He started, and his cheek flushed darkly. “In plain words, monsieur would say that she would abhor me,” he exclaimed.
“We do not so speak to kings, your Majesty,” I said gravely.
“No,” he replied harshly, “to kings all men lie. I sometimes think that they also lie when they pray; for if they strive so hard to appear fair to their sovereigns here, how much more so at the bar of Heaven! Pah! false witnesses and knaves, I would give my right hand for the love of one honest heart!”
“Doubtless, your Majesty has that of many,” I replied suavely; “and from gratitude is born the purest regard.”
“You would suggest that I could merit her gratitude?” he said in a strange voice; then he turned to me with a gesture of passionate despair. “Man,” he cried, “I loved her!”
I stood amazed, and found no words. I felt myself as awkward as the veriest boy. He had declared his unrequited passion, and yet, undignified as it seemed, I had never seen him so imperial. All that was violent and coarse was lost to sight. He stood there in his simple dress, his dark hair disordered, his face pale, and his eyes burning. It was the sorrow, the isolation, the passionate disappointment of a great heart; for the Romanoff was, first of all, a man,—genuine, simple, emotional.
“I loved her,” he repeated in his deep voice, “and she is another man’s wife. I, the czar, craved the love of a simple heart, and it is denied me. But,” he added with a sudden fierce change, “it is not yet too late to tear her from her lover’s arms!”
“Your Majesty,” I said slowly, with what composure I could command, “it would be a revenge unworthy of a king, and most unworthy of you. Grief you can bring to her, if the saints permit, for not even you can defy heaven. Earthly loss and desolation you might achieve for her, but rather than her love, you would have her hatred. Czar of the Russias, there is but One, and He is mightier than thou, the King of kings, who alone can dispose the heart of man or woman. Let this young girl go in peace with her husband, and so merit her blessing and her prayers, which will be richer to you than the poor revenge of seeing her broken in spirit and in heart, dreading your name as her greatest scourge; not a loyal subject, but a slave.”
He was silent, and I saw that he struggled with himself.
“A man who can conquer his own heart,” I added, as if speaking to myself, “is worthy indeed to be a king.”