“The master goldsmith comes with me to Prince Galitsyn,” he said pompously; “his excellency has interceded for him to her serene high mightiness Sophia Alexeievna.”
Maître le Bastien rose joyfully from his seat at the table and Michaud and I followed his example, but here Kourbsky interfered.
“The master goldsmith,” he said, “and this man,” pointing at his favourite Michaud; “but not you,” and he regarded me maliciously.
Le Bastien halted. “We cannot be separated,” he declared generously.
“That is a short-sighted policy, Maître le Bastien,” I said, in French; “for when you have your liberty, you can obtain mine.”
“You can choose,” said the chamberlain amiably, “between parting with your apprentice or your head.”
The good goldsmith, though by no means a coward, was not a soldier by profession, or even a reckless man. He yielded, saying to me in French.
“My first care shall be for you, monsieur.”
“It is well,” I replied, smiling; “but I hope you will first get a breakfast.”
“Come, come,” said Kourbsky, casting a suspicious glance at me, “we have no time to lose—forward, march, sir goldsmith!” and he hustled master and man out of the room.