The picturesque uniform of dark blue, rich with gold braiding, was admirably adapted to set off his graceful figure to advantage, and when, after assuming his cloak and a jewel-hilted sabre, he took a glance in the mirror, he was satisfied that he had made the best of himself.
Thus attired, he set off on foot to view the Michaelovski Palace, the new residence of the Czar Paul.
The building, when seen, proved quite a revelation to Wilfrid, whose very brief acquaintance with the city had hitherto shown him but two main styles of architecture, the barbaric, semi-oriental style, seen chiefly in its churches, and the façades copied from the boulevards of Paris, seen chiefly in its hotels and mansions.
But the Michaelhof differed from both styles. Here, in the very heart of St. Petersburg, was a feudal castle, with donjon and towers, battlements and loopholes, portcullises and drawbridges; and, finally, a surrounding moat, which, however, just then availed little for defensive purposes, inasmuch as it was frozen over.
Wilfrid had seen numerous fantastic castles in his time, but none to compare with this bizarre-looking pile. One might have fancied that a mediæval architect, given to wine, had fallen asleep and dreamed; and that this palace was the petrifaction of his dream-fortress, although the bristling cannon and sentinels with their bayoneted rifles comported somewhat incongruously with this relic of a bygone age.
The building had for Wilfrid a fascination due not so much to its strange character as to the fact of its being the residence of his princess. Which of those gloomy towers did she inhabit? Over which drawbridge would the Czarina and her ladies come forth?
“An Englishman, I perceive,” said a voice close to Wilfrid’s ear. He turned and saw beside him a cloaked and sworded figure, wearing the uniform of a general in the Preobrejanski Guards; a man tall and strong, broad and burly, with somewhat vulgar-looking features, and with a rich, florid complexion, evidently due to a liking for ardent spirits; as a matter of fact, his breath exhaled an aroma at that very moment. He had eyes of a light blue, a snub nose, and a truculent tawny moustache, and he carried himself with a kind of bluff swagger, probably mistaken by him for ease.
Wilfrid might well wonder how so commonplace a man should be wearing a general’s uniform; yet the man was to be a history-maker; in the time to come he was to surprise Europe, and perhaps himself, by the brilliancy of his campaigns against the invading French.
“An Englishman, I perceive,” he repeated smilingly.
“What is the evidence?” asked Wilfrid.