She shook her head.
“A Livonian, sire—a Lutheran—I do not know who my parents were,” she added, anticipating his next questions, “nor why Prince Mentchikoff should bring me here.”
“Why,” said Peter, “you are the person he spoke of who could cure me of my melancholy.”
She again shook her head.
“No, it could not be I—I am only a servant—in my best clothes”—she laughed gaily, glancing at her attire. “I have never been so fine before, but to-night Danilovitch Mentchikoff ordered me to dress so!”
The Czar was interested in her; she had an air of extraordinary vitality, of serene courage, and generous good-nature; she gave out an atmosphere of pleasant warmth and kindliness, of enthusiasm and joy of life, more remarkable than her beauty; Mentchikoff’s vivacity and high spirits had always been his greatest attraction for Peter, but this girl’s calm happiness and aspect of radiant health were more potent than the favorite’s gay humor in their effect on the Czar’s somber mood.
“Why are you melancholy?” she asked, with a straight look from her large clear gray eyes. “The Czar of Holy Russia, and sad?”
Her glance seemed to have a certain pity for his marred and weary comeliness; it was as if she were the Empress and he the peasant, so splendid and composed was she, so shabby and downcast was Peter.
“I have something to make me sad, Marpha,” he said.
“And many things to make you happy,” she replied simply, “but you great men are never gay. There is supper to-night in the pavilion. Will you come and I will pour your wine?”