The rebellion of the Princess

by Mary Imlay Taylor

“It is, monsieur,” I said, with the air of an apprentice, infinitely relieved at his adroit manœuvre, and thinking, fool that I was, that those keen eyes had not seen the locket change hands.

The master went on calmly discoursing about the vase, and I slipped out of the room and ordered Michaud to take in the model of Diana, a graceful figure, in wax, worthy of Le Bastien’s genius.

Having got rid of the matter, as I thought, so easily, I walked into the Chamber of the Cross, which, as I have said, was in the centre of the house, and there I fell to examining my treasure with the greedy interest of the miser. I was convinced now that there was some mystery attached to that pear of gold and jewels, and turned it over and over in my hands. Then I was seized with a mad desire to get it open and look again at the pictured face of the Princess Daria, for, truth to say, that face had already begun to haunt me. But the tormenting trinket, shut by Maître le Bastien, would not open, nor could I find the secret spring, and I was still trifling with it, when I became suddenly aware that the curtain opposite the shrine was moving and, in an instant, the Boyar Kurakin walked in alone. I thrust the pear into my bosom, but I was certain that he had seen the gleam of gold and of jewels. If I had had any doubt of it, his next move dispelled it, for he pounced upon me as eager as a tiger after his prey.

“Give me that locket, sirrah!” he said fiercely; he took me for an apprentice.

I was within a hair’s-breadth of giving him a sharp retort when I remembered my rôle, with a certain malicious enjoyment. I shook my head stupidly, pretending not to understand Russ, and he had not a word of French. He flew into a passion and used some hard language, and then tried by signs to make me understand. I think he did not relish the idea of laying hands on me, for I was a larger man than he and scarcely wore the air of a tame pigeon. But I shook my head again and chattered French at him in the tone of one of the monkeys in the bazaar.

“Give me the locket, varlet,” he bellowed, striding toward me, his whole aspect full of a belligerence that made my fingers tingle for the moment of conflict.

We were now in the corner of the room by a door that stood open at the top of a flight of steep stairs, and suddenly I bethought me of a way to punish my friend. I turned upon him so sharply that he started back, expecting violence, no doubt, and, as I had planned, he tripped on the step behind him, rolled over, and fell head over heels, down the stairs.

IV: THE MAKING OF A FRIEND

THE stairs down which the Boyar Kurakin fell were entirely dark, and I could not see what was happening, so I was the more surprised to hear, on top of the crash of his fall, a woman’s shrill screams, a man’s curses, and the sound of a scrimmage down there in the dark. I snatched up a taper and, lighting it, held it high over my head, and was looking down the stairs when Maître le Bastien and Michaud hurried in, summoned by the outcry, and running to me, peeped under my uplifted arm into the abyss below. Then it was that we were all convulsed with a merriment that Le Bastien and I smothered for caution’s sake, but Michaud, the apprentice, knowing no reason for prudence, gave way to, and doubled up and rocked with laughter, holding his sides, for the light of my taper revealed a ridiculous scene. We had in our employ, as cook, an enormously fat old Russian woman named Advotia, and it was evident that she had either been listening—after the fashion of servants—at the foot of the stair, or had started up with a skillet of soup, when M. Kurakin started down on his unceremonious trip, and the result was that the hot soup had been spilled on both, and the infuriated boyar, whose fall had been broken by her mountain of flesh, was so little grateful that he had evidently punched her head, and she, in her turn, enraged at the double injury, fell to beating him with her skillet, and the two were dancing about on the stairs, showering blows and curses upon each other, while the savoury odor of the wasted broth rose to our nostrils.

Maître le Bastien was the first to recover from his amusement and recognise the serious side of the scene, and he called out to Advotia to go about her business, while he begged M. Kurakin to ascend and permit him to attend to his hurts in a suitable manner. But the boyar was in no mood for apologies and, having shaken his fist in Advotia’s face, he came up the stairs, cursing at every step, and accused me of throwing him down, while I bowed and smiled blandly, making signs that the fall was due to his own misfortune, and Maître le Bastien, quick at taking a cue, apologised for me and declared that I was a good fellow, quite incapable of such villainy. Kurakin was far from convinced of my goodness, but for some reason it suited him to conceal from Le Bastien his attempt to get the pear, and he contented himself with a scowl at me that was equal to a threat, and a few curt remarks to the goldsmith.