“I do not!” he replied emphatically; “she shall not be. There is a party yet at court strong enough to defeat her, even if Catherine’s folly has ruined her cause; the other faction shall not triumph. Do you think me so poor a fool? Zotof is a braggart, an old fossil; he could never hold the regard of the czar. The beauty of the niece may have touched the royal heart, but the wit of the uncle will never establish her upon a throne.”
Remarking his somber expression, I began to apprehend serious trouble for mademoiselle, and made an effort to turn his purpose.
“Remember, M. Mentchikof,” I said, “that mademoiselle is a young girl, and I think I may safely say that her heart is in French keeping; therefore be patient in your thoughts of her, however angry towards Zotof.”
He looked back at me with an unmoved countenance.
“M. l’Ambassadeur,” he replied, in his suave way, “I have no doubt of mademoiselle’s innocence; it is as conspicuous as her beauty, but both are dangerous. Statesmen cannot see their dearest wishes, their favorite ambitions swept aside for the sake of a young girl. If mademoiselle desires to live long and happily, let her avoid the dizzy paths to eminence. Greatness has its peculiar perils, and she who would wear a crown must seek it at the risk of her head. I speak thus freely, monsieur, not because I bear ill-will to mademoiselle, but because I feel so much for her youth and her helplessness that I warn her that the steps of the throne are slippery—with blood.”
I had descended a little way and stood below him on the stair, looking up at his graceful figure and handsome face.
“Yet, monsieur,” I said lightly, “you are willing to risk one of your own particular friends.”
He smiled, and the fire kindled in his eyes. “Ah, monsieur,” he returned, “some women are born to walk where others fear to creep. I am a believer in destiny!”
And I left him standing there with a smile upon his lips.