“Nonsense, mademoiselle,” I exclaimed, smiling; “you cannot compare yourself with the unfortunate czarina.”
“And why not, monsieur?” she asked with spirit. “I, too, would be at the caprice of a tyrant. How soon might he weary of me? I am young now, but in a few years a change might come,—illness, sorrow, loss of youth,—and then I too should be sent in a postcart to the convent.”
She spoke with superb contempt, and I listened, thinking that if Peter could hear her disdainful young voice it would be a salutary lesson for the autocrat. My wife was smiling; the thought of this proud young beauty sharing Eudoxia’s disgrace was absurd, and yet she was terribly in earnest as she sat looking at us, her dark blue eyes kindled with passionate anger.
“You are unlike other women, mademoiselle,” I said; “the splendors of a throne have no attractions for you.”
“I do not say that, monsieur,” she replied with a sudden smile; “but when I must share it—its attractions depend upon the partner of my honors. I cannot purchase a crown at the price of my self-respect.”
“And yet,” I remarked quietly, “the czar is a ruler, a brave man, a reformer, and with a certain simplicity of nature that makes him lovable.”
“I did not think to find his advocate here, M. le Maréchal,” she said, her cheeks flushing. “I came rather to find a way to escape, since the matter is pressing.”
“It is hard for us to advise you, my dear,” Zénaïde replied gently; “we feel as if we might injure rather than aid you. It is a grave step.”
“I know it,” she exclaimed, her lips quivering, “and I would not bring trouble to you, but I saw no way. They have kept me as close as a prisoner, and are deaf to my entreaties; they believe that their wisdom is best.”
“There are two ways, mademoiselle,” I said slowly,—“one, to go to a convent for temporary protection, but that would scarcely avail you; the other—” I paused, and looked at Zénaïde. She, reading my thought, laid her finger on her lip. She felt that M. de Lambert must speak for himself.