“I count the danger of small consequence,” he said calmly; and I knew that his absolute fearlessness was as likely to be disastrous as his impetuosity.
“The risk must, however, be considered on mademoiselle’s behalf,” I warned him; and he acquiesced.
I looked again at the ring, and then, wrapping it carefully, put it in my pocket, for I had a purpose in regard to it. The czar was liberal with his tokens, it seemed.
“I marvel what he has done with his portrait, framed in diamonds, which he took away from Anna Mons,” I said to myself, and then laughed aloud, although M. de Lambert did not understand the drift of my thoughts, and was piqued at my boisterous merriment. But I could not forbear; it was too absurd. Would mademoiselle fall heir to the picture that had belonged to Anna Mons—and also to Eudoxia’s crown? How happy is the woman whose destiny depends upon the caprice of a tyrant!
An hour later, I summoned Pierrot, and, covering my figure with a dark cloak, made my way on foot to the palace of Mentchikof. The night was dark, for the young moon gave no light and there was a cold wind blowing that cut my face, and Pierrot and I both walked with our heads bent to avoid it. Entering the courtyard, I passed around to the side of the house, where a short flight of stone steps built in the wall led to a private door where only a few favored guests were admitted. A porter answered my summons and held up his light to examine us, while yawning prodigiously, as if he had been asleep at his post. I sent a message desiring to see Mademoiselle Shavronsky. He left me waiting in an ante-room, and was some time absent, returning at last to conduct me through a long corridor into a suite of apartments that I had never seen. I expected to be received by the family or by Madame Golovin, at least, but was surprised to be ushered into a large room where I found only Catherine herself and a young Russian attendant, who sat in a corner over her embroidery, never once raising her eyes from her work. When I entered, Catherine was half reclining on an ottoman that was covered with a rug of sable, but at my appearance she rose, and greeted me with a manner at once frank and dignified. In spite of her short stature, there was majesty in her bearing, and she had never looked more handsome, although her attire was simple, and she wore no jewel, not even in her hair, which was rolled back from her brow after the fashion affected by the ladies of the French court. This Livonian peasant girl was, after all, a singular character; she had the intrepid courage and the unflinching purpose of a man, together with the charm of a woman.
She was the first to speak. “This is, indeed, an honor, M. le Maréchal,” she said pleasantly, “and if I mistake not, you have tidings for me.”
I looked at her and smiled. If it pleased her to be direct, why should I not humor her?
“Mademoiselle,” I said, “I am a seeker after information. Mentchikof stands so near the person of his imperial Majesty that I felt that in this household I should learn the truth. I have heard that the czar is soon to wed again.”
She started violently, the color leaving her face.
“Your authority, sir?” she exclaimed sharply.