“Alas!” she exclaimed, “we shall share the fate of Prince Basil Galitsyn, of Sophia, of Eudoxia. Exile, imprisonment, perhaps death!”
Catherine glanced at her with contempt. Her own nature had rallied to meet the crisis, and she looked more queenly at that moment than ever before. There were no tears, there was no weakness; if disaster came, she would face it with unflinching courage.
“M. de Brousson,” she said quietly, “what did the czar say?”
“Mademoiselle,” I replied with dignity, “you forget to whom you speak. It is not for me to repeat the words of his Majesty. It would be conduct worthy a court spy, but not of a marshal of France.”
She bit her lip, for the moment baffled, and the blood rose to her brow.
“Pardon me, M. l’Ambassadeur,” she exclaimed bitterly; “I forgot that a diplomat could have no feeling for an unhappy woman.”
“You do me an injustice, mademoiselle,” I exclaimed with impatience; “I would gladly serve you, as far as my honor permits me. I would advise you now with sincerity, if you would allow me.”
“Ah, M. le Maréchal, help us if you can!” Madame Golovin exclaimed with feeling.
“We would be your debtors,” Catherine added, with less excitement, giving me a haughty glance, which I interpreted to signify that she would remember my refusal to answer her, if she ever mounted the ladder of success, and remember it to my cost.
“Mademoiselle Shavronsky,” I said calmly, “I would advise you to go to the czar, and, confessing your error frankly, pray his forgiveness. His Majesty is generous to a fault, and his anger passes like a cloud before the sun.”