Mentchikof paused and glanced at me obliquely. I smiled without replying. I understood him, but my mind reverted to the stories of the days of the great Henry, when Gabrielle d’Estrées quarrelled with the Duc de Sully because her son could not be baptized as a child of France, and Henry then was without legitimate heirs, and I recollected the “fat bankeress of Florence,” and the birth of Louis XIII. After all, the child of the despised queen had reigned in France, and I wondered a little if they could set aside the son of Eudoxia. My mind had then no conception of that frightful tragedy that was to clear the path to the throne for the child of Catherine Shavronsky. With strange thoughts I drew Mentchikof’s signet from my finger, and gave it to him with an acknowledgment of my indebtedness for his ready assistance.
“I am, nevertheless, glad to be rid of the signet,” I added, smiling, “for it has burned upon my finger as a symbol of responsibility. Without it I should have found it impossible to secure a priest.”
“And it will go hard with the priest if the czar finds him,” Mentchikof said dryly; “however, the imperial displeasure may pass away when it appears how completely Najine has evaded all efforts to detain her.”
I was not so sanguine as he, for I feared a possible capture of the wedded lovers at the frontier; but he was carried away with the success of his diplomacy, and foresaw probably, too, the return of Mademoiselle Catherine to favor. I saw that he had sent for me mainly to rejoice at our apparent good fortune, and he did not regard Peter’s probable displeasure now that mademoiselle was removed from his sight. Judging from his relief at her departure, I concluded that he had attached grave importance to the czar’s passion for her, dreading the influence of the faction who supported Zotof. It was natural that a man who had so long enjoyed the sunshine of royal favor should fear its eclipse, and he was one to make enemies who would scheme for his overthrow. From him I learned that Apraxin was slowly recovering from the effects of M. de Lambert’s chastisement, and had been ordered into temporary exile at Archangel by the czar, which seemed to me a light punishment for the cowardly knave; but, no doubt, the Zotofs had interceded for him.
At parting, I sent a message of congratulation to Mademoiselle Shavronsky, and Mentchikof laughed.
“So,” he said, “you are wise, M. l’Ambassadeur, and know which way to look for the rising sun.”
“Nay,” I replied smiling, “I but do homage to a beautiful woman, monsieur.”
But I left him still laughing at me and in a humor of confidence, seeing no doubt before his mental vision success and triumph.
When I quitted the palace, I found it still storming, and the streets so slippery that I made my way with care. I passed Zotof’s house, and smiled a little as I looked at it, for its deserted aspect suggested the absence of its inmates, and I fancied them in hot pursuit upon one road while the fugitives were speeding along upon the other. Which would progress the more rapidly? One on the wings of love, the other upon those of wrath; a common spectacle in life, and not without a lesson in it. So absorbed was I in thought that on turning the sharp angle of the courtyard wall, I was startled at coming suddenly upon a group of men who were standing about two combatants. A street brawl, and I was passing, for I saw that one of them was tipsy, when suddenly I heard a cry of “Let him go, you villain! what right have you to fight a Russian?” and then a shout, “A foreigner—a Swede! a Swede!” I stopped and looked back. The stouter of the two wrestlers had the other, who was intoxicated, down in the mud; but the exertion had torn off the victor’s hat and cloak and I recognized Gustavus Lenk. As I did so, the Russians set upon him and dragged him off his adversary.
“A Swede, I tell you!” cried one fellow loudly, in answer to a doubt.