“M. de Brousson is right, Catherine,” madame exclaimed; “the czar is generous. Remember that, for your sake, he forgave Yury Apraxin.”
But Catherine shook her head. She knew that the offence was of a different nature, and knew also that if Peter pardoned her with indifference her defeat would be as certain as a decree of exile. She was essentially a proud woman, and half the sting of her position lay in the thought of the triumph of the Zotofs. Madame Golovin’s nervous terror had no response in her heart; a bold nature like hers is untouched by little fears. She was playing for high stakes, and knew that to lose would involve not only her own ruin, but that of others, and was ready to play desperately. Looking at her face, gloomy and disturbed as it was, I was convinced that the hour had come for Mademoiselle Zotof to be cautious; this woman would sacrifice her dearest friend to gain her ends. It had gone too far for retreat, and she was beginning, no doubt, to hate the young girl who stood between her and her ambition. I thought of the poisoned sweetmeat, and wondered a little if Catherine would have regretted fatal consequences if they had resulted from it. Najine’s demise would be such an easy solution of one of her difficulties that it presented a perilous temptation.
My position was difficult, and I was casting about for a pretext to withdraw, when the door was thrown open and Alexander Mentchikof entered. He did not, at the moment, notice me, and came across the room with a rapid step, his face clouded with some deep anxiety. Madame and Catherine both stood looking at him with eager inquiry, oblivious of my presence.
“It is as we thought, and worse than we thought,” he exclaimed, and then, discovering me, stopped short and broke out with a hard laugh. “On my word, M. le Vicomte,” he said, “I did not see you. But it is of little consequence; it appears that we can keep no secrets in this household.”
“The czar sent for M. de Brousson last night,” Catherine said quietly; “therefore he knew more than we.”
I made haste to seize upon this opportunity to depart. “By your leave, I will not intrude further upon your confidence,” I said; “madame and mademoiselle, I bid you adieu.”
Madame Golovin responded warmly, but Catherine’s reply was haughty. She had not yet forgiven my implied rebuke, and was visiting her folly on my head. Mentchikof walked with me to the head of the stairs, and I was never more impressed with his grace of manner. Anxious and disturbed as he was, he did not forget the courtesy of the host. As we stood a moment before parting, he laid his hand on my arm.
“M. le Maréchal,” he said in a low tone, “tell M. de Lambert that the hour has come when Mademoiselle Zotof must either escape to France or be sacrificed.”
I looked gravely into his face, and read determination in his eyes.
“Monsieur,” I said quietly, “you mean that mademoiselle will be a czarina.”