
If I had had any doubt of her good faith towards me, her reception of me when I arrived unexpectedly would have dissipated such doubt. She flew to meet me with a scream of delight and lay for a moment locked in my arms, weeping tears of joy and relief.
‘Are you mine, Vera, are you mine?’ I murmured. ‘Tell me quickly!’
‘Oh, whose should I be?’ she whispered back. ‘Have I ever been other than yours, dear Chelminsky?’
‘Not the Tsar’s?’ I said. ‘It was told me that he would have none but you, and I feared—I know not what; for this Peter is not like that Ivan!’
‘I stood well with his Highness,’ Vera laughed, ‘for three months after you had gone. Then he wearied of me, and Olga Kostromsky was favourite. Then Avdotia Lapouchine appeared, and he is betrothed to her: have you not heard?’
The news relieved me greatly, though I did not tell Vera how much, lest she should think me lacking in the virtue of trustfulness.