In an instant the cloud came back to her face, and she clasped her hands. “Alas!” she exclaimed, “we are undone.”
Madame Golovin made some sign to stay her impetuosity, but it was without effect. Catherine’s nature was fully as impulsive and passionate as that of the czar.
“M. le Maréchal,” she said, “my unhappy letter was taken from my messenger, and must have been opened before it was delivered to you.”
“Doubtless, mademoiselle,” I said, determined to allow her to talk rather than to talk myself. “It is unfortunate to write anything unless you are certain of the messenger.”
She made a gesture of impatience. “He was trusty enough,” she said, “but was overpowered and the letter taken from him; he knew nothing more of its fate. This morning Mentchikof was summoned by the czar, a peremptory message. Alas, monsieur, we fear that the unhappy billet has reached his Majesty.”
She was standing close to me, her hands clasped and her eyes fastened on my face. I felt her glance searching me, although I did not meet it, but stood gazing at the logs that were blazing in the great chimney.
“Mademoiselle,” I said quietly, “I am old enough to be your father, therefore permit me to advise you. It is true that I have not been so much at court as in the camp, but I am not without my experience. Never write anything, mademoiselle, that can be conveyed by word of mouth; never write plainly if you write at all. That which is written is written.”
“Alas!” she exclaimed, “you are a man, it is easy for you to be always cautious. I have been foolish. I see it and deplore it, but must I suffer for the fault of too much anxiety? My heart misgives me! I fear that evil will come of it.” Then turning to me abruptly, she added, “Have you heard anything of the letter save from me?”
“I heard of it last night, mademoiselle,” I admitted reluctantly.
She started, and caught my sleeve. “Tell me all, monsieur,” she cried; “had it reached the palace? Who spoke of it to you?”