ON THE RED STAIRCASE

THE KREMLIN.

On the Red Staircase

BY

M. IMLAY TAYLOR
SECOND EDITION.

CHICAGO
A. C. McCLURG AND COMPANY
1897

Copyright
By A. C. McClurg and Co.
A.D. 1896.

All rights reserved.

CONTENTS.

—⬧—

ON THE RED STAIRCASE.

CHAPTER I.
THE RABBLE ELECT A CZAR.

The Patriarch Joachim was standing on the balcony, in front of the Church of the Savior, looking down upon the dense mass of people below in the Grand Square of the Kremlin at Moscow. A purpose was pulsing in the keen face, and he was measuring his audience, weighing too, perhaps, the peril and the cost. They were still; every eye was fixed on the tall figure in the magnificent pontificals of the Greek Church; every ear strained to catch his first word. It was the climax of the day, the chief act in the great drama. He raised his hand, with a majestic gesture, over the people.

“Hear ye, voters of the Moscovite State,” he cried, in a loud voice, “to which of the two princes do you give the rule?”

I could not restrain a smile. I had been long enough about the Russian court to know how fierce was the undercurrent, how intense the resentment felt against the family of the dowager czarina.

An old Russian, who had stepped back with me out of the path of the crowd, suddenly addressed me.

“A short-lived triumph!” he muttered, in a gruff tone. “It is one shout to-day, another to-morrow. Here is only the rabble of Moscow!”

I looked at the man in surprise; it required courage to express an opinion in the open air, and to a stranger. He had the bearing of a soldier, and there was an ugly scar on his cheek. His long cloak slipping aside a trifle, I saw the uniform of the Streltsi, and caught my breath; a trivial remark from one of that body might be significant. Russia, at that time, had no army, only a few troops officered by foreigners, and the peasantry brought into service, in time of war, under the command of the feudal chiefs. The Streltsi therefore occupied a peculiar position; they constituted a national guard, consisting of twenty-two regiments, about a thousand men in each regiment, named after their officers, who were always Russians. The Streltsi had quarters set apart for them, and their own shops, being tradesmen when off duty, and were exempt from taxation. The service was hereditary, a son entering the father’s regiment as soon as he was of age. The root of much discontent was the difficulty with their own officers, whom they charged with the misappropriation of a portion of their pay and interference with their civil occupations,—their privilege to trade being especially dear to them. They had always enjoyed such peculiar liberties that they fretted under injustices, some real and some fancied, and all no doubt deeply colored by the bitterness of the political situation, and the fact that their petitions for redress had been treated with contempt before the Czar Feodor’s death; but now they were strong enough to be courted by both parties, and I was interested at once in my companion.

“I am a stranger here,” I said, purposing to draw him out, “and know little of these matters.”

He turned a keen glance on me, seeming to search my face.

“You are a Frenchman,” he said, addressing me in excellent French, which was the more astonishing because so unusual, especially in his rank in life. Without waiting for my reply, he directed my attention to the balcony. “The patriarch is going to bear the glad tidings to the Czarina Natalia,” he remarked grimly, “and, I presume, to anoint the young czarevitch[1] with all haste; but it takes more than holy oil to make an emperor in these days.”

We were less pressed now, for the crowd was surging away towards the palace, shouting as it went. I examined my new acquaintance with curiosity. If his face had been less rugged and fierce it would have been handsome on the side that had escaped the disfiguring scar. It was a remarkable face: a keen eye, a large straight nose, a strong mouth, and an expression of relentless resolution,—a face that had had a past as dark, as cold, as grim as that close-shut mouth. My curiosity was excited.

“A regent will have to be appointed,” I remarked, “during the minority of the czar.”

He smiled grimly. “And who do you suppose it will be?” he asked, with a keen glance.

“Custom points to the czarina,” I replied with a little hesitation.

“And the Chancellor Matveief,” he added.

I assumed surprise.

“Matveief is an exile,” I exclaimed hastily.

The Russian laughed. “The czarina is his dutiful and indebted ward,” he said. “He is no longer in Archangel but at Lukh, and a summons can reach him the easier. When a guardian has set you on a throne, you cannot be ungrateful. Why, man, where are your senses? What is all this shouting about? It is the Naryshkins. I forget, though, you are a foreigner.”

“A poor gentleman,” I said at once; “a soldier of the king of France.”

The Russian’s glance was following the crowd; whatever his thoughts, they were not pleasant, for his expression was gloomy and cynical.

“You have witnessed a singular event in our history,” he said sternly; “you have seen the Moscovite rabble elect a czar. The younger son setting aside the first-born!”

“The Czarevitch Ivan is said to be indifferent to the high office,” I replied, in a low tone; “he is blind.”

“Ay, and deformed!” said the Russian, promptly. “Yet will the people of Russia demand the recognition of primogeniture. Court intrigues cannot prevail. What a flimsy pretext was this election! The States-General of Russia elected Michael Romanof; the Czar Shuisky fell because he was elected by Moscow alone; and this is not the Moscovite State, but the rabble of the city, and the retainers of the boyars![2] The Miloslavskys are down to-day, but who dares to predict for to-morrow?”

It was indeed a difficult problem, so bitter was the quarrel. The Miloslavskys were the relatives of the first wife of the Czar Alexis, the Naryshkins of his second; and, that day, the latter had succeeded in electing their candidate for the throne, Alexis’ youngest son Peter, setting aside Ivan, his half-brother, and the only surviving son of Alexis by his first wife, the Princess Marie Miloslavsky.

I was endeavoring to place my companion; that he was well born, I could not doubt; at the same time, he was evidently not an officer. I seemed to have seen his face before, and wondered if he could have been in attendance on Prince Dolgoruky, the Chief of the Department of the Streltsi. The ugly scar, which drew the right side of his face, seemed to make identification infallible; yet, it was that scar that baffled me, for I could not remember having seen it before. We were moving along now, and I did not care for his company, but did not like to shake him off too abruptly; he walked close beside me, whether unconsciously or not, I could not be sure. The Grand Square was still densely crowded, and the rabble kept up a continuous uproar. All around us, there were still prolonged shouts for Peter Alexeivitch, and here and there, there were rough-and-tumble fights in progress, due undoubtedly to the reviving sentiment of opposition. I noticed but few boyars threading their way through the mob; for days I had remarked a certain timidity on their part, an avoidance of the crowd. I had no doubt, in my own mind, that the trouble in the Department of the Streltsi was more serious than any one was willing to admit, and it was difficult to estimate the result of to-day’s coup d’état. Partisans and opponents alike were aware of the strong sentiment among the rank and file of the Streltsi in favor of the blind czarevitch, or rather of the great Czarevna Sophia Alexeievna,[3] and of their lukewarm attachment to the child Peter, who had just been so irregularly elected. I could not avoid some speculation, little as the matter seemed then to concern me. I confess that I was moved by a sentiment of gallantry to lean towards the cause of the Czarina Natalia. Her comparative youth, her beauty, and the peril of her situation appealed to me, and I felt, with some regret, that her party scarcely estimated the real strength of her opponents. I sympathized with the young and ambitious mother fighting for the rights of her son, hemmed in as she was by court intrigue and malice, and pitted against a mind that, in diplomacy and subtlety, far surpassed her own; for we were all beginning to realize that the Czarevna Sophia was a power that it was difficult to estimate.

I was half-way across the square now, and my unsolicited companion continued to trail along at my heels. I was just making up my mind to be rid of the fellow, when we found our path obstructed by a dense mass of people, congregated about two Russians who were grappling each other in a fierce hand-to-hand battle. The crowd pushing us aside, I was turning away, when my companion uttered a cry, and leaping into the mass of humanity, pushed his way through, and threw himself upon the combatants. I was caught in the throng and thrust to the front of the ring, an unwilling witness of the hostilities. My unknown companion had seized one of the combatants around the waist and was dragging him off the other, by main force, while the bystanders shouted for fair play. It was evident that the quarrel was purely personal, and that the rabble were merely interested in it as a kind of diversion, and not a little disappointed when my acquaintance succeeded in separating them. Keeping his grip on the smaller of the two men, he told the other to be off before he was thrashed into eternity. The fellow addressed, who looked like some boyar’s retainer, was only too glad to sneak off through the jeering crowd, for he had been badly whipped. The other man allowed himself to be jerked along by the collar, submissive enough in the stranger’s relentless grip. He was a small man to have been so puissant, and I saw that he was a little misshapen, one shoulder being very high, and his thin, pale face was ill-favored. The bystanders began to laugh as they saw how meekly he submitted to the authority of the tall, hard-featured man who had seized him.

“Oh, come!” cried one of the rascals, “what is this new meekness? You fought well, but you can’t keep your head up now!”

“Let go of him, master!” shouted another; “it is a shame to spoil our pastime.”

