Madame de Brousson’s woman, Jeanne, had made several attempts to penetrate the seclusion of the Zotof mansion without success, but at last she was more fortunate, and it was while M. de Lambert was still suffering from his wound that she returned one forenoon with important tidings. Mademoiselle herself had been dangerously ill, and there were whispers of suspicious circumstances attending her indisposition. She had accompanied Madame Zotof to a fête at the palace, returning with the usual gifts of sweetmeats; madame ate hers without ill effects, but mademoiselle had no sooner tasted the comfit than she was seized with a sudden and alarming illness, and madame summoned a physician in hot haste. At first he almost despaired of saving Najine’s life, but after a while the worst symptoms passed off, and she recovered consciousness. The physician, after examining the fragment remaining, declared that the comfit had been poisoned. Mademoiselle was now recovering, Jeanne reported, and there was a close surveillance exercised, no food reaching her room untasted. The retainers and serfs at the Zotof mansion were in a state of profound excitement, and it was whispered that the Czarevna Natalia, Peter’s sister, was endeavoring to poison Najine. This, of course, was the idle gossip of the servants, and not worth a thought; Natalia Alexeievna had too many noble qualities to stoop to the assassin’s weapons. Nor could the princess have any real choice between mademoiselle and the Livonian, unless, indeed, she thought that an intrigue with Catherine would end as it had ended with Anna Mons, while, on the other hand, mademoiselle would undoubtedly ascend the throne if Zotof’s intrigues were successful. In any case, the czarevna could have little interest in the matter; it was true that she was the aunt of the czarevitch, but it was probable that she shared her brother’s dislike of Eudoxia, and was therefore without personal feeling toward the woman who was likely to supplant her. It was not difficult to imagine that there were many at court who were jealous of Najine. I had feared from the first some overt act after Mentchikof’s veiled threat to me, that if fair means did not succeed, foul would. If the czar was indeed enamored of mademoiselle, he would not be thwarted, and neither Catherine Shavronsky nor M. de Lambert nor the young fool Apraxin was likely to defeat his settled purpose; and this attempt to remove her at once convinced me that the belief was prevalent that she was the imperial choice. Zénaïde, who was a keen observer, was deeply concerned, and, being a Russian, she understood the undercurrents. The only hope that I saw lay in the fact that Peter had made no public announcement, which would have been irretrievable. If we could but turn him aside, and prevent such a declaration for Najine, we might yet save the day. We had determined not to inform M. de Lambert of her illness, but such secrets find their way to lovers’ ears too easily. I had scarcely known it a day myself when he sent for me to his room. I found him propped upon his pillows, still pale, for he had lost much blood, but with the sparkle of health in his clear brown eyes. He responded to my inquiries with impatience, and, dismissing Touchet, who was in attendance, asked me to be seated opposite to him, where the light fell full upon my face.
“How is mademoiselle?” he asked me sharply, scanning my features with the eye of a hawk; “how ill has she been?”
I smiled in spite of myself. “She is more nearly recovered than you, monsieur,” I said, “and perhaps was never worse than you have been. Some one has told you garbled tales.”
“I hope that you do not deceive me, M. le Maréchal,” he replied distrustfully; “it would be a poor kindness.”
“Happily, I do not need to deceive you,” I replied; “mademoiselle has had some illness from which she is almost recovered. The gossip of the kitchen accounts it a poisoned comfit, but no breath of this is abroad. It would be treason to whisper it, for the sweetmeats came from the imperial table.”
He looked at me thoughtfully. “Can it be that the princess is against her?” he exclaimed.
“Impossible,” I replied; “Natalia is too noble. Such treachery does not belong to the Romanoff.”
“Some traitor in the kitchen, then,” he said gloomily; “and here I lie on my back like a fool while her life is in danger!”
“Take comfort, monsieur,” I remarked calmly; “it has been a salutary lesson, and mademoiselle will be watched the more carefully. Too much hangs on her life for it to be exposed. Moreover, it may all have been the veriest accident,—something dropped upon the comfit and falling to mademoiselle by chance. Why work yourself into a fever over this? I have tasted more than one Russian dish that I thought would shortly send me to paradise, yet I live.”
He smiled in spite of himself, but I saw that his enforced helplessness was fretting him like a thorn in the flesh, and could understand and sympathize with his impatience, knowing how great would be mine in the like case.