There were two mirrors at the end of the apartment which reflected the entire scene. As I approached, I could read the faces of the men who were standing with their backs towards me talking to the beauty, and I saw in their mirrored images the attention and rivalry of courtiers eager to propitiate a rising power. How often had I witnessed similar scenes at Versailles with La Vallière, with Madame de Montespan, and now the same sycophants pulled long faces to suit the more subdued taste of Madame de Maintenon. Yet this was a brilliant picture; here were some of the gayest rufflers of the court, with their velvet coats and satin breeches and jewelled swords; and in their midst was Catherine Shavronsky, in a gay robe that had a suggestion of that tawdry imitation of European fashion upon which my wife had commented. Even I could see that she had not the appearance of a Frenchwoman, yet no attire could disguise her fine figure, and she held herself with imperious dignity, as if she already tasted the sweets of the power that she coveted, felt in imagination the imperial diadem on her head. For some reason the thought flashed upon me of the forlorn Eudoxia in her postcart going to Suzdal, and of the faithless Anna Mons, and I bowed low over Catherine’s hand to hide my smile. How poor a thing is an emperor’s favor!
She greeted me with conspicuous kindness, and I was not a little amused at her assumption of importance,—this poor Livonian peasant girl, who had been a servant in the family of Pastor Gluck and one of Sheremetief’s prisoners at the fall of Marienburg! A poor little orphan girl and grasping now at a crown! However, I saw at once that here was a strong character, and that she would be no mean rival for the other candidates; moreover, her beauty was of that material and dazzling type that seemed to me most likely to attract the czar’s admiration. She talked to me eagerly, and I found her manner engaging, and her voice was soft and gentle; she asked many questions about my country and my journey, showing a ready wit. She amused me by inquiring, in a direct fashion, about M. de Lambert; betraying that she was acquainted with a little of the intrigue that was in progress, but I doubted if she knew much of Mademoiselle Zotof. Mentchikof was probably too shrewd a man to trust an impulsive girl with all the particulars of the czar’s wavering and uncertain fancies. So eager was she to propitiate me that she neglected her circle of attendants, and more than one gallant cast an angry glance at me, until at last I reminded her, in an aside, of their presence.
“Mademoiselle,” I said softly, “your courtiers are angry because you are so gracious to an old fellow. I have noticed many a black look in my direction.”
She gave me a charming glance. “They are not worth a thought,” she said in her sweet tones; “it is only men like you, M. le Maréchal, who are wise enough and brave enough to merit a woman’s admiration.”
“Mademoiselle does me too much honor,” I said lightly, “but it is some young soldier who will win her heart.”
For an instant she was disconcerted, and I remembered that rumor had it that she had been betrothed to a Swedish soldier; however she recovered herself and laughed gayly.
“Ah, monsieur,” she said, “my heart will never be given except to a great man—brave—noble—generous, a soldier, a statesman—a—” She hesitated, her cheek mantling with color. She had read the expression in my eye.
“A prince, mademoiselle!” I concluded softly.
She flushed crimson, and held out her hand with a charming gesture of candid good-will. I took it in mine and looked into her kindling eyes.
“May mademoiselle be as fortunate and happy as her beauty deserves!” I said in a low tone, and then, kissing her fingers, made my way through the throng to Mentchikof, and so took my leave.