A boyar of princely rank, seated in a splendid equipage, drew near. He was well known to Pahlen, who waved his hand in greeting. Looking straight before him, the boyar drove past, altogether ignoring the presence of the chancellor and the general.
This disdainful indifference towards men with whom lay the power of banishment to Siberia, kindled the anger of the two ministers, anger that increased as they continued their way.
They smiled at this fair lady; they saluted that grandee, but met with no recognition whatever. It was clear that the élite of St. Petersburg had made up its mind to ignore them. Why?
Fallen ministers have no friends—in Russia. Was it possible that the Czar had made up his mind to dismiss them, and that his determination had somehow become known to the people?
Glancing ahead Benningsen saw coming along the Prospekt a mounted colonel of his own regiment.
“Muscovitz,” muttered he, fingering his sabre. “Let the fellow fail to salute, and I’ll run him through.”
However, Colonel Muscovitz in passing brought a hand up to his helmet, though in a somewhat perfunctory manner.
“Halt!” yelled Benningsen; and the colonel, with a somewhat queer look, reined in his steed.
“Are we still ministers of the Czar?”
“I have heard of nothing to the contrary, General.”