“The usage of an ancient heathen city is no precedent for a modern Christian state,” was the reply, a reply that drew a secret curse from Pahlen, who saw that the Czar was being won over by Baranoff’s tongue.
“Yes, Sire, the triumph of either side being distasteful to me, I held aloof from both. Happily, the course of nature has prevented you from lifting an unfilial hand against your sire. Who is so dull as not to see the hand of Providence in this sudden demise of his Majesty?”
While speaking, Baranoff cast at the ministers a covert smile, that caused Pahlen to murmur in Benningsen’s ear:—
“This fellow suspects.”
“What matters, so long as the Czar condones.”
Baranoff was an accomplished hypocrite. None who saw his bearing in the presence of Alexander would have suspected that only two hours before he had set off from the Citadel, intent on destroying the very Prince whose favour he was now so anxious to win.
Entirely deceived by Baranoff’s air of sincerity, Alexander was more than half disposed to retain him among his ministers, though well aware how displeasing this would be to the rest.
Baranoff, growing more elated as he beheld the disconcerted looks of the ministers, now ventured upon a very bold stroke indeed.
“How faithfully I have watched over, not only Paul’s interests, but your own, I can clearly show, if your Majesty will permit me to speak with you only.”
A murmur of protest arose from the Ministry.