"From his majesty's hand," said he. "Your excellency is to read it at once. It requires no answer." Then, bowing deeply, the secretary backed out of the room, and the discreet portiere fell, preventing the transmission of the slightest sound.
"Read," said Potemkin, "for doubtless the emperor has good reason for his haste."
Count Cobenzl broke the seal; but instead of a note for himself, a sealed dispatch within, bore the address of the prince. The count presented it at once, and Potemkin eagerly tore it open. He seemed electrified by its contents; so much so that Cobenzl started forward to his assistance, exclaiming: "Gracious Heaven, what has happened? Your highness is ill!"
"No, no," said Potemkin, "but read this, that I may be sure I do not dream."
Cobenzl took the letter and read:
"My dear Prince: To win your friendship, I have neither flattery, decorations, duchies, princesses, nor promises for the future; convinced as I am that your highness is able to reach the summit of your desires without help from other mortals. But I have something to impart which will prove the sincerity of my intentions toward you. An hour ago, Count Orloff arrived in St. Petersburg, and he is now in secret conference with the czarina. "Joseph II"
"I was right; it was not my secret apprehensions which conjured those spectral letters," cried Potemkin; "they are really the writing of the emperor, and Gregory Orloff is here."
He sprang forward like a bull rushing to the attack.
"Gregory Orloff is with Catharine, and I cannot slay him at her feet. But stay," exclaimed he, exultingly, and then his words resolved themselves back into thought. "My key—my key—I will force her to hear me. Count," continued he aloud, "I beg of you to excuse me, for I must go at once to the empress. Tell the emperor that if I weather the storm that is bursting over my head, I will prove to him my eternal gratitude for the service he has rendered me this day. Farewell! Pray for me; or if you like better, go home and get up a fine drama for the day of my burial."
"Nothing less than Voltaire's 'Death of Julius Caesar' would suit such an occasion; but God forbid that your highness should come to harm! I hasten to do your bidding."