Nicholas sniffed several times as he perused the document, which was worn in the folds and incredibly greasy; was written in the Little Russian dialect of Bessarabia, and proved to be a contract between a certain Kirilov, an Akerman dealer in timber, and the official representative of Sire my Friend, who signed himself in a bold, free, looping hand:
“H. M. A. Von Widinitz-Dunoisse. General of Brigade of the French Army. Acting Head of the Eastern European War Survey and Army Supply Department of the Imperial Government of France.”
“By St. Peter and St. Paul!” said the Tsar, blowing his nose noisily; “this Bonaparte has imagination. ‘Not to furnish supplies to the Chiefs of the Army of Great Britain, or assist her military forces in any way whatsoever!...’ Let me see the date of this!”
It bore date of three years back. A paper precisely similar—save that it was written in the Slavish Latin of Wallachia, and that the contracting party was a wealthy Boyard of that country—who bred and sold sheep, cattle and horses on a vast scale—was only three months old. The spectacles of Gortchakoff glittered like diamonds as he saw this fact sink through the calm blue eyes of the cold-faced handsome Tsar, into the big brain ramparted by the lofty forehead. Not long would Nicholas remain in doubt as to the breed of chicken that would soon chip the shell of the egg of Monseigneur.
“August.... Dated on the 30th of August at Kustendje,” said Nicholas, reaching out his hand to take a fresh pocket-handkerchief from a little pile of these necessaries. He added: “A vessel of our Black Sea Steam Navigation Company touches at that port once a fortnight, taking mails and passengers for Varna and Constantinople.” He added: “The railway between Paris and Marseilles is nearly completed.... This Dunoisse would be in touch with the Tuileries, easily—passably easily. He would be kept informed of the march of political events.... And Sire my Friend, was at Dieppe in the beginning of July—Lucien Buonaparte the guest of the Queen of England at Windsor.... The Secret Treaty of Alliance was signed.... The combined Fleets were anchored in the Bay of Besika. And yet, in the event of war, the ally of France is to be denied assistance!... What does it mean? Let me think!...”
He had so much of the Oriental Satrap about him, that even his terrible Grand Wazir was no more than a piece of furniture when he desired to commune in private with the other man who dwelt within himself. The short daylight died as he sat, huge and massive and silent, profoundly thinking. The great Winter Palace leaped into a blaze of brilliancy, but the core of it, the study where the Tsar sat plunged in meditation, became so dark that you could not even distinguish the gleam of Gortchakoff’s spectacles as the late Governor-General of Western Siberia stood, stiff and immovable as a statue of ebony, beside his Little Father’s chair.
“Umph! Are you there, Peter Michailowitch?” said the deep voice out of the heart of the blackness, and the Prince answered with chattering teeth—for no one daring to enter unsummoned the room where the Tsar sat closeted with the newly-appointed General-in-Chief of his Southern Forces—the fire in the great stove of gilded porcelain had died to a pale red glow. “I have thought it out, and the man is even less of a gentleman than I have esteemed him. He would play the old game of the ape who made the cat pull the chestnuts out of the fire—the confidence-trick of the London swell mobsman.... Listen! England is to pay for her triumph at Trafalgar and the defeat of Waterloo through this alliance with Sire my Friend. She is to be drained of her blood and of her gold until she sinks down dying—and then he will offer me Great Britain with her East Indies, and the Danubian Provinces of Turkey in exchange for Constantinople, Asia Minor, and the Holy Land—he will be anointed Emperor of Palestine upon the Savior’s Sepulcher, and if the child prove a son—create him Crown Prince of Bethlehem——”
“Supposing you, Bátiushka,” deftly put in Gortchakoff—who called him Little Father simply as a soldier or a peasant would have done—“choose to accept his terms?”
“That will I never, so help me God and Our Blessed Lady the Virgin!” said Nicholas, rising to his colossal height and crossing himself as he bowed in the direction of the ikons. He added: “This is an able man, this General Dunoisse, who spins his web for him. Of course, he is of their Training Institute for Staff Officers.... I should like to have that man.” He added, simply and Orientally: “I will have him. Get him at any price!”