Without heeding, the stranger forced his way among them, dragging along his captive, and only bestowing a scornful glance on the populace. I was more than ever struck with his air of authority, and saw that these men all gave way to him,—a tacit recognition of his commanding mien, for a less determined man could never have broken up that quarrel and dispersed the crowd. My interest was sufficiently roused to make me forget my anxiety to be rid of him, and as he pushed along with the crestfallen victor, I joined him. As we proceeded, part of the rabble followed, evidently actuated by idle curiosity.

“Let us move faster,” I remarked to the stranger; “now that the election is over, the crowd is breaking away, and we shall presently have the canaille at our heels.”

He looked at me scornfully, I thought, but still mended his pace; and as we were now a little away from the mob, he took his hand off the other’s collar, addressing him sharply.

“You fool!” he said, in his grim way. “You will spoil all with your absurd brawls. Can’t you see that villain’s cook in the highway without thrashing him, and forthwith drawing the notice of all the tale-bearers and spies in Moscow?”

“I beg your excellency’s pardon,” stammered the man, shamefaced, “but it was that carrion Polotsky, and I would rather die than not beat him!”

“Ay!” retorted the other, grimly, “you should have cut his throat long ago; but, as it is, he is the worst one you could have selected for a street brawl. You are an ass, Michael Gregorievitch, and will not only hang yourself, but your master if you can find enough rope!”

The other man glanced at me obliquely out of his narrow eyes, and his master, noting the look and the interrogation in his face, smiled.

“A friend,” he said, and added something in an undertone which escaped me; but I saw his servant’s eyes fasten curiously upon me.

We were approaching the Cathedral of the Assumption, and although a few paces in advance, were still closely followed by a train of curious people. The stranger had drawn his sword when he rushed into the fight, and was still carrying the naked blade in his hand, and his dress being disordered, displayed his uniform. As we approached the cathedral, he seemed to divine my intention of lingering in that vicinity, and pausing, extended his hand with a gesture at once dignified and gracious.

“M. de Brousson,” he said, startling me with my own name, “I believe we part here. I thank you for your company across the square, and if, in the future, you need me, I am Peter Lykof.”

“I am evidently better known to you than I supposed,” I replied as courteously as my astonishment would permit, and conscious of an immediate doubt that I heard the unknown’s true name; “and I am equally beholden for monsieur’s society on this troubled day.”

Lykof waved his hand, as if dismissing further exchange of courtesies, and passed on with the rabble at his heels, while I at once fell into insignificance without him.

As I stood there, marveling at the stranger’s knowledge of my identity, I looked up, and beheld the face that had haunted my memory for weeks and shone like a pale flower out of the dark background of passion and intrigue.

CHAPTER II.
MADEMOISELLE’S GLOVE.

She had just come out of the Cathedral of the Assumption, and was standing beside the proud old boyar, whom I supposed to be her father. Her veil had slipped aside, and once more I saw her features plainly, though this time she was oblivious of my presence. She was beautiful. There was no longer any doubt; before, I had thought that it might be half my fancy, half the dim light within the cathedral; but now, in the broad sunlight, I saw the regularity of her small features, the exquisite fairness of her complexion, the beautiful blue of her eyes. I saw too that she had been weeping, and was pale. My heart throbbed with a sudden mad impulse to offer her my sword, as her knight-errant. Fortunately, prudence and the common conventionalities of life kept me still, but I eagerly watched her every movement. Her hand rested half reluctantly, I thought, upon the arm of her escort, and she seemed to shrink away from the noise and rush of the crowd that was streaming past the cathedral, roaring and bellowing upon the way. The old boyar, her protector, glanced at them with complacent condescension, and from that moment I never doubted his adherence to the Naryshkins. I could see that he was measuring the extent of their success, gloating, perhaps, over the defeat of their opponents; there was something in the man’s face that suggested a keen relish for such a triumph. He was the personification of the old-time Russian boyar, the adherent of Precedence, the tyrant of the serf, the aggressive autocrat. He stood there, in the shadow of the cathedral, and viewed the Moscow rabble with the reflection of the patriarch’s triumph on his face. Such men as these would never make the Czarevitch Peter’s cause popular with the masses, never pacify the wounded sensibilities of the Dissenters, or heal the troubles of the Streltsi. The old noble was the picture of combativeness and aggression, and there was, too, a sinister expression in his eyes. His brows were intensely black in contrast to his gray hair, and instead of curving with the socket of the eye, they pointed suddenly up at the ends, like two horns, giving at once a Satanic aspect to the Tartar face, with its olive skin and its thin, pale lips.

Nothing could have been more complete than the contrast between the two, the old man and the girl: a hawk and a dove. So intent was he upon the scene before them, that he seemed to forget her, and she shrank back in the shelter of his large figure and gazed timidly about. It was then that I had the satisfaction to find that I was remembered. I moved a little nearer to them, and as I did so, she turned, and our eyes met. There was a flash of recognition, and, I dared to think, almost of pleasure in her glance, but she instantly turned her head and gazed in the opposite direction; still, I rejoiced to see a beautiful blush creep slowly up to her brow, and suffuse her face, until even her delicate ear was scarlet. She remembered me, then, but did she resent my audacity? I was never a man to be easily dashed, but I knew that Russian etiquette was even more rigid than our own, and caution was a necessity. A bolder man would have hesitated to encounter that proud old boyar!

She stood there with averted face, pulling nervously at her gloves, and presently she had one off, and I saw a small and beautiful hand. Suddenly she adjusted her veil more closely, and I feared that my persistent gaze had given offense, until I discovered the cause of her movement. An acquaintance of the boyar’s had approached, and I was startled at recognizing no less a person than Viatscheslav Naryshkin, a cousin of the Czarina Natalia, and a man whom I had learned to despise as a court profligate, full of intrigue and malice of a common kind, and holding his place only because of his illustrious relative; yet managing to exert considerable influence in that inner circle which constituted the strength of the czarina’s party, which to-day’s election would elevate to a dizzy eminence, if they were equal to discerning and grasping their opportunities.

The boyar welcomed Naryshkin with effusion, but I saw that his fair companion seemed to shrink yet farther into the background, and I rejoiced at the maiden’s discernment. It is said that every woman is endowed with an instinct that warns her against such men, and in this case it seemed true. Naryshkin, however, was nothing dashed by her manner, probably attributing it to maiden coyness, and forced himself upon her notice in a way which made me grind my teeth; but I was compelled to swallow my displeasure and play the rôle of a bystander at the little drama. It did not take me long to draw some natural conclusions, especially as I saw that the boyar evidently favored the would-be suitor, and was as eager to welcome his advances as the young girl was to repulse them. I was more than ever determined to learn something about the identity of the two, and the probable fate in store for the possessor of that beautiful face. When they moved away through the crowd I followed, as I had followed before, and saw them assisted into their carriage by Naryshkin. As she stepped into it she turned and looked back, and it seemed to me that, even through her veil, I saw her eyes; something fell from her hand and fluttered to the ground, unnoticed by her ill-favored suitor. As the carriage drove slowly off, I pressed forward and found a glove. Her glove! A man was standing near me and I questioned him. Yes, he knew whose carriage it was. That old gentleman was the Boyar Vladimir Ramodanofsky, and I gathered from the fellow’s manner that the name was not popular with the masses. I had gained something; knowing his name, I could soon learn more of him; already I knew a little, by reputation, of the stern old nobleman who had once commanded the insubordinate Streltsi.

Meanwhile, her glove lay in the palm of my hand. Such a little glove; of the kind worn by the ladies in Paris, and it seemed to retain yet the round shape of her small hand, to be a part of her personality. Had she dropped it purposely? I dared not think so; but I thrust it into my bosom and walked on swiftly in the track of the carriage. I was resolved this time to know more about her. The crowd was thinning out, and I made my way easily to the Gate of the Redeemer, keeping the carriage in view, for it was moving slowly. I was congratulating myself on having escaped my strange acquaintance and being at liberty to pursue my own inclination, but I was destined to meet with another obstacle to the accomplishment of my errand. Just as I was about to leave the Kremlin, I encountered Dr. Daniel von Gaden, the Jewish physician of the late Czar Feodor. He stopped me to ask some particulars of the occurrences in the Grand Square. He was a learned man, and had, too, a thorough knowledge of the intrigues at court. His face to-day was pale and grave.

“These are troublous times,” he said thoughtfully, “and an honest man scarcely knows to which strong arm to look for shelter. It is an evil hour to place a child on the throne. The czarina’s party is not strong enough without the adherence of the Streltsi, and that is a difficult matter. Besides, there is no leader there but Matveief, and he—they accuse him of witchcraft!” Von Gaden laughed. “It is not well to study algebra in Russia.”

“No,” I said, “learning is at a discount. I marvel, monsieur, that they do not accuse you of the black arts.”

“They do worse in their hearts, M. le Vicomte,” he answered gravely; “they accuse me of poisoning the late czar.”

I started. The announcement, made with such composure, astonished me. For the moment I forgot the carriage and my interrupted adventure. He saw my amazement, and smiled sadly.

