“Taking the ground that his Majesty is ignorant of the conduct of his guards?” Mentchikof asked. “I see, monsieur. That is the only possible way of touching the matter. I have no doubt that the czar is ignorant of Apraxin’s share in it, but we cannot tell what effect it would have upon him. The czar despises Apraxin, but he may, for the time, pass that over. On the other hand, the introduction of the fellow’s name may bring forth a burst of passion that might end in the reverse of your wishes. And again, Apraxin may eventually injure the cause of Zotof and of—his niece.”
“I have foreseen all that, monsieur,” I replied gravely, “yet it seems the only hope. It is more probable that the czar will be seized with disgust of the whole affair when he finds that Apraxin regards Najine as his betrothed, and betrayed M. de Lambert to get rid of a successful rival.”
Mentchikof rose, and walked up and down the room for a few moments, thinking deeply. The matter was close to his heart: it involved his own hold upon the affections of his master; it threatened the destruction of some of his dearest hopes and schemes. I watched him keenly, wondering a little what thoughts were in his mind,—if he was picturing his own success or his defeat; if he saw before him the triumph of his rivals, the obscurity of Catherine Shavronsky, and his own ruin, for the loss of favor would mean the total collapse of his fortunes. He was an extravagant man, and his debts were colossal, while his credit was tottering at the caprice of the czar’s favor. His hold upon Peter’s affections was strong, his influence had been almost unbounded; but the favorite of royalty keeps his place by but feeble tenure, and if the czar followed the impulse of his passion for mademoiselle, a new party would inevitably come into power, and Mentchikof’s arrogance would be remembered and revenged. I regarded him with interest. A man richly endowed in person and in mental qualities; handsome, brave, magnetic; possessed of a winning address and a pungent wit, and withal, a gallant soldier and a shrewd statesman,—he was a man to captivate and hold the fancy of almost any one who approached him, and I did not condemn Daria Arsenief for her infatuation; all the court knew that she was devoted to Alexander Mentchikof, and I had heard it said that Peter desired that he should marry her, while he was yet either unwilling or not ready to comply with his master’s wishes. He paced the room now for five minutes or more, and I did not interrupt his revery, willing to allow him full time to mature his own plans; but before he spoke again, a little page brought him a message from Mademoiselle Shavronsky, asking if she might join us, as she desired to see the Vicomte de Brousson. For an instant Mentchikof looked annoyed, and then, recovering himself, sent for her to appear. When the page reared with his message, he looked at me and smiled.
“Catherine must needs manage this herself,” he said dryly; “womanlike, she believes that she can always find the end of the tangled skein.”
“A woman’s wit is keen,” I replied, “and it may be that she will see a way that we cannot discover.”
“It may be,” he rejoined with a shrug; “but she has already done mischief enough to her own affairs, and yet she is a clever woman—a woman worthy to rule,” he added to himself.
As he spoke, the door opened and Catherine Shavronsky came in, attended only by a little Russian girl. Catherine’s face was pale, but more composed than when I had last seen her, and she responded to my greeting graciously. She was attired in some plain dark robe, and her figure looked less massive than usual, and there was something almost girlish in the simple earnestness of her manner.
“You have tidings, M. le Maréchal,” she said directly; “I trust that they are better than the last. Is M. de Lambert at liberty?”
I shook my head.
“What?” she exclaimed, “in prison still? Has no one appealed to the czar?”