“You know Najine,” he said; “you doubtless feel some interest in her.”
“She is young and lovely,” I replied gallantly. “It is unlikely that any man would regard her with entire indifference.”
“There is sometimes a hard fate in store for just such young and lovely maidens, M. le Maréchal,” he said coolly. “You remember the Princess Marie Dolgoruky and Euphemia Vsevolozhsky, and even the late czarina,—the nun Helen. Archangel and Siberia are both not impossible futures for candidates for the throne.”
I started. This was plain speaking, and I was certain now of his motive. He had a candidate of his own, and Najine had been so unfortunate as to rival her in the eyes of the czar. I saw it all in a moment, and a grim picture it was. However, I did not permit my face to betray me.
“You should speak to mademoiselle’s natural guardians, monsieur,” I said quietly; “her interests are dear to them, while I could not even suggest such dangers.”
He measured me with his penetrating glance, but I returned it with amused serenity. Two or three nobles were approaching him, and interruption was inevitable. He leaned a little towards me.
“Nevertheless, M. le Vicomte,” he said in a low voice, “you will inform M. de Lambert that his best friends in Moscow desire to see him speedily and quietly married to Najine Zotof.”
I was saved the necessity of a reply by his friends, who joined him now and gave me my opportunity to withdraw. Near the door stood M. de Lambert, and I signaled to him to follow me. In a few minutes we had passed through the guard-rooms and left the palace. When I found myself alone with him, I was at a loss to decide upon my next move. I knew him well; brave, loyal, passionate, impulsive, and headstrong, how could I trust the complicated situation to his discretion? How could I counsel him? With him there would be but one course of action. He loved Mademoiselle Zotof, and would save her, if he could, both from the czar and from the intrigues of her rivals. But how could he accomplish this? I asked myself that question again and again as we crossed the square. He was singularly silent, as if he divined my perturbation or was possessed with a similar anxiety. I cast a sidelong glance at him, mentally comparing him with the czar, and wondering how the two would contrast in the eyes of mademoiselle. I was forced to admit to myself that he was a goodly man; he carried himself with the proud erectness of a cavalier, and his clean-cut, candid face was good to look upon. What he lacked of the czar’s powerful muscle, he gained in grace. I smiled a little as I looked at him, thinking that he was a dangerous rival even for an emperor. I could not decide upon any course, but determined to try his temper. We had passed out of the Gate of the Redeemer, and, his foot slipping on a piece of ice, he stumbled and recovered himself with a muttered exclamation of impatience.
“You are out of temper again, M. de Lambert,” I said tauntingly. “You should have more fortitude; there are worse slips than those upon Russian ice.”
He darted an inquiring glance at me.