As the speaker ended, the chamberlain appeared to summon them to the Czar’s presence.
Entering the chamber the ministers stood in a respectful semi-circle at a little distance from Alexander, who was seated at a table. Beside him was his mother, the ex-Empress Mary, whose presence was a new feature at ministerial meetings. She scarcely deserved the disrespectful term “beldam,” applied to her by Benningsen, for she had not yet reached her forty-second year, and still retained much of the magnificent beauty of her youthful days.
Alexander’s face wore a troubled look; it was evident that he and his mother had been divided upon some question, and her barely suppressed smile of triumph showed in whose favour the dispute had ended.
For a few moments the Emperor did not speak. His head was turned to a large window that commanded a view of the vast crowd outside, whose voices had all joined in singing the national anthem.
The Czar’s eyes kindled as he listened. His people were with him—whom, then, should he fear?
“’Tis a loyal crowd,” said the Empress-mother.
“Loyalty to the Czar,” broke in Pahlen, “should also include loyalty to the ministers appointed by him. I make request, Sire, that a certain picture be withdrawn from the front of the Orphan Asylum.”
“For what reason?” said the Empress. “Does it not tell the truth?”
“It has made us ministers odious in the eyes of the people. They have attempted our life.”
“Terrible!” said the Empress. “One may kill a Czar, but when it comes to killing a minister——”