“The czar.”
My words were spoken low, but a pistol-shot could scarcely have shocked her more. She released my arm and started back, her face flushing scarlet and then becoming deadly pale. It was a moment of weakness, and I pitied her. She was a strong woman, a woman of will and brain, but she knew the peril of her situation, and for the moment tottered under the blow, while Madame Golovin sank down upon a chair, completely unnerved. Catherine was the first to recover.
“You saw him,” she exclaimed; “was he violently angry?”
I was most reluctant to speak. I neither desired to alarm her nor to betray the czar, but saw that she would have an answer.
“Mademoiselle,” I said gently, “I am sorry to be able to give you no comfort. His Majesty was sorely displeased.”
“He had—seen the letter?” she faltered.
“He had the letter,” I replied.
“Yet you also received it,” she exclaimed with momentary dulness; “I do not understand.”
“Mine was a copy, mademoiselle,” I replied quietly; “his Majesty had the original.”
She was silent, her face pale with contending emotions. She was far too clever not to realize her position and all its perils, but she was also a woman of resource, and I saw that it was not despair that had overcome her,—far from it. Her quick wit was searching for some expedient that would deliver her from the snare into which her own folly had led her. Madame Golovin, her fellow conspirator, on the other hand, gave way to her feelings. She foresaw not only the fall of Catherine, but that of her brother, which would involve the ruin of her husband.