“It is well,” he said, and looked at me smiling, expecting approval.
But I was not heeding him; my ear had caught the clang of the outer door, the skurry of feet on the stairs, and the next moment Michaud opened the door, breathless, and before he could enter, one of the court chamberlains pushed in. A big man with a long grey beard and a portly front, swelling with his own importance, and in his long, gorgeously embroidered caftan and high cap, he looked like some Eastern eunuch. Maître le Bastien was inclined to treat him civilly enough, but he took a high tone.
“Your presence is required immediately at the palace, master goldsmith,” he said, in a deep tone, rolling out the sonorous Russ like a big bass drum; “my orders are not to return without your person.”
Le Bastien, ever cautious, looked startled and perplexed.
“By whose authority?” he asked, gravely polite.
The chamberlain stared, stupidly as an ox, blowing out his cheeks angrily.
“By the order of her serene highness the Czarevna Sophia Alexeievna,” he said, “and it behoves you to make haste, my master.”
“I have ever been ready to serve her highness,” said Maître le Bastien, in an aggrieved tone; “these peremptory orders are uncalled for, monsieur.”
A flash of intuition illumined the situation for me, and I determined not to desert him.
“I will accompany you,” I said to him, in French, “and carry the image yonder—as an excuse for my presence. It may be well to have a witness.”