“Not openly,” he said; “the accusations are whispered where an honest man may not refute them; but you know such whispering sent the chancellor to a remote corner of Archangel, and what may be the fate of an obscure Jewish doctor?”

He looked at me with an expression of gloomy interrogation. I have often thought since that his awful fate was already casting its black shadow over his soul; that he was gifted with prescience.

“Natalia is your friend, is she not?” I ventured mildly, feeling that any remark was worse than useless.

“Ay,” he said at once; “the gracious czarina is my friend, but what power has she here?”

His eye swept over the Kremlin, and I knew that his mind was conjuring up a thousand pictures of the dark deeds that made up its secret annals. Before he spoke again, I looked at the gate and saw a hideous little figure rushing towards us, whirling its arms above its large head, and uttering a shrill sound between a squeal and a whistle. Von Gaden, awaking from his revery, eyed the new-comer with little favor.

“It is Homyak, one of the court dwarfs,” he remarked calmly, “and he is evidently badly frightened.”

The little creature threw himself upon the doctor, grasping his mantle in his talon-like fingers and raising a white drawn face.

“I have seen the dead!” he moaned, cowering down until he was the picture of abject terror. “I have seen the dead!”

Von Gaden shook his mantle free with an impatient gesture.

“You are evidently troubled with a bad conscience, Homyak,” he said cynically, “therefore your graveyard visitants are frequent!”

The dwarf covered his wizened face with his hands, and rocked to and fro in an ecstasy of fear. I could not help a feeling of pity as well as disgust as I beheld him.

“What was your vision this time?” the Jew asked, with relentless contempt.

The dwarf stopped his exhibition of terror, and going close to the physician, tried to raise his hideous face to his interrogator’s.

“It was he!” he whispered in a tone just audible to me. “He, whom you tried to save on the Red Staircase, and who lay dying that night on the stone pavement of his own courtyard!”

Von Gaden started. “’Tis strange!” he muttered; “I was thinking of him a moment since. Her young face brought back the memory of that awful scene. And you have seen him, fellow?”

He regarded the dwarf with a look of fierce interrogation, as if to read his very soul; but Homyak showed no desire to conceal anything; he was shaking with genuine terror.

“I saw his spirit,” he said, his teeth chattering, “and there was the scar—the wound you sewed up. I saw him, and he mocked me!”

“Where was he?” asked the physician, while I marveled at his patience with the dwarf’s vagaries.

“He came from this direction,” said Homyak, wildly, “and he was gaunt and thin, and his hair was white.”

Von Gaden laughed. “You dream, Homyak,” he said; “ghosts do not age.”

I was growing impatient, and made a movement to leave them; but Von Gaden laid his hand on my arm.

“A moment, M. de Brousson,” he said; and then he took the dwarf aside, and speaking to him sternly and briefly, despatched him in the direction of the palace. When he rejoined me I saw that the gloom on his face had deepened rather than disappeared.

“If you can walk home with me, M. le Vicomte,” he said gravely, “I would gladly talk a little with you. These are uncertain times, and a man must needs keep his house in order and his affairs ready, lest he be unexpectedly taken away. There is a matter that has often weighed upon my mind that I would gladly confide to a disinterested man who could bear witness in the hour of need.”

Now, I was on the horns of a dilemma. The doctor had been more than obliging to me when I lay sore smitten with fever, and I could not easily deny him, yet I was fretting to be off on my errand. However, I resigned myself to the circumstances, and with some reluctance turned to accompany him. Then a sudden thought prompted me to question my companion.

“Can you tell me anything,” I said, “of the Boyar Vladimir Ramodanofsky?”

Von Gaden started and looked at me sharply.

“Verily,” he said, beneath his breath, “Homyak is right; the dead walk!”

CHAPTER III.
THE STORY OF CAIN.

After a moment’s thought the physician walked on, motioning to me to follow him.

“This is no place for private converse,” he said; “when we are in my house, I can answer you. It was of the Boyar Ramodanofsky I was about to speak, and your question startled me; but mayhap it was accidental. At any rate, follow me, and I will endeavor to satisfy your curiosity.”

I was content to follow, since I was assured of hearing something of the boyar and his beautiful charge. I did not doubt Von Gaden’s knowledge of them; his profession gained him universal admittance, and he had been a physician of the czar’s, which was an endorsement readily accepted by the nobility.

The streets outside the Kremlin were packed with people; the crowd within had dispersed, and Biélui-gorod was filled with the overflow. I noticed more than once that curious and, I fancied, suspicious glances were cast at the physician, as we walked rapidly along; but he was apparently unconscious of them, although his keen eye was ever so observant. Here and there were knots of soldiers talking eagerly together; and at one corner we witnessed a curious example of the smoldering ire of the Streltsi against their own commanders. An officer of the Pyzhof regiment was riding towards the Kremlin, evidently on an errand of importance. As he came abreast of us, a woman hissed him, and a cry rose suddenly, as if at a preconcerted signal,—

“Down with the officers! Down with oppression and extortion! Give us our pay!” And the stones flew like hail.

The officer, a young fellow, taken unawares, was evidently alarmed, and dashed off through the crowd without offering any remonstrance, his retreat bringing laughter and jeers from the mob. Von Gaden quickened his step, saying to me in a low tone:—

“It is an evil sign; the insubordination has reached serious proportions, and there is no master hand upon the rein. We have had two benevolent rulers,—his late majesty, and the Czar Alexis; we need now another, Ivan the Terrible. The rabble is breaking its bonds, and woe to Russia’s rulers when the reckoning day comes!”

“You see it, then, as plainly as I do?” I said. “This election to-day seemed idle mockery; they have set up a boy to rule the Russias, and they can’t control the rabble of Moscow!”

“No one can foresee the end,” Von Gaden replied gravely; “the feuds are so bitter that every man feels his life to be in peril. The Naryshkins and their adherents all wore armor under their robes to-day. The patriarch turned from the side of the dead czar to ask the boyars who should rule over them, and they referred him to the free voters of the Moscovite State!”

“Le roi est mort, vive le roi!” I said dryly.

“Ay, it is ever so!” replied Von Gaden.

We had reached his home, and he ushered me in with that gentle courtesy which was one of his characteristics.

“I will take you up to my den,” he said, smiling. “I would talk freely to you, and there we can be undisturbed.”

He led me up a spiral stair, and opening a low door at the top, we entered a long, narrow room directly under the roof, and lighted only by a huge skylight. As I glanced about me, I realized that the place would furnish an admirable pretext for an accusation of familiarity with the black arts, far more plausible too than the one preferred against the book of algebra belonging to Matveief’s son. The room was bare of all luxury, furnished only in the plainest and most meager fashion, and fitted up for a laboratory. The skylight illumined the center of the apartment, leaving the corners gloomy; and out of the shadows, here and there, grinned a whitened skull, and there were various other fragments of the human anatomy about the place. The doctor’s instruments, keen and polished, were in evidence, and heavy volumes of science were piled from floor to roof, in ponderous stacks. There were many phials filled with various colored fluids, and a keen aromatic odor issued from a black kettle simmering over the fire, suspended on a hook and chain from the brick arch above the hearth. It was the very spot in which to conjure up a familiar spirit, and there was something of the same mystery and interest about the dignified figure of the Hebrew. His keen eye divined my thoughts.

“You see the palpable evidence of my nefarious schemes, M. le Vicomte,” he said, smiling. “Here is the place to brew a poison for a czar. Alas! there is no foe so dangerous as ignorant superstition, and the average Russian of to-day is even more superstitious than the rest of the world. There is one man in that court, though, who is in advance of his times; one man who is equal to taking the helm, though the last one likely to be called, if the election of to-day hold.”

I glanced at him interrogatively; I always liked to hear Von Gaden’s opinions. He continued at once,—

“I mean Prince Basil Galitsyn,” he said; “he is still a young man, but a born leader.”

“All his attachment is for the Miloslavsky party though,” I replied.

“Ay, he is for the Miloslavskys. In fact, there is a strong friendship between him and the Czarevna Sophia; for all that, he may yet be called to the helm, for who knows what will come?”

“You know the young czar,” I said; “what do you think of him?”

“Peter Alexeivitch is still a child,” Von Gaden replied slowly; “but I have observed him closely, for in him, I know, we see Russia’s future ruler, whoever reigns during his minority. His succession seems beyond dispute, in the long run. He is neither like his amiable father, Alexis, nor like the late czar, Feodor. He is a young barbarian,—fierce, cruel, daring. The boy is different from other boys. I think that Russia has much to fear, and more to hope, from that young Tartar.”

I laughed. “It is well that these walls are without ears,” I said, “else what treason would this sound in Moscow!”

“Ay, treason, always treason!” returned Von Gaden, bitterly. “If I cure the czar, I am a magician; if I fail to cure him, I am a poisoner. It is, therefore, only a choice of evils.”

