“We ought rather to turn him over to the authorities at Preobrazhensky,” M. de Lambert said quietly.
Now, the secret-chancery of Preobrazhensky had borne an evil name since it had been the scene of the tortures and executions of the Streltsi, when Peter summoned those stubborn rebels to a bloody judgment, and it was a common byword of horror to the Russian miscreant. At the mention of it, the Swede started and his face paled perceptibly. I was watching him keenly, and was quick to see the signs of weakening.
“Call Pierrot,” I said to my companion, “and send him for the captain of the guard.”
At that the prisoner broke down. He made an effort to speak, but only his lips moved at first, then he came nearer to the table.
“Gentlemen,” he said excitedly, “you are Frenchmen. King Louis has no quarrel with the king my master; he even offered mediation at one time between him and King Augustus. I pray you, deal leniently with a Swedish subject. It is true that I mistook his Excellency for the Polish envoy; it is true that I tried to snatch the cloak, which I believe concealed valuable papers; but what of it? I was trying to serve the king. If you deliver me up to the Russians, I shall be hung as a spy, or perhaps tortured to death. I appeal to you as subjects of the King of France to spare me for the sake of Charles of Sweden, whose servant I am.”
M. de Lambert and I looked at each other. Here was a situation. We had unwittingly captured a Swedish spy. If the czar discovered it, we should be called to a sharp account, for Peter was not delicate in his understanding of diplomatic relations. On the other hand, neither of us cared to play the bloodhound for Russia or to sow the seeds of greater discord between Sweden and France. Charles XII. himself could scarcely have been a more troublesome or unwelcome prisoner. I knew from the expression of M. de Lambert’s face that he regretted his own skill in capturing the Swede. But the fact that we had him was palpable enough, and what should we do with him? He was scanning our perplexed faces with an anxious eye. I turned on him sternly.
“Young man,” I said, “you admit that you are a Swedish spy and that you intended a mischief to the person of the Polish envoy. How dare you appeal to French gentlemen for protection from your just fate? We have no authority to save you from the Russians. This is Moscow, not Paris. Why should we interpose at the expense of our country to save a miscreant from the gallows?”
He had listened to me in silence, but a strange change came over his face; it was no longer stolid, but quivered with emotion. He did not appear like a coward at first, yet now he was showing every sign of trepidation. When I finished speaking, he looked at me with a haggard face.
“You will give me up, then?” he exclaimed in a low voice.
“Why not?” I asked coolly, leaning back in my chair, and shading my face with my hand that he might not see my perplexity; “why should I save a criminal?”