But he shook his head. “I know a little of the Prince Voronin,” he said; “he is on the side of the Naryshkins, and a man of much prominence, belonging to one of the oldest——”
He got no farther, for the door was opened without ceremony and a tall Russian stood on the threshold. The stranger’s dress, which was long and girded at the waist, was of deep crimson, brocaded in gold, and was edged with sable, to match the bands on the high round cap on his head. He was a young man and handsome, in a fierce way, as a tiger is handsome. His complexion had the tints of ivory and his eyes were brilliant and unpleasantly alert. Maître le Bastien knew him, and greeted him as a person of rank, while I suddenly endeavoured to remember my rôle of apprentice.
“I come unexpectedly, master goldsmith,” the stranger said, in Russ, “but I was curious to see your work.”
“The Boyar Kurakin is welcome always,” Maître le Bastien replied, with dignified courtesy, “and he may inspect my designs and my completed work at his leisure.”
So it was our neighbour, whom I had never happened to see, for he had been absent from Moscow until very recently. I regarded him therefore with some interest. He walked over to the large silver vase at once, and stood apparently contemplating it, while the goldsmith pointed out its beauties and explained the bas-reliefs, but I noticed that M. Kurakin’s sharp eyes had wandered from the vase to the golden pear that Le Bastien still held in his hand, and I began to regret my stupidity in allowing it to remain in sight.
“This design of the cupids,” said the master placidly, pointing to the top of the vase, “is precisely like the one on the vase I made for his majesty the King of France; but here,” and he indicated the bas-relief of Venus and Mars, “I have varied the pattern a little to the satisfaction of his excellency Prince Galitsyn.”
The Russian did not reply, he was too much engaged in staring at that fateful pear, so much so indeed, that the goldsmith suddenly became aware of it and let that hand fall at his side.
“Would you care to see my wax model of Diana, M. Kurakin?” he asked blandly.
“Surely,” replied the boyar, with interest that was either genuine or extremely well feigned; “your work pleases me so well that I think I must have a piece of it for my palace,” he added, suave as silk, showing his white teeth, that reminded me strangely of the fangs of a wolf, handsome as he was.
“Raoul, is not the Diana in the other room?” asked Maître le Bastien, suddenly turning to me, and, as he did so, he swiftly and silently slipped the pear into my hand with a significant glance.