He stooped down and stirred the fire, the red light glowing on his features. I had put aside my cloak and was standing watching him. He laid down the poker and looked up.

“Be seated,” he said, courteously, signing to me to take the only chair in the room, while he sat down opposite, on a crooked-legged stool. “I dare say you think I have forgotten Ramodanofsky, but I have not. It is an evil story, and I have never told it; but it is borne in upon me that I may not have long to live, and I do not care to die with that secret in my bosom,—although I have many others,” he added, smiling. He was leaning a little forward, his clasped hands resting heavily on his knees, his back being to the light, and only the red glow of the fire illumining his features.

“Your profession makes you a natural repository of secrets,” I replied. “My own nature is too careless for such a work as yours; I should bungle both with my patients and their confidences.”

“It might be far otherwise if you had been trained to tend the ill and the dying, M. de Brousson,” he rejoined quietly. “Every profession molds its neophytes. You have been taught to put people out of the world, I to help to keep them in it.”

“The nobler work,” I said courteously, although I had no thought of drawing a comparison between my sword and his lance.

“I thank you,” Von Gaden answered dryly; “but I know well what you of noble blood think of the surgeons who sew up the slashes made by your blades. But no matter. I am moved to tell you the story of Ramodanofsky. I will recount the whole affair; part of it—the last part—from my own experience, the rest I have gathered sometimes by inquiry, sometimes by accident. There were two brothers of the name, the elder Feodor, and the younger Vladimir, whom you have seen, both old men now, if both had lived. They were of different mothers. Feodor was the son of a Polish woman, the old boyar’s first wife; Vladimir is pure Russian, or Tartar, which you please. Feodor was the favorite, and inherited the estates and the wealth, while Vladimir came off but poorly. The two men hated each other; the tie of a common fatherhood never bound them; yet I believe that the Boyar Feodor Ramodanofsky was just to his half-brother, who was, in a way, dependent upon him; but you can imagine how the father’s discrimination in favor of the elder rankled with a man like Vladimir. Feodor went to France at one time, and while there, married a beautiful young Frenchwoman, of noble family, and connected, I believe, on her mother’s side with the Polish mother of Feodor. He brought home his bride, and in a year or so a child was born to them, to their great disappointment not a boy, but a girl. Vladimir was then serving in the army, fighting the Don Cossacks, at the time of Stenka Razin’s insurrection, for it was during the reign of Alexis the Debonair. When he returned, he was poorer and more reckless than ever. Whether he loved Feodor’s wife or not, it is hard to tell, but he began to make love to her whenever his brother was absent. Marie Ramodanofsky was a noble woman, I knew her; her daughter has inherited her beauty, along with her father’s spirit. She resented Vladimir’s treachery, but she dreaded to tell her husband, who was a passionate and jealous man, and who hated his brother for a hundred evil traits that he knew, without adding this one. But at last her position became unendurable, and she told her husband. There is no doubt that a bitter scene ensued, and the boyar, in the first flush of his anger and jealousy, must have falsely accused her of encouraging his brother; when he left her to go in search of the traitor, her attendants found her in a deathlike swoon. Meanwhile, Feodor followed Vladimir to the Kremlin, and finding him on the Red Staircase, a fight ensued. Feodor was the more powerful man of the two, but he was blind with rage, and it is said that Homyak, the court dwarf, who was patronized by Vladimir, seeing the fight going against the latter, tripped up the elder brother, and he fell from the top to the bottom of the Red Staircase, the blood flowing from a gash in his cheek. I was in the palace, attending the Czarevna Sophia, and was summoned to the wounded man. Vladimir had disappeared, and Homyak gave a garbled version of the fight. It had reached the ears of the czar, and Alexis was not a little angered; already I think his mind was poisoned by the tales that later ruined Feodor, for soon after this he lost favor, and it was bruited about that he was a traitor to the czar. It was fifteen months afterwards when I was summoned to take care of Madame Ramodanofsky; she died when her little son was born. The boy lived only two days, and they were buried together. Feodor felt his loss bitterly; he was then under a heavy cloud, and threatened, I knew, with exile; for I have known most of the secrets of the court for many years. No man seemed to be able to lay his finger on the boyar’s accuser, but I never doubted that it was Vladimir.

“It was the week after the wife and baby died that I was entering the courtyard of Ramodanofsky’s house. Homyak was just ahead of me; he seemed to be Feodor’s evil genius. There was quite a little crowd in the court; all the serfs were there, and in the center of the place, in a pool of blood, lay Feodor, stricken down by the hand of an unknown assassin, so they said. He was not dead, and I had him carried into the house, and bound up his wounds; I thought he would live, but I was not positive, and had to leave him still in a state of semi-consciousness. As I crossed the courtyard, Homyak plucked at my cloak. I have always hated the grinning creature, and made a motion to shake him off. ‘How is the boyar?’ he asked eagerly; ‘He will live,’ I retorted curtly. The dwarf laughed. ‘Vladimir Sergheievitch is not as good a swordsman as I thought,’ he said. ‘It was that villain, then?’ I exclaimed too eagerly, for Homyak took alarm, and rambled off into one of his fanciful tales of which one can make nothing. The next day, before I could see my patient, Vladimir Sergheievitch Ramodanofsky appeared at the palace to announce the death of his brother, and was closeted with the czar. I never saw even the corpse of Feodor. I protested as openly as I dared against the foul play that, I was sure, was taking place, but there was no room for complaints. Vladimir’s tongue is oiled, and he had the ear of the council; he laid before them certain treasonable papers purporting to be his brother’s, and the upshot was, that the dead boyar’s memory was an ill savor in the nostrils of the court, and his honors and emoluments went to Vladimir. If Feodor Sergheievitch had lived, he would have been sent into exile. His little daughter was turned over to the guardianship of the fiend who had endeavored to ruin her mother and had murdered her father. The child, fortunately, was ignorant of it all, and has grown up in her uncle’s household; and as he has no children, will probably inherit her own, in the end. She is rich even now, for the czar had the justice to see that she was not robbed of all her patrimony.”

I had listened with keen interest, because I foresaw the end of the story.

“This Boyar Ramodanofsky, then, has no children?” I said. “And the young lady with him?”

“Is Zénaïde Feodorovna Ramodanofsky,” returned Von Gaden. “She has inherited her mother’s beauty, and is more French than Russian.”

“Is it possible that she can be either happy or safe in such guardianship?” I asked, my mind full of the pale and tearful face in front of the Cathedral of the Assumption.

Von Gaden shook his head thoughtfully.

“It is impossible to read the riddle of Vladimir’s conduct towards her,” he said. “If I thought the man had a conscience, I should say it was troubled with remorse, for he has always seemed just in his treatment of his niece. You know the Russian household is peculiar, but it is more liberal than in the days when the ‘Domotróï’[4] was composed, and the Ramodanofsky home had been Polish in aspect since the days of Feodor’s mother, and his wife had made it French. Zénaïde has been far better educated than the average Russian girl, and has had a Frenchwoman with her for many years; so she speaks Polish and French as readily as Russian. Until lately, there has been apparent accord between the uncle and niece; but now that the boyar is anxious to arrange a marriage for her, I hear that she has developed her father’s spirit, and is likely to resist her uncle’s authority, as no other Russian girl would dare to do. A young maid is an ill thing to guide!” Von Gaden added, with a smile.

“I honor her for her resistance, since I believe I know the chosen bridegroom;” and I told the Jew of the scene in the Kremlin.

“Viatscheslav Naryshkin?” said the physician, thoughtfully. “Yes, it may be so. Ramodanofsky is a close adherent of the Naryshkins. I think the Czarevna Sophia either knows or suspects something ill of him. You know she was much with the late czar, and learned all the little intrigues that had been handed down from her father’s court to that of Feodor. Viatscheslav is indeed an evil fate for a pure young girl like Zénaïde Feodorovna.”

The fire was dying down, and we both sat staring at the embers, Von Gaden shading his face with his hand.

“I have always wanted to set it right,” he said musingly; “I have always intended to do something. If I die now, the secret will not die with me.”

“Was it of Feodor Ramodanofsky that Homyak spoke to-day?” I asked, suddenly remembering the conversation.

The physician nodded.

“I do not know what Homyak had to do with it,” he said, “but he has an evil conscience; some day he will confess.”

CHAPTER IV.
THE SHADOWS ON THE WALL.

Before I left Von Gaden, I had learned the exact locality of Ramodanofsky’s house. I scarcely knew what design was forming in my mind; but my love of adventure was keen, and the story I had just heard affected me deeply. If I was half in love before with the beautiful stranger, I was now wholly so with the young orphan, whose peculiar circumstances appealed to the romance in my nature. If I had ever considered obstacles or difficulties, I should not have allowed myself such a day-dream; but I was resolved upon gaining a closer acquaintance with the Ramodanofskys, and I did not count the cost.

