“I am beginning to grow old, I believe,” I remarked, laughing, “since I love the chimney-corner and a blazing log. You have been out to-day, they tell me.”
“I could endure my confinement no longer,” he answered, giving me a keen glance. “You have some tidings, monsieur; what are they?”
“Nay,” I said, “no tidings, M. de Lambert. I have but now returned from Mentchikof, and for the time a cloud obscures his glory. Catherine Shavronsky wrote a foolish letter—or dictated it—a letter that told too much of both the czar and his favorite and also of herself. Of course, the billet was intercepted and reached his Majesty. You can picture the result.”
“The poor fool!” he exclaimed with impatience; “has she a longing for Archangel?”
“For the crown, monsieur,” I replied, laughing; “but women love the pen.”
“And if she is retired from the court, there is no one to stand before mademoiselle,” he exclaimed abruptly, his mind suddenly grasping all the consequences. “Mentchikof out of favor and the other party in the ascendant, Najine will be the lamb for their sacrifice.”
I was silent, indeed there was nothing to say; he had outlined the situation. He rose from his chair and walked to the window and looked out. I saw that he was too agitated to discuss the matter, and I sat there turning it over in my mind. The way that was the simplest and most effectual would be the most dangerous. I could not advise him to carry mademoiselle off and marry her, for I felt sure that the czar would not scruple to throw him into prison and declare the marriage annulled, in which case it would take all my influence and the threats of France to save him; as for mademoiselle, she would be sent to a convent. Yet, for my life, I could see no other way. The Zotofs would never admit his suit, Najine was powerless, and the czar would send him back to France at the first hint of a marriage. But, after all, what was the use of my mature reasoning? He was a hot-headed lover, and I knew well that his mind was even now dwelling on some scheme to cut the knot. My chief hope was that Catherine’s appeal to Peter would restore her to favor, as my chief anxiety was the veiled threat of Alexander Mentchikof.
M. de Lambert turned from the window and stood regarding me.
“I have been there,” he said abruptly, “and they would not admit me.”
“You mean the Zotofs?” I asked, glancing up with surprise.