“Your Majesty,” I said calmly, and with what dignity I could command, “I am a subject of the King of France, and it is outside of my province to detect traitors here, neither do threats prevail with such. If I have erred through ignorance, and violated the courtesy and respect due to your person, I crave your Majesty’s indulgence. For Mademoiselle Shavronsky I am in no way responsible.”
“By our Lady, M. l’Ambassadeur,” he exclaimed with violent excitement, “she is the traitor to pen such lines to a stranger and a Frenchman. I would rather give up the Neva to Charles of Sweden than have my heart and thoughts betrayed to a foreign court! I have trusted her too deeply, there is no truth in woman!”
His voice rose as he spoke, and his lips quivered with passion. He was a man of strong emotions, violent and erratic. I stood silent; there was nothing that I could say with safety, and I folded my arms and leaned against the arras, regarding him with keen interest. He was muttering to himself in German, the language that he loved and used most frequently. I caught the name of Mentchikof, coupled with such expressions as “mein Bruder” and “mein Herz.” He felt that he had been betrayed in the house of his friend. Suddenly looking up, he caught my eye, and perhaps read my secret amazement that a sovereign could so far forget the reserve that belonged to his dignity.
“M. de Brousson,” he said, speaking with more composure, “I forget that you are a stranger. You have seen me in a moment of weakness. A king should scorn the intrigues of women, and my heart is indeed with the state; my most earnest thoughts are with the commonweal. It is only when the man feels the sting of deceit and of treachery that he forgets that he is royal. To rule an empire is to be a friendless human being,” he added, with a touch of passionate sadness.
I was strongly moved. I knew that he was too far in advance of his countrymen, too far above the level of mediocrity, to be in touch with sympathy. The isolation of this strange and violent man was almost complete, and all at once I understood that mayhap he really cared for mademoiselle’s love; that he craved one single human heart, amid the adulation of a court. I remembered how Mademoiselle de la Vallière’s devotion to Louis XIV. had contrasted with the intrigues of her successor.
“Your Majesty,” I said in a low voice, “to be exalted is to be alone. The rulers of the world stand before the nations in splendid solitude.”
His stormy mood was passing, and his face began to assume its natural expression. Something in my speech stung him. He took another quick turn across the gallery, and then paused before me, his eagle eye searching my face.
“M. le Maréchal,” he said abruptly, “you are a brave man and a true. You have seen Peter of Russia in an hour of weakness, betrayed by a woman. It is unworthy of me and of your remembrance. Forget it!”
I made an obeisance. “Your Majesty, it is already forgotten,” I replied.
He responded with a dignified gesture, which was at once an acknowledgment and a dismissal, and turning from me walked slowly down the gallery and went out at the other end, closing the door behind him, and leaving me with Catherine’s ill-starred letter in my hand.