I was backing towards the door, when it opened and the chamberlain Polivanoff, standing upon the threshold, announced:
“General Markoff begs audience of Your Majesty.”
“Ah! Let him come in,” the Emperor replied, smiling.
The next moment I found myself face to face with the man whom I knew to be Natalia’s worst enemy and mine—that bloated, grey-faced man in military uniform, through whose instrumentality no fewer than ten thousand persons were annually being exiled to the Siberian wastes.
We met just beyond the threshold.
“Ah! my dear M’sieur Trewinnard!” he cried, raising his grey brows in evident surprise at meeting me there. “I thought you were in England. And how is your interesting young charge?”
“She is very well, I believe,” was my cold reply.
I passed on, while he, crossing the threshold into the Imperial presence, bowed low, cringing before the monarch whom he daily terrorised, and yet who believed him to be the guardian of the dynasty.
“Ah! I am so glad you have come, Markoff!” I heard the Emperor exclaim as he entered. “I have several pressing matters to discuss with you.”
I passed the two sentries, who presented arms, and followed Colonel Polivanoff along the corridor, full of gravest apprehension.