When we reached the Kremlin, the imperial officer took the lead and conducted us to the Miracle Monastery; here we were admitted to the refectory, and Pierrot and I were left while the soldier had a long private conference with a gentleman of the imperial household, and finally departed with him, requesting us to remain there half an hour. Impatient as I was, I had no choice but to await his return, and occupied the time with some reflections upon the folly of taking a young gallant on a diplomatic errand, and resolving that I would never again find myself in so unhappy a position,—for I resented the covert affront to France without seeing any way to avenge it. M. de Lambert had been guilty of rash indifference to the imperial amour, and I could scarcely expect the czar to respect his person as a member of a French embassy. My meditations were interrupted by Pierrot, who had been trying all the doors to reassure himself as to their intentions towards us.
“Do you think they will return, monsieur?” he asked significantly.
“I think so, Pierrot,” I replied dryly; “one can never be sure, but I do not think there were any instructions except those that were given in my presence.”
He shook his head gravely. “They have been gone some time,” he remarked, and looked at me with manifest doubt of the wisdom of a longer wait upon their pleasure.
But at this moment we heard steps without, and the officer throwing open the door entered, followed by Guillaume de Lambert, whose face looked pale and haggard with anxiety, but lighted up at the sight of us, and he met me with an exclamation of joy. I was too anxious, however, to get him out to waste time on words, and, thanking the officer for his services, I hurried M. de Lambert off, and it was not until we were in the street that I permitted him to speak.
“This has been an outrage,” he exclaimed fiercely; “I have been mewed up and half starved in a regular dungeon, and I believe that they had designs on my life.”
“So we have been told,” I replied dryly; “but it seems to me, M. de Lambert, that you have been to blame. You walked into the snare all too easily, and mademoiselle has won your freedom at the cost of a personal appeal to the czar.”
He stopped short. “Mademoiselle?” he said in a tone of wonder; “she is at Troïtsa.”
“Pardon me, monsieur,” I returned quietly, “she is in Moscow. Tidings travel rapidly, and she was informed of your misfortune, and came—on the wings of love, and her personal appeal to Peter obtained the order for your release.”
“Alas!” he exclaimed, “I am unfortunate, since it is I, after all, who brought her back to the czar. I would rather be deprived of my liberty than purchase it at such a price.”