The shadows of the early Russian twilight had gathered when I went out, and it was strangely quiet after the tumult of the day, and yet the very air seemed to be portentous; the grim-faced houses looked as if they were locking some dark secret in their bosoms; and now and then a lurking figure started from the shadow of the wall and scurried into a softly opened door. As I walked on, my own footsteps startled an echo in the silence; and it was almost a shock to hear, far off, the sudden roll of a drum, a sound which came and died away as quickly, leaving behind a greater quietude. I had no love for the city—I was a Frenchman to the core; yet there was something about Moscow on that night that impressed me more deeply than any city in which I had ever sojourned. There was a solemnity, a desolation which seemed to speak of the miseries and sins of the suffering masses. I had been but lately at Versailles, in the midst of the splendors of the Grand Monarque’s brilliant court, and here was a wondrous contrast: here, too, was an absolute monarchy, but without the master hand, the iron grip that keeps the helm of state. Here was a court whose ceremonial was as stately as any in the world; but how strong was the feeling of instability! I looked at the Kremlin; within it lay the dead Feodor, not yet buried, and within it, too, was the young czar,—a child, and a tool as yet in the hands of an intriguing party. I had known the Czar Feodor, and had been a recipient of his kindness; and I knew all the prominent figures in the drama of to-day,—it had been a drama to me, and I had not dreamed, and did not dream that night, of the part I was to play in that great tragedy, which was approaching swiftly, silently, malignantly, along the dark streets and in the hidden quarters of the city.

As I reached the neighborhood of the Ramodanofsky house, I noticed that I was no longer solitary. A man was walking along ahead of me, and something in his figure seemed familiar; still, I slackened my pace, having no desire for company. He was evidently observant of my movements, and as little inclined to sociability as I. He kept in the shadow on the other side of the street, and something in his manner of lurking made me loosen my sword in the scabbard and feel for my pistols.

The house of the Boyar Ramodanofsky was now close at hand, and I looked curiously at the dark and forbidding mass of masonry; it appeared as unapproachable as a fortress, although the gate of the courtyard was open, and there were lights in the windows. Observing my companion upon the street, I saw that he had crossed to the other side, and was keeping well in the shadow. It was evident that I could not reconnoiter outside without being spied upon, so I determined upon a bold course, and entered the courtyard. Finding it vacant, and being now out of sight of the man in the street, I walked cautiously around to the side of the house, observing it narrowly. Von Gaden’s story had awakened the keenest interest in my mind, and I could not avoid the thought of the boyar lying in his blood in that very courtyard, across which his daughter’s feet passed every day, going and returning in the house of her father’s assassin. It was a hideous incongruity. I walked along cautiously, observing the house on the side where I was; the windows were too high from the ground for me to look in, and there was no door in the main building, but there was a low postern in the wing; however, that portion of the house was so quiet that I concluded that it must be the Terem, the part allotted to the women, in accordance with the eastern custom, still to a great extent prevalent in Russia. The main building was quiet too, although there were many lights, and some of the windows cast a perfect square of illumination on the wall opposite, so that an occasional shadow of some one passing before the light within was sharply defined on the wall beyond. I soon decided which were the rooms occupied by the boyar himself, and my attention was concentrated upon those. My occupation seemed likely to be fruitless enough, and yet I lingered, held either by fate, or the sense of the propinquity of Zénaïde Ramodanofsky. While I was loitering there, the sound of voices from a window, a little over my head, attracted my notice, and looking about for a way to see into the room, I discovered an irregularity in the masonry, which furnished a precarious foothold; and being an expert climber, I lifted myself up until my eyes were just above the level of the sill. For a moment the light within dazzled me; then becoming accustomed to it, I saw a large square apartment furnished with a luxury far more French than Russian, and at a table sat the Boyar Vladimir Ramodanofsky, Viatscheslav Naryshkin, and a tall man, whom I recognized as one of the unpopular colonels of the Streltsi, although his name was unknown to me. The three worthies were drinking vodka, and Viatscheslav was already a little under its influence. The table was across the room from the window, and though I heard the voices plainly enough, they spoke too low for me to catch more than an occasional word; but I gathered that the discourse was political, and was on the question of the possible adherence of the Streltsi to Peter’s party,—a sore point, and one which was uppermost in every mind on that momentous night. The colonel had a swaggering confidence in the ability of Prince Dolgoruky and the officers to pacify the troops, which was not reflected in the keen face of Vladimir; I saw the contemptuous attention that he bestowed upon his visitor, probably estimating readily the amount of blustering importance that was assumed on account of the presence of the czar’s cousin. Viatscheslav himself was taking far less interest in the dispute than he was in his vodka and caviare; I knew him to be a gourmand, and watched his performance with scornful amusement; here was a suitor who could, at least, do justice to the refreshments.

After a while, the boyar brought the dispute to a close, and the officer, evidently feeling that his company was superfluous, withdrew, leaving Naryshkin still hugging his cup of vodka. But as soon as Viatscheslav found himself alone with the boyar, I saw that the conversation was immediately becoming more personal, and they got their heads together over the table. It seemed to me that Ramodanofsky felt some contempt for his guest, although he treated him with marked courtesy. After a little, it became evident that Naryshkin was asking to see Zénaïde, and the boyar, summoning an attendant, sent him in quest of his niece. In spite of my difficult and precarious position, my interest was now so keen that I would not have quitted my place but to save my life. The servant’s face showed at once that he did not relish his errand, and after a prolonged absence, he returned with a message that Mademoiselle Zénaïde would see no one at that hour. The boyar looked like a thunder-cloud, but making a brief apology to Viatscheslav, he left the room to fetch his niece himself.

I looked narrowly at the house to see if I could ascertain which window belonged to the young girl. A bright light from one in the wing shone full on the wall opposite, and presently, on that square of illumination, I saw outlined distinctly the shadow of a woman’s figure. Convinced at once that it was Zénaïde’s shadow, I watched it with a kind of fascination; at first she stood alone, and by her pose and gesture seemed to be talking to some one, talking with excitement, and making occasionally a vehement gesture. Then on the bright square was cast another silhouette, that of a man,—of Ramodanofsky; he, too, was making gestures even more vehement than hers; at first, he seemed to plead with and then went on to threaten her. I could read the whole scene in that dumb shadow-show upon the wall. Suddenly he struck her, and then both shadows slipped off the bright space, and in my anger and surprise, I dropped to the ground.

I thought of the murdered father and the defenseless girl, and then I counted the windows; the lighted one was the third from the main building, and on the second floor. How could I reach it? Not by climbing; then I bethought myself of the postern in that very wing, and went feeling my way along in search of it, my naked sword in my hand. There were strange thoughts in my heart just then, and it would have cost the boyar dear to meet me in that gloomy court. I found the postern and tried it; to my joy, it yielded to my hand, and I found myself in a dark, narrow hall. For a moment I stood nonplussed, not knowing which way to turn; but as luck would have it, a noise to the left sent me to the right, and finding a door, I opened it and stumbled upon a staircase. A light in the hall above served to make the darkness visible, and I crept cautiously up the stairs, a step at a time. Before I gained the top, the closing of a door sounded somewhat sharply, and with it all gleam of light went out, so I knew that it had proceeded from a room. Reaching the head of the stairs, I paused to take my bearings. Coming in at the door, I had turned to the right, so the stairs had led me toward the main building, and the window was the third away from it; I must turn now to the left. With this small clue, I felt my way along the corridor, passing two doors, and pausing at the third. There was a light within, for it shone through the chink at the bottom, and I heard a woman’s voice. Remembering only the shadow-drama on the wall, and the orphan’s helplessness, I opened the door, without a thought of the strangeness of my presence and my errand.

The light within fell full upon me on the threshold, and on my drawn sword. There was confusion and a startled cry, one woman rushing away to the farther door; but the other remained where she was,—a slender young girl, standing in the center of the room, her pose one of dignity, her fair hair falling in heavy braids on either shoulder, and a red mark showing angrily on her white cheek. It was Zénaïde Feodorovna.

CHAPTER V.
ZÉNAÏDE.

Under Zénaïde’s startled and half-frightened gaze, I felt myself a fool. My ardent knight-errantry dwindled, and I stood revealed, a rash intruder on the privacy of a Russian household.

Zénaïde was the first to recover her self-possession; she had divined my nationality, for she addressed me in French.

“Monsieur has made some strange error,” she said in a dignified way, “and stumbled upon the private quarter of the house. His errand is with my uncle, no doubt.”

I was at loss to explain my blundering ardor.

“Mademoiselle,” I stammered, feeling my face burn, “I had cause to think you were in need of assistance—I—pardon me, I do but increase my awkwardness.”

She looked at me strangely, a new emotion dyeing her cheek with scarlet.

“Monsieur is kind,” she said a little haughtily; “I am indebted to my uncle’s friend, I presume, monsieur—”

She paused, and her eyes sought mine with a keen interrogation. I stood erect; something in her tone stung me.

