“The Princess Daria was in the palace yesterday,” I said deliberately, “and imprisoned there by the Czarevna Sophia, who would have forced her to marry the Boyar Kurakin.”
Galitsyn sprang from his chair; his face was as white as ashes, but with wrath rather than dismay. He turned fiercely on Maître le Bastien.
“This is your man,” he said thickly, for something seemed to choke him; “does he speak the truth?”
The goldsmith caught my eye and understood my gesture; he rose with a dignified composure that became him well.
“My prince,” he said gravely, “you deserve my confidence and my service; I will disguise nothing from you. This man is not an apprentice, but a patron of mine, a French nobleman, M. le Marquis de Cernay, and his honour and your excellency’s are one.”
The prince bowed gracefully; but the strenuous expression of his face did not relax. He asked my Christian name of Maître le Bastien, and addressed me after the manner of the Russians.
“Ivan Feodorvitch,” he said, which was my name, being translated; “did you see the princess in the—the power of Sophia Alexeievna?” he stammered, in spite of himself; one woman he loved, the other he courted for ambition’s sake, and I have seen this a hundred times in Paris.
I looked down the long room, and across the end of it stood a double row of scarlet tunics, thirty-seven, I thought, and before the only other entrance stood the major-domo, leaning on a wand of ivory and gold. I counted the cost and smiled.
“M. le Prince,” I said quietly, “I saw and heard the Czarevna Sophia threaten and compel the Princess Daria Voronin to wed Kurakin, in the private chapel by the painted gallery.”
He drew a deep breath, his eyes blazed, his whole figure seemed to dilate with passion. Maître le Bastien leaned forward, listening eagerly; I even caught a flicker on the face of the old steward, who was otherwise as motionless as stone.