As M. de Lambert and I walked to our quarters through the crooked lanes, the first rosy tint of sunrise was spreading like a blush along the eastern sky, while above it the morning star shone like a solitary jewel in the pallid blue. The white buildings of the Kremlin loomed ghostlike through the mist that was rising in a soft cloud over the river Moskva; the city was as silent as a tomb; the shuttered windows of the houses closed in their secrets, and the streets lay in the dark, untouched by the golden shafts of light that were illuminating the horizon. The spell of midnight was upon the earth, the radiance of daybreak in the heavens, and between, a wreath of mist.
For a time no words passed between us, and then M. de Lambert spoke.
“The youth was foolish,” he said thoughtfully, “but the czar was wrong; it was an unkingly act.”
“He has a kingly temper,” I said lightly; “the boy escaped easily.”
“It was not royal,” M. de Lambert went on, “and he lost a loyal subject. I saw Apraxin’s face; he will never forgive it.”
“The czar can afford to offend,” I replied dryly; “royalty is rich in friends.”
“No man can afford to be unjust,” M. de Lambert rejoined with that generosity that was natural to him, for he had a noble nature.
“Mademoiselle Catherine has set her heart upon the crown, and she is clever,” I remarked softly.
“I rejoiced to see it,” he said with relief in his voice, and added eagerly, “did you note his manner, monsieur? He was very tender with her.”
I laughed aloud. “Ah, M. de Lambert,” I said, “set not too great store by that; the royal heart, we know, is fickle. Remember Madame de Montespan!”