“Then—if you can—make him happy—keep him cheerful,” said Mentchikoff; “in many ways his life is barren.”
The girl looked at him with those clear eyes that were full of an almost startling sincerity and truth.
“Then you are tired of me, Danilovitch Mentchikoff, and wish to hand me to your master?”
He returned her look frankly; both were of the same class, one by talent, the other by beauty elevated to these surroundings of royal luxury; she had been little better than a camp follower and he was from the gutter; neither was disguised to the other by their present splendor and the pomp of their surroundings; both held their positions by the frail tenure of another person’s favor—he by that of the Czar, she by his; for the powerful Prince was, after all, but a dependent on the favor of Peter, as the peasant girl was dependent on the caprice of Mentchikoff.
The two adventurers looked at each other keenly and there was a laugh between them; hers was wholly indifferent, perhaps heartless, his was gay and confident, for she cared for no creature but herself, nor ever would, while his least thought and meanest action was ennobled by his love for his master.
“I am not tired of you, Marpha,” said Mentchikoff, “and never shall be. I think you are a wonderful woman. I think you might help the Czar where I fail—as now when he is in his melancholy—and when he is drunk, and when he is ill.”
“I do not like sick people,” said the Livonian slowly.
“You have enough health and vitality to be able to share it,” replied Mentchikoff sharply.
She drew up her superb body that so proudly bore the heavy ornate trappings, and turning her beautiful head slowly, looked out into the darkness of the garden.
“We speak of the Czar of Holy Russia,” added the Prince, with some offense at her indifference.