In a moment something happened which again transformed the scene. While the czar was still quivering with ill-suppressed passion, in the midst of an extending circle of courtiers, Catherine left my side and advanced across the space. She was short, but she had a peculiarly majestic mien in her sweeping white garments, her beautiful shoulders bare and her proud head slightly bent. She walked straight up to the infuriated czar, and knelt gracefully before him. Peter stared at her in undisguised amazement, and the others were transfixed; not a word was uttered, every eye was turned on the two central figures, the massive form of the czar, contrasting with the figure of the woman at his feet.
“I pray your Majesty’s forbearance,” she said, in a clear voice that was heard the length of the room.
“Rise, Catherine,” he exclaimed, in an embarrassed tone, his passion suddenly arrested by her unlooked-for interference.
“Nay, sire,” she replied gently, “I am a suppliant, and suppliants must kneel. I crave your Majesty’s forgiveness for this young man who has so unhappily offended. I doubt not that he regrets his fault, and your Majesty’s anger is too great a chastisement. You are royal, and it is royal to forgive!”
Her gesture and her glance were eloquent. I had never seen her so beautiful. Her large eyes were kindled with some deep emotion, and her face was pale, while her white throat was bare even of its necklace of pearls. The Livonian peasant girl had suddenly assumed a dignity that was worthy of a nobler origin. The czar was silent, but we, who knew his moods, saw that the tempest was spent, and that the natural generosity of his disposition would prevail; he was even perhaps a little ashamed of the vehemence of his outburst. Whether she was sure of her success or not, she spoke again, and now there was a thrill in her rich voice.
“Sire,” she said softly, “you once promised me a boon—I claim your pledge. Give me this boy’s pardon; a king may not break his word!”
The czar’s face paled, but he took her hand and raised her to her feet.
“Have I ever broken mine to you, sweetheart?” he said, a sudden smile dispelling the cloud upon his face. “The youth has my pardon, but keep him out of my sight for a while; I love not such disputatious boys.”
As he spoke, he drew a small bit of twisted paper from his pocket and laid it in her hand. “I owe you something, Catherine,” he said, “since you alone had the courage to remind me that I was a king.”
She bowed her graceful head and kissed his hand, and then the murmur of talk arose; the spell was broken, and the startled courtiers could breathe again. They flocked about Catherine with ill-concealed admiration of her prowess, and many curious glances were cast upon the paper package in her fingers. To gratify them, she opened the tiny parcel, and smoothing out the old and wrinkled wrapper revealed a splendid ruby,—a sign of favor that increased her circle of admirers. It was characteristic of the czar to bestow a superb present with nonchalance, and to wrap a jewel in a bit of soiled paper. To me the scene was strangely significant; I had watched it as I would have watched a cleverly conducted drama. Who but this Livonian woman would have dared to achieve that success, and, after all, did she not stand high in the czar’s regard? Looking across the salon, I saw into the ante-room beyond, where they had hurried Apraxin out of sight, and by the door stood M. de Lambert; reading the expression on his face, I divined his thought. He was radiant; he fancied that Mademoiselle Shavronsky had won the day. But I reflected that the road of court intrigue is tortuous, and that there are many turnings before the end is in view. I saw not only the satisfaction on the face of Mentchikof and his clique, but the anger and anxiety on the countenances of Prince Dolgoruky and Sheremetief and a dozen more, who I knew had no toleration for the favorite or his schemes. Meanwhile the czar’s good-humor had returned, and he was boisterous in the reaction. The wine was already affecting several of the boyars, two or three were foolishly happy, and a third was so belligerently inclined that he had to be forcibly removed. The amount of liquor consumed often made the guests at these entertainments violently ill, for there was a rivalry over the quantity that each man could drink. When M. de Lambert and I retired, the revelry was at its height and the czar was perhaps the only sober man present, for Peter could drink unhurt more wine than his most bibulous courtier.