“I am not your uncle’s friend, Mademoiselle Ramodanofsky,” I said a little defiantly; “I am a stranger to him, a French gentleman, Philippe de Brousson.”

There was a startled cry from the farther side of the room, where the other woman had remained; she came across now, staring at me strangely.

“Philippe de Brousson!” she cried in a high French voice. “It is Philippe, little Philippe!”

It was my turn to stare in blank astonishment. She was a tall angular woman, with near-sighted eyes, and gray curls dancing on her temples. I did not know her, but it was evident that she recognized me with ecstasy. Zénaïde was looking at her with a reflection of my amazement.

“Mademoiselle Eudoxie,” she said warningly, “you are very short-sighted; you may have made another mistake.”

The name struck me at once as familiar, and I looked at the woman with a sudden vague recollection.

“You know me, Monsieur Philippe?” she said, regarding me with a smile on her quaint thin face; “you remember old Eudoxie Varien, who taught you and little Marie, the saints rest her soul!”

It was the governess who had watched over my little sister and me in the old château, the Tour de Brousson. I remembered her very well now, and grasped her hand warmly, a thousand memories of childhood and my dead sister thronging into my mind.

“If we had met at any other moment, Mademoiselle Eudoxie,” I said, “I should have known you at once.”

The tears were shining in the good woman’s eyes, and with a sudden impulse, she stood on tip-toe and kissed my cheek.

“Oh, little Philippe!” she exclaimed tremulously. “Forgive an old woman, M. de Brousson; you bring back the happiest hours of my life. Do you remember the rose-garden behind the château, and the day the hawk was killed?”

I remembered it well, and in that far country, in the upper room of a Russian boyar’s house, the perfume of the roses of Provence seemed to float upon my senses; and I saw again the gray château with its graceful turrets and neat, beautiful garden, with its hedges and its terraces. Childhood passes so swiftly, and never again returns the light heart, the innocent mind! Mademoiselle Eudoxie and I looked long at each other, and my childish affection for the kindly governess awoke in a genuine regard for this faded woman.

Recollecting myself, I turned to apologize to Mademoiselle Ramodanofsky, but she was regarding me with quite a different expression; my strange entrance was evidently forgotten, and she was smiling as she looked at Mademoiselle Eudoxie’s flushed and tearful face.

“Pardon me, mademoiselle,” I said; “I trespass upon your courtesy, but this meeting was as unexpected as my entrance here.”

“I rejoice to see Mademoiselle Eudoxie so happy,” Zénaïde replied graciously; and then, after a moment’s hesitation, “Will M. de Brousson be seated?”

Mademoiselle Eudoxie looked at her in a kind of panic.

“Your uncle, Zénaïde!” she said hastily.

The young girl’s eyes flashed with sudden fire.

“These are my own apartments,” she replied, with a touch of hauteur, “and my uncle will scarcely intrude here again to-night.”

I knew, however, that they were in a dilemma, and that my presence there was contrary to usage and propriety. I was the more willing to depart, since I felt that Mademoiselle Eudoxie was not only a protection to Zénaïde, but a medium of communication. I had not found courage to explain my errand.

“I will not intrude longer upon your hospitality, mademoiselle,” I said to Zénaïde; “but perhaps another time I may speak with Mademoiselle Eudoxie and with—you.”

A mischievous smile gleamed suddenly in Zénaïde’s blue eyes.

“Mademoiselle Varien, light this gentleman down the stairs,” she said quietly. “And you, M. de Brousson, have my thanks for—for your kind solicitude,” she added, blushing deeply and holding out her hand.

I bowed low over it, and in some blundering way bade her adieu, and went with Mademoiselle Eudoxie along the corridor, bearing the light for her, and feeling both exultant and foolish at the termination of my enterprise. At the end of the passage we stumbled upon a servant, who stared not a little at the sight of a stranger lighting the governess down the stairs. When we reached the lower floor, and were alone, mademoiselle plucked at my cloak.

“Monsieur Philippe,” she said, her short-sighted eyes trying to search my face, “how did you happen to come here to-night?”

It was a relief that I could at least explain matters fully to her, and she would probably repeat it to Zénaïde. I told her of my adventure in the courtyard, and of the shadows on the wall. She was still a little puzzled, for of course I did not speak of Von Gaden’s confidence.

“Did the boyar really strike Zénaïde?” I asked.

“I fear so,” mademoiselle replied, a troubled expression on her face; “they had a stormy interview, at which I was not present, and I saw the red mark on dear Zénaïde’s cheek.”

“He is cruel to her, then?” I said sternly.

Mademoiselle stammered a little. “I cannot say cruel,” she said. “I have been here ten years with Zénaïde, and he has always allowed her to have everything she wished, but without seeming fond of her. He is a strange man. I can almost say that he avoided the sight of the child; but now all these things are changed. He is anxious for her to marry, and of course has his own ends to serve, and cares not at all for Zénaïde’s happiness. I tried to mold her mind to gentle submission, foreseeing this end; but Zénaïde has, they tell me, her father’s will, and she will not be guided; and now the house is in a constant tumult because of this match that she will not hear of.”

“I honor her the more,” I said at once; “no woman should wed Viatscheslav.”

Mademoiselle Eudoxie stared at me in mild surprise, but shrank back in horror when I told her briefly a little of the character of the profligate suitor. She wrung her thin hands.

“Alas!” she exclaimed, “what will she do? There is no escape; the authority of the guardian is even more absolute here than in France, and she has no one to fight for her, poor girl!”

“Except you and me, mademoiselle,” I added softly.

The old woman looked at me with a sudden suspicion in her glance, followed by an expression of yet deeper anxiety.

“You were ever too hot-blooded and hasty, Philippe,” she said, but I detected a note of tender sympathy in her voice. “You and I would but make an evil case worse. I see no help for Zénaïde. Peter was elected to-day, and the Naryshkins are in power.”

I drew closer to her. “Is there any one about?” I said.

She started as if she had been shot, and looked nervously behind her. I smiled, knowing what a coward mademoiselle always was. She assured me now that we were out of earshot.

“Then I may speak of forbidden subjects,” I said. “Take heart, mademoiselle; the struggle may not be over. No one believes that the Streltsi will support Peter Alexeivitch, and if the Miloslavskys rise, who knows what may not happen? Certainly the Naryshkins will be thrust aside, and this old boyar will never barter his niece to an exile or a fugitive!”

“Now the saints grant that it may be so!” exclaimed mademoiselle, piously. “But I have little hope that Zénaïde can escape; he is urging on a hasty marriage.”

I was not so despondent; I thought of Von Gaden, and a plan was already forming in my mind. I told her where my quarters were.

“If there is any trouble here,” I said earnestly, “find some means of sending me a message.”

Then, seeing the doubt and perplexity in her face, I went on impressively: “It is your duty, dear mademoiselle,” I said; “you must not connive at this sacrifice. You must save Zénaïde if you can, and do not despise my help; I may find more means of assistance than you dream of. Where there is a will, there is a way! Therefore, be sure to inform me if any danger threatens Mademoiselle Ramodanofsky.”

I saw at once that I had impressed her; Mademoiselle Eudoxie was naturally one of those women who cling to any man as a better protector than their own wits, and she evidently had an exaggerated conception of my importance. At least, she promised readily enough to keep me informed if she could find a trusty messenger, but told me of a surer means of communication by observing her window, which overlooked the lane on the other side of the wing. There was a romance about it all, which I saw was delightful to the gentle old maid, who had lived only in the reflection of the romances of others. She went with me to the postern, and bade me a tender and half tearful adieu. She closed the door behind me, and I had advanced a few steps, when I heard her open it again hastily, and come running after me. I turned, expecting some important information which she had forgotten. She laid a trembling hand on my arm, and approached her lips close to my ear.

“Monsieur Philippe,” she whispered, “forgive me for speaking out, but I have lived ten years in Russia, and I know their ways. Do not fall in love with her!”

I drew myself up haughtily; I was angry.

“If you intend any inference derogatory to Mademoiselle Zénaïde—” I began.

“No—no!” she cried hastily, almost tearfully. “What a traitor you must think me! Zénaïde is the dearest girl in the world; the sweetest I ever knew, save one, and that was your own dead sister, Philippe. But these Russians!” she looked over her shoulder as if she saw a ghost, “they would kill you, dear boy!”

I laughed under my breath; but still I remembered where I stood, and the murdered Feodor.

“I will risk it, Mademoiselle Eudoxie,” I said lightly. “I would risk it gladly to win Zénaïde Feodorovna!”

“Alas!” exclaimed the old maid, tearfully. “I feared it—I feared it! You were ever so, Monsieur Philippe: quick as a flash, and hot-headed. No good can come of it!”

“Nonsense, mademoiselle!” I cried almost gayly; “I have not touched her heart yet. Go back, or some one will find us here whispering, and then, indeed, there will be a bloody catastrophe.”

