The regiment that accompanied him was the famous Paulovski Guards, a creation of his own and worthy of him. The face of every soldier, like that of his Imperial master, carried the ornament of a snub, upturned nose; and, as if to render the face still more grotesque, the moustaches were brushed upwards to the ears.
Not only did Wilfrid’s erect attitude give displeasure, but his six feet of handsome and athletic manhood was likewise an affront to a ruler, who, on account of his diminutive and ugly appearance, had been so sneered at by his mother’s tall and shapely courtiers that he had come at last to hate the sight of a well-favoured person, and was jealous even of his own son’s stature and beauty.
Directing a terrible glance at Wilfrid, the Czar spoke, and by that act, Wilfrid, did he but know it, had become a very illustrious character. “There are but two great men in Russia,” Paul had once said, “myself, and he to whom I happen to be speaking at the moment.”
“Why,” demanded the Czar—and though Wilfrid had never before seen or heard him, there seemed something oddly familiar, both in his face and voice—“why do you refuse to us the homage of the knee?”
“Because, Sire,” replied Wilfrid, bringing his hand up to the salute, “I revere the memory of the great Peter, who was wont to employ his stick upon the bodies of those who knelt to him!”
This was hitting Paul full in the teeth, for if there was one thing upon which he prided himself it was the imitating of his great-grandfather.
“We follow,” frowned the Czar, “a custom more ancient than the reign of Peter.” And then, confident that Wilfrid’s boldness could spring from but one nationality, he added, “You are an Englishman?”
“A man cannot choose his own parents, Sire.”
“Your name?” cried Paul, growing more angry.
“Wilfrid, Lord Courtenay.”