Sophia cast a triumphant look at us. I, meanwhile, remembered the Boyar Kurakin’s adventure with the skillet of soup.
“What I did not see, he told me,” our faithful cook continued, pointing at Michaud, who hung his head now, the picture of dejection; “he told me secrets for choice morsels; he is a great pig,” she added; “he can never eat enough!”
“The locket was brought by the Princess Daria Kirilovna, and the pictures changed by her order,” said Kourbsky triumphantly; “and,” he added, with unusual penetration, “’tis my belief that yonder rogue, after locking me in the turret, went to the princess for your beautiful miniature, little mother, and if your serenity has it now, it is through his cleverness in getting rid of me.”
“I have the picture,” said Sophia.
Kourbsky’s face beamed. “I knew it!” he exclaimed; “I divined the manœuvre; my wisdom could not be deceived.”
“You are a fool, Vasili Ivanovitch,” retorted the czarevna sharply.
The poor chamberlain collapsed; even his fat cheeks seemed to shrink and shrivel. Meanwhile the princess turned to Maître le Bastien and me.
“You deserve the pravezh,” she said, in a terrible tone, “but as I have recovered both the locket and the picture, I will only confine you for the present that you may plot no more mischief.”
Maître le Bastien protested. “We are French subjects, madame,” he said; “the King of France——”
“Is in France,” said Sophia arrogantly; “not a word from either of you. Vasili Ivanovitch, take them to the guard-room and keep the two more securely than you kept the one, or else——” She raised her eyebrows and looked at him.