Remembering that prudence is the better part of valor, she retreated, but shaking her head in melancholy foreboding, the last words that I heard being—

“Poor Zénaïde!—poor Philippe!”

And the conjunction of names, instead of pointing mademoiselle’s warning, thrilled me with an absurd happiness.

CHAPTER VI.
A KITCHEN FEUD.

When the postern had finally closed upon mademoiselle, I advanced cautiously through the darkness. It had occurred to me that the outer gate might be closed for the night, in which case I should find myself caught in a trap. The house was dark and quiet now, the boyar’s guest having evidently departed.

To my consternation, the front gate was indeed locked, and I stood perplexed. A noise from the other side of the house suggested a possible exit by the kitchen way, and I crept cautiously along close to the wall, looking for it. The door at the back of the house stood wide open, and the stream of light from it, while it increased my risk, served also to show me the side gate, standing ajar. I had not a moment to lose; to be caught here and compelled to explain my presence to the boyar would be a sorry fate. I heard loud talking and laughing in the kitchen, which a little reassured me, as the servants were evidently enjoying a merry evening, and therefore less likely to be watchful. A little natural curiosity, and also a desire to learn as much of Zénaïde’s surroundings as I could, impelled me to approach near enough to peep into the interior: a low-ceiled room, stained with smoke from the huge fireplace, and gloomy as such a place could be, when lighted and filled with people. The cook, with naked, brawny arms akimbo, stood before the fire turning some meat upon the spit; and a dozen other serfs were gathered about a table playing at dice, or watching it, and drinking kvas. It was not an attractive picture, not even homely; but there was a surprise there for me: I saw in the group the cowardly fellow who had been whipped in the contest in the Red Place. I remembered his face well; it had still something of the evil and mean expression that had marked it when Peter Lykof dragged his servant off his fallen adversary. The place he occupied now at the table, and his dress, declared him to be no less a person than the boyar’s major-domo. The fellow had an evil face and a hang-dog look about the eyes, and I was not pleased to find him occupying a post of trust in the house. One could easily buy his soul for a couple of francs, being sure that he would sell again to the next highest bidder, and so cancel the previous bad bargain. I was amused to see that the miserable coward of a few hours ago was now a considerable braggart, assuming an air of authority among his fellow servants.

There was little danger that my presence would be observed, and I walked slowly across the courtyard, and slipping through the half open gate, stood in the street. It was dark, but yet it seemed to me that as I appeared a figure dashed away from the postern and crept along by the wall. Remembering that I had noticed a similar appearance at the front of the house, I half unsheathed my sword and advanced in the direction in which the figure had gone, my taste for adventure still keen, and moreover determined to know if any spy lurked about the Ramodanofsky house. The darkness and the shadow of the wall were both unfavorable to my purpose; but nothing daunted, I proceeded, my eyes fixed keenly on the darkest portion under the overhanging cornice. Seeing nothing, I was not a little startled by a sudden blow which, just missing my temple, fell roundly on my shoulder. I sprang aside, and drawing my sword, was on the defensive; but my unknown adversary leaped upon me with the agility and ferocity of a wild animal, and I found my sword arm pinioned as we closed in a fierce grapple. I had no desire to rouse the house by any outcry, and, for some reason, my assailant was equally silent. I had as much as I could do to keep his hands from my throat.

“Ma foi!” I exclaimed bitterly, “this is Russian fighting!”

My words had a magical effect; my strange adversary released me and stumbled back. But my blood was up, and it was my turn to attack him; however, he dodged me with wonderful dexterity.

“Leave me alone, your excellency,” he said in poor French; “I struck by mistake. I beg your pardon.”

His voice was familiar, and putting two and two together, in a flash of intuition, I hit upon the truth.

“You are Michael Gregorievitch!” I exclaimed, “Peter Lykof’s attendant; and you took me for your friend the steward.”

“Even so, my lord,” he admitted with evident reluctance in his tone. “My master would be very angry if he knew of my mistake.”

“Unless my memory plays me false, your master forbade you to meddle with this same steward,” I remarked dryly. “His displeasure does not seem to affect you deeply.”

“He would not submit as tamely as I do in a like case,” returned Michael, sullenly.

“I must admit,” I said lightly, “that I can understand your repugnance to the sleek steward; his countenance is sufficiently unlovely to tempt an honest man to beat him; but the ardor of your resentment seems a little ill-timed and treacherous.”

“Treacherous!” The man was choking with his intense anger. “No treachery could be great enough for Boris Polotsky!”

My interest was roused, and moreover I saw the possibility of obtaining a warm adherent in this fellow.

“You have a grievance, Michael,” I said pleasantly, “and I sympathize warmly with your detestation of this man; what is your especial wrong?”

The fellow hesitated for a moment, and I seemed to feel his keen eyes trying to see my face in the darkness.

“I have suffered many wrongs from him,” he said bitterly, falling into the Russian tongue, and therefore speaking more volubly; “he is a very devil, and the devil’s emissary. In every way in which one man can hurt another, he has injured me.”

“For instance, wedding your sweetheart?” I suggested lightly.

The man swore under his breath.

“He stole my wife away from me, for one thing, and afterwards beat her to death!” he exclaimed passionately.

I started; what a fit servant for Vladimir Sergheievitch!

“At least, she was punished for her infidelity,” I remarked dryly.

“She was more foolish than wicked at the first,” the fellow protested with a break in his harsh voice; “but that smooth-tongued fellow made her his tool and dupe. He is well placed,” he added vindictively, “a fiend, and the servant of one!” and he shook his fist vehemently at the dark house.

My mind was full of speculations; it was evident that there was something here that did not appear upon the surface.

“You have a cause of complaint, then, against the Boyar Ramodanofsky also?” I asked with an assumption of carelessness.

I could feel rather than see that the man received a shock at my words, suddenly awakening to the fact that he was making admissions that might be dangerous.

“I have said too much,” he stammered. “There is too great a gulf between the boyar and a humble man like me for any quarrel.”

“Ay,” I said, with a purpose, “unless you take to heart your master’s grievances.”

There was a pause. I knew that I had startled the fellow, and he was not sufficiently adroit to escape from the trap into which he had fallen; I could hear his labored breath, and divined that he was in a cold sweat of anxiety and alarm.

“My master has no grievances,” he blurted out, evidently sore pressed for an evasion. “I am but a fool to speak of my own.”

“Your master strikes me as one who might have many,” I replied coolly; then, taking pity on a confusion that I understood without seeing it: “You have nothing to fear,” I said reassuringly; “I am not a friend of the boyar’s, though I did come out of his gate,” and I laughed a little, silently, at the thought of my strange exit.

“Your excellency is wise,” the fellow exclaimed earnestly; “no man is safe in such friendship.”

“Like master like man, you think, then, my good Michael,” I said lightly. “It is certain that I shall remember your fists for a while, and I venture to predict that Polotsky will presently have enough of them.”

“I beg your pardon a thousand times, my lord,” stammered the man, evidently divided between a desire to establish himself in my good graces, and to escape my inquiries.

“You have it freely,” I said laughing, “since I escaped with a whole crown; next time be sure of your adversary, and then be thorough in your castigation; but take my advice and fight by day, in the open, like a man.”

“It is rare for me to get the chance,” Michael protested; “he is a sneak, and hides himself away in secure places.”

“Such vermin usually do,” I replied calmly; “however, I wish you good-night and good luck, only be sure and be thorough next time.”

As I walked away down the street I laughed a little to myself at the absurdity of my adventure, ending, as it had, in a narrow escape from a thrashing at the hands of a lackey. I felt confident that Zénaïde would soon be rid of one of her uncle’s vilest tools, for Michael would probably murder Polotsky before many days; and I reflected that a kitchen feud was not without its advantages.

It was now late, and I proceeded directly to my own quarters, and found that my man had my supper waiting for me. Pierrot was an invaluable servant: devoted, accomplished, and discreet. I had obtained much useful information from this quarter, and I could always depend upon his fidelity; in fact, it was only that which kept him in Russia, for he hated it with a cordiality only equalled by his smooth appearance of complacence. It had cost me not a little trouble to have him instructed in the Russian tongue; but he amply repaid me by the usefulness that resulted from his acquirement: without it he could have been of little service, for it was almost impossible to find a humble Russian who understood French, or any language but his own. In that day accomplishments were not frequent, and few Russians spoke French: Prince Basil Galitsyn, who was in advance of his class, resorting to Latin in his intercourse with foreigners.

I was tired, and my appetite had been sharpened by a continued fast, so I sat down to my supper in a very good humor. Pierrot waited upon me with silent dexterity, and then, retiring to a little distance, stood watching me with folded arms, and an air which I was not slow to interpret: he had news, and longed to impart it.

“Well, Pierrot,” I said at last, “were you in the Grand Square to-day?”

“Yes, M. le Vicomte,” he replied eagerly; “and was it not a stirring sight?”

