He stopped short in his walk and gazed at me fiercely.
“The Czarina Eudoxia still lives, monsieur,” he said, “and you forget the intrigue with Anna Mons.”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“The czarina is divorced, monsieur,” I said quietly, “and Mademoiselle Zotof will never share the fate of Anna Mons. Mademoiselle is noble, and there is no reason why she should not ascend the throne. Peter has no heir but the czarevitch, and there is little love between the boy and his father. There is no doubt that the czar will marry again, and you can scarcely expect that the guardians of any young Russian girl would prefer a poor French gentleman to the czar. I presume that the Councillor Zotof is only too anxious to forward the interest of his niece.”
I saw that his agitation was increased by my argument, and was heartily sorry for him, even while I felt it my duty to show him the case in its true aspect.
“There can be no doubt that the uncle is anxious to propitiate the czar,” he remarked moodily.
He sat down as he spoke, and, leaning his elbow upon the table, shaded his face with his hand. Remembering the days of my own youth, I pitied him.
“You have one consolation, monsieur,” I said reassuringly; “mademoiselle has many rivals. There is scarcely a maiden of noble blood who will not be presented as a candidate for his hand. I have heard rumors that his favorite Mentchikof has a candidate for the czar’s favor, a young woman of obscure origin, Catherine Shavronsky.”
M. de Lambert brightened at this. “I had heard that also,” he said, and then added dubiously, “there is no chance that she can outshine Najine.”
I rose from the table.