“Ciel!” I exclaimed in a low tone, “admit it not, mademoiselle. What can be beyond the reach of your beauty and your wit? The ladder of fate is climbed step by step; never go back to a lower rung.”
Her momentary peevishness had passed, and she gave me a radiant glance.
“I thank you,” she said; “the advice is excellent, but I have heard that it is more bitter to fall, when the height is once attained, than never to attempt the ascent.”
“Many things in this life are bitter, mademoiselle,” I replied philosophically, “but youth and beauty should not look upon the darker side.”
As I spoke, there was a sudden confusion at the other side of the room, and we both turned to discover the cause. The czar was the center of an excited group, and before him stood a young man whom I knew by name, Yury Apraxin. A glance at Peter showed me that he was in one of those sudden and violent fits of passion which occasionally carried him beyond the bounds of reason, while Apraxin was painfully embarrassed, but maintained his position with sullen hauteur. We could not hear his reply to Peter; but in a moment the czar struck him in the face with his open palm, and would doubtless have followed the blow with some great indignity if Mentchikof had not interposed his person, while Sheremetief hurried the young nobleman to the door. Apraxin’s face was white with fury at the insult, and in another instant, but for Sheremetief, he would have struck back at the czar. The silence in the salon was sudden and painful. Peter thrust his favorite aside, and with a crimson face shouted to his equerry to arrest the offender.
“I will have his head!” he cried fiercely.
From a scene of gayety it had become almost a tragedy. His Majesty’s outbursts of fury were often fruitful of fearful results, and he was ever at his worst when flushed with wine. Every face was pale, and the women drew back with startled eyes, while the men regarded the czar with ill-concealed apprehension. The autocrat himself stood in the center of the apartment, his great figure towering over the others and his breast heaving, while his face twitched with that nervous affliction which made his expression for the time terrific. Through the open door we could see Apraxin, struggling in the arms of his friends.
“What is the trouble?” I asked, in a whisper, of a courtier near me.
He glanced at me in a frightened way. “The young fool got into a dispute with his Majesty about the battle of Narva,” he whispered back, “praised the courage of Charles of Sweden, and condemned the conduct of the Russian troops.”
I understood. It was the weak point in Peter’s armor; he never forgot or forgave Narva until the victory of Poltava.