"I shall pay you in advance," replied Potemkin, with a laugh. "I appoint you first court-jeweller to the empress."
The jeweller did not appear to appreciate the mode of payment; he seemed terrified.
"Oh, your highness," said he, trembling, "I implore you not to make such fearful jests. I am the father of a large family, and if you exact of me to furnish you a service worth a fortune, the outlay for the gold alone will ruin me."
"You will be irretrievably ruined if you do not furnish it," laughed
Potemkin, while he went on throwing his balls and catching them "If
those two services are not here on the day you take a journey to
Siberia, friend Artankopf."
"I will be punctual, your highness," sighed the jeweller. "But the payment—I must buy the gold."
"The payment! What, the devil—you are not paid by the appointment I give you! Go: and if you venture to murmur, think of Siberia, and that will cure your grief."
With a wave of his hand, Potemkin dismissed the unhappy jeweller, who left that princely den of extortion a broken-hearted, ruined man.
The robber, meanwhile, was counting his gains and donning his field-marshal's uniform. "One hundred and twenty thousand rubles' worth of gold!" said he to himself. "I'll have the things melted into coin—it is more portable than plate."
The door opened, and Narischkin, the minister of police, entered.
"Out, the whole gang of you!" cried Potemkin; and there was a simultaneous exodus of officers, pages, and valets. When the heavy, gold-bordered silken portiere had fallen, the tyrant spoke.