Within a few weeks of his triumph over the newly-appointed Procurator of the Holy Synod he discovered, with the innate shrewdness of the Russian mujik, that certain secret reports seriously compromising him had been given into the Emperor’s hand. His Majesty, in turn, had shown them to his wife. Once again, he saw himself in peril, so, before any action could be taken, he abruptly entered the Empress’s room at Tsarskoe-Selo, and boldly said:
“Heaven hath revealed to me in a vision that the enemies of the dynasty have spoken ill of me, have maligned me, and have questioned my divine power. I have therefore come to bid farewell of thee!”
The Empress, who was seated with Madame Vyrubova, and the old Countess Ignatieff, rose from her chair, pale to the lips.
“You—you—you are surely not going, Holy Father!” she gasped. “You cannot mean that you will desert us!” she cried. “What of poor little Alexis?” and the words faded from her lips.
“Yes, truly I am going! Our enemies have, alas, triumphed! Evil triumphs over good in this terrible war,” was his slow, impressive answer.
“Of Alexis,”—and he shook his shock head mournfully.
“Ah, no!” shrieked the unhappy Empress hysterically.
“Listen!” commanded the deep-voiced Saint very gravely. “I must not conceal the truth from thee. On the twentieth day of my departure, thy son Alexis will be taken ill—and alas! the poor lad will not recover!”
Madame Vyrubova pretended to be horrified at this terrible prophecy, while the Empress shrieked and fainted. Whereupon the Saint crossed himself piously and, turning, with bent head left the room.
Within half-an-hour he was on his way to his twelve “spiritual brides” in his sordid house at Pokrovsky.