“And what do they think?” I inquired, not a little amused but also curious.
“They are angry,” Pierrot replied, lowering his voice as if he fancied that one of them was under the table; “they do not love the Czarina Natalia’s relations and—” Pierrot glanced cautiously over his shoulder; “the Czarevna Sophia has been trying to influence them for the Czarevitch Ivan. There are twenty-two regiments, and only one of them is favorable to the young czar.”
“All that seems to be apparent enough, Pierrot,” I remarked quietly.
“That is not all, M. le Vicomte,” he said eagerly; “they are plotting against the Department of the Streltsi; they hate both the Princes Dolgoruky and their own officers. It is rumored to-day that there will be a riot if something is not done, and if there is!” Pierrot lifted his eyes and hands, a picture of horror.
“What will be the consequence?” I asked, though I knew well enough, and it took the relish away from my supper.
“If the officers are not sacrificed,” Pierrot said in a dreadful undertone, “they will have blood, and it will be the boyars, perhaps the Czarevitch Peter.”
“The czar, you mean,” I corrected testily, for I knew that he was touching the truth very nearly. “They will not dare to harm him.”
Pierrot shook his head gloomily.
“You have not heard them, M. le Vicomte,” he said in a tone of melancholy pity for my credulity; “they are after blood, like wolves; and if it comes to that, there will not be a house safe for a boyar to hide in Moscow!”
I pushed back my chair and rose from the table with an angry gesture.