“My dear Serge, surely you don’t attach any importance to her words?”
“I do, and—fear. Her prophecies were three—first, that on my return to Russia I should be created a prince; second, that I should become aide-de-camp to the Czarovitch Alexander. Both these have come to pass. Why should I refuse to believe the third?”
“Why? Because the old sibyl assured me that within a year I should save the life of the fairest princess in Europe, gaining her love by that act. Eight years have passed since then, and so far I haven’t saved the life of any woman, whether princess or peasant. Since she can prophesy falsely as well as truthfully, dismiss your gloomy forebodings.”
Ouvaroff changed the conversation.
“What’s this I hear you’ve been doing at Paris?” he observed. “I am told that a picture of yours exhibited there last Christmas almost created a riot.”
“A riot? Nonsense!”
“I see you do not like to—what do you say in England?—blow your own trumpet. But for once lay aside your modesty, and let me have this story.”
“Well, since you insist on being bored. You are referring, I suppose, to my picture, ‘The Last Moments of Marie Antoinette?’ Despite what French newspapers may say, I had no political motive. The work was done merely to please my own fancy. When finished my poor old drawing master saw it, and begged for the loan of it, to place it among a small exhibition of his own pictures. I consented. The result was marvellous. Thousands came to view the picture. Republicans who had once yelled for the head of ‘The Austrian,’ and had gleefully seen her perish on the scaffold, now melted to tears at sight of her image on the canvas. Bonaparte got wind of the affair, and, on the ground that it was creating a sentiment in favour of Royalism, ordered the picture to be destroyed. The gendarmerie were stoutly opposed. Shouts of A bas Napoleon were raised, a struggle ensued, and the gallery had to be cleared with fixed bayonets.”
“And is it true that you challenged Napoleon to a duel?”