Mentchikof was standing in the center of the great salon when I entered, and I was, at the moment, impressed by the conspicuous figure, and afterwards mentally contrasted it with that other his master. Peter’s favorite was one of those handsome men who attach great importance to their dress; and this morning he was arrayed for the court and was a gorgeous picture, from his white silk stockings and white satin breeches and lace-trimmed brocaded waistcoat to his coat of violet velvet. Peter had created several orders, and half a dozen glittered on Mentchikof’s breast, with the blue ribbon of Saint Andrew. His full white peruke was curled and perfumed, and his hands covered with splendid rings; he was the perfect picture of a courtier, and his naturally charming manners fitted him for the place that he held, and was to hold in the future, as the personal representative of the czar; although the spoiled favorite of fortune, he was also keen, brilliant, profoundly ambitious. If the scandalous rumors of the court were true, and he was indeed the son of a pastry-cook, he had reason to be proud of the singular ability which had enabled him to reach the pinnacle of success. He met me with cordiality, embracing me three times, in the Russian fashion.
“So far all goes well, M. le Maréchal,” he said, smiling; “the bird has safely flown, and I believe will evade pursuit, although old Madame Zotof and her corpulent spouse are upon the track, but happily upon the wrong track. As for his Majesty, you and I will presently have a bad quarter of an hour, but I think Najine’s appeal for M. de Lambert mortified the imperial vanity so much that he is likely to restrain his ardor.”
“Nevertheless, your Excellency, I have but just rid myself of the equerry Shein, who was sent by his imperial Majesty to my quarters to arrest M. de Lambert and also, I fancy, mademoiselle.”
“Ah, sets the wind in that quarter?” Mentchikof exclaimed; “then, as I anticipated, he repented very quickly of his lenity. Prince Dolgoruky and a dozen more are probably at work; yet, nevertheless, M. l’Ambassadeur, ours was a coup d’état, for with mademoiselle safely out of the country he is likely to forget her. We have little to fear, for kings can afford to be fickle.”
“His Majesty does not so impress me,” I replied thoughtfully; “his is a mighty personality, and I have sometimes been amazed that Najine should prefer a young French soldier to Peter Alexeivitch.”
Mentchikof smiled that slow, brilliant smile that made his dark eyes light up and showed his white teeth.
“Women are strange creatures, M. l’Ambassadeur,” he said slowly; “they are governed largely by impulse, and ruin their own best-laid schemes by some outburst of feeling. Najine Zotof saw before her, not Peter as you and I see him,—a great man, a soldier, a statesman, a reformer; she saw only the cold-hearted husband of Eudoxia Lopukhin, the lover of Anna Mons.”
I started; how had the man read Najine’s heart so perfectly? Najine, who would not have spoken to him of any feeling of hers, who looked upon Catherine Shavronsky as a bold woman of the court! How far those keen eyes of his must have seen into the young girl’s mind; how quick must be his understanding to recognize, at a glance, her repugnance to the czar’s violence and his sensuality! I replied to him, however, without betraying my surprise at his intuition.
“Women like mademoiselle are governed by their hearts, I think, monsieur,” I remarked; “she loved Guillaume de Lambert, and a loyal, simple nature like hers is not to be corrupted even by the dazzling temptations of a throne. There are other women who are neither so simple nor so devoted.”
Mentchikof laughed. “You mean especially Catherine Shavronsky,” he said frankly; “truly, monsieur, she is made for the hour. A remarkable woman,” he added thoughtfully; “of the humblest origin and yet moulded on grand outlines. She is ambitious, but she is generous; she is beautiful, but also strong-minded—if the czar—well, M. le Vicomte, we will not forecast the future—yet look at the state of the empire. The czar has divorced his wife, and there is only the Czarevitch Alexis, a boy of thirteen,—and between you and me, M. l’Ambassadeur, not a hopeful boy; morose, bigoted, small-minded, like his mother,—and next in succession are the children of the late czar Ivan, himself an imbecile. In case of his Majesty’s death,—which the saints delay!—what would it be to Russia to have a czarina of intellect and force and several children in the direct line of succession? No one sees this more plainly than Peter himself; and if—”