“Very,” I answered dryly; “and what is the feeling among the people, Pierrot? Are they pleased with the election?”

Pierrot shook his head with the air of a sage.

“The people have not much to do with it after all,” he said gravely. “The rabble have not the intelligence of our peasantry.”

This was a heavy judgment, for Pierrot, as an old retainer, looked down upon the peasantry as the scum of the earth.

“It is the soldiers here,” he went on, evidently glad to speak his mind; “they have the upper hand. I can’t understand this Streltsi.”

I laughed. “Few of us can, I suspect, Pierrot,” I said; “the Streltsi, or archers, were established by Ivan the Terrible, as a kind of national guard. Their duties descend from father to son, and they have ever been a privileged class.”

“They are ill to guide, monsieur,” Pierrot remarked sagely, as he handed me the wine.

“And what do they think?” I inquired, not a little amused but also curious.

“They are angry,” Pierrot replied, lowering his voice as if he fancied that one of them was under the table; “they do not love the Czarina Natalia’s relations and—” Pierrot glanced cautiously over his shoulder; “the Czarevna Sophia has been trying to influence them for the Czarevitch Ivan. There are twenty-two regiments, and only one of them is favorable to the young czar.”

“All that seems to be apparent enough, Pierrot,” I remarked quietly.

“That is not all, M. le Vicomte,” he said eagerly; “they are plotting against the Department of the Streltsi; they hate both the Princes Dolgoruky and their own officers. It is rumored to-day that there will be a riot if something is not done, and if there is!” Pierrot lifted his eyes and hands, a picture of horror.

“What will be the consequence?” I asked, though I knew well enough, and it took the relish away from my supper.

“If the officers are not sacrificed,” Pierrot said in a dreadful undertone, “they will have blood, and it will be the boyars, perhaps the Czarevitch Peter.”

“The czar, you mean,” I corrected testily, for I knew that he was touching the truth very nearly. “They will not dare to harm him.”

Pierrot shook his head gloomily.

“You have not heard them, M. le Vicomte,” he said in a tone of melancholy pity for my credulity; “they are after blood, like wolves; and if it comes to that, there will not be a house safe for a boyar to hide in Moscow!”

I pushed back my chair and rose from the table with an angry gesture.

“You forget, Pierrot,” I said tartly, “that these men were born to obey; they cannot resist the imperial authority.”

I said it more for my own comfort than for his conviction, for I was sick at heart, and could think of nothing but the young girl in the house of a boyar who was both feared and despised. Meanwhile, Pierrot had the air of not desiring to contradict his superior, even in his folly,—an air peculiar to Pierrot, and especially irritating.

“The Russians are very bloodthirsty, M. le Vicomte,” he said, by way of a mild remonstrance, “and there is no one now at the head of the government but a boy and a woman.”

“There is a great deal of awe felt of a czar, my good Pierrot,” I replied lightly, “and presently they will have the chancellor back again; and you know the Streltsi once took stones from the graves of their fathers to build him a house.”

But Pierrot still continued to shake his head with aggravating solemnity.

CHAPTER VII.
A CZAR’S FUNERAL.

My original errand in Moscow was a diplomatic one; it had been my good fortune to be selected as the confidential agent of the French government, empowered to look into and secure certain conditions of the treaty with Russia made by Richelieu many years before. My father, who was a cousin of the Duc de Bouillon and of the Vicomte de Turenne, had been a trusted friend of Cardinal Mazarin, and was commended to King Louis XIV. by the dying cardinal. The king had held my father in high esteem, and at his death received me into his favor. I was a soldier by instinct and profession, and had served with both Turenne and the Prince de Condé, being with the latter at the bloody battle of Seneffe, where the four squadrons of the king’s household stood under fire for eight hours without a movement, save to close our ranks as men fell. I followed Turenne in his campaign in the Palatinate, and was with him at the time of his death before the village of Salzbach. The year before I was sent to Moscow, I rendered a service at the surrender of Strasburg which won the good opinion of Louvois, who was then towering above the king’s other ministers. I was in command of one of the squadrons posted to guard the passage over the Rhine, and it was through my vigilance that the messengers from the burgesses were captured on their way to ask aid from the emperor. Both Louis and Louvois believed that their success was, in a measure, due to my zeal and activity; and from that hour my fortune was assured, and I was promoted from one post of confidence to another. Although diplomacy was not my natural vocation, I was pleased at the novelty of a mission to Moscow; and becoming well acquainted at court, I lingered on, after the successful accomplishment of my mission. I saw the intrigues preceding the late czar’s death, and learned a great deal about the undercurrent at the palace. I was regarded as a disinterested spectator, having friends on both sides. My rank as an agent of the French government gave me many privileges from which others were excluded. It was on my intimacy with court intrigue that I based my hope of rescuing Zénaïde from her murderous uncle; and it was probably my unique position that won for me Von Gaden’s confidence.

On the day of the Czar Feodor’s funeral, I was early at the palace, and found it the scene of great confusion. The anterooms were crowded with the dignitaries of the imperial household and with the boyars. The funeral cortége was to proceed to the Cathedral of the Ascension for the obsequies; and I saw, at once, that there was some unusual excitement, especially among the Miloslavskys and their faction. As I crossed the anterooms beyond the banqueting hall, I passed Ramodanofsky, who was in a window recess in deep converse with Viatscheslav Naryshkin and the Streltsi colonel whom I had seen at his house. For the first time, I encountered a keen glance from the old boyar; it was evident to me that I had suddenly become an object of interest to him, and yet I was at loss to explain the reason, being confident that my visit to his house was unknown to him. I passed on, and at the opposite door, I came upon Ivan Miloslavsky, a cousin of the Czarevitch Ivan’s mother, the Princess Marie Illinitchna Miloslavsky, the first wife of Alexis the Debonair.

Ivan Michaelovitch Miloslavsky was the most able of that family, except his second cousin, the Czarevna Sophia Alexeievna. I had now a desire to cultivate the good graces of this faction, for I felt that the tide might turn at any hour in favor of the elder branch of the imperial family. So it was that my salutation was cordial, and I was well pleased at Miloslavsky’s ready response; he turned and walked with me, and it was thus that I passed again before Ramodanofsky and his friends, and observed that the three worthies ceased talking, to watch us as we walked the length of the room, Miloslavsky leaning on my arm, and talking confidentially. After we were out of earshot, I ventured to make an inquiry.

“Can your excellency tell me anything of the boyar in the window yonder?” I asked.

“It is Vladimir Sergheievitch Ramodanofsky,” replied Miloslavsky, with a note of scorn in his voice; “an old villain, and an adherent of the Naryshkins.”

“I have heard unfavorable reports of him,” I said, feeling my way with caution.

“Nothing you have heard could be worse than the truth, I fancy,” replied Ivan, indifferently. “Some day he will be called to his account; meanwhile, he is enjoying his little hour of prosperity.”

“And who is the officer with him?” I inquired, pushing my advantage.

Miloslavsky glanced back and shrugged his shoulders.

“Another rascal, Colonel Pzykof, and he is likely to be called to an early reckoning,” he added, a peculiar smile curving his full lips,—a smile which suggested to me at once the triumph of some secret scheme.

“The funeral procession is forming now,” he continued, quickening his step, “and they will be disturbed by an unusual occurrence.”

“I saw that there was some interest awake,” I said. “What is the new development?”

Miloslavsky smiled again.

“The Czarevna Sophia goes in the procession,” he said quietly.

I started, knowing that this was contrary to every usage of the Russian court, and that the Byzantine custom compelled the imperial princesses to remain behind a canopy. Miloslavsky saw my surprise.

“It is an innovation,” he said; “but Sophia Alexeievna is overcome with grief for her brother; and, after all, why should not a sister stand beside her brother’s corpse?”

He seemed to challenge me to express an opinion.

“I am surprised only because I know that your customs are so arbitrary,” I replied, smoothly. “In France, it would seem most natural for the czarevna to follow her brother’s body to the grave.”

“Yet it has been the cause of much dispute,” said Miloslavsky, bitterly, “and the Czarina Natalia is opposed to it. Naturally enough she does not grieve much that the elder brother has passed away from her son’s path to the throne,” he added in an undertone.

I was discreetly silent. We had passed through the anterooms out on to the Red Staircase, and stood looking down upon the crowd. It reminded me of the election of Peter, only that this was a silent throng, impressed, no doubt, by the presence of death. The procession was forming, and everywhere the black garb of mourning seemed to swallow up the light. The Russian dress of that day was a strange contrast to the French. The men wore robes and sleeves as long as those of the women, and a man’s high cap was not unlike a woman’s head-gear. It was seventeen years afterwards that Peter the Great inaugurated a change of fashion by cutting off the sleeves of the boyars, with his own hands, at a supper given by the Boyar Sheremétief. Verily, I have lived to see great changes in Russia since that day, when I stood looking down upon the Red Place, thronged with black-robed figures, and upon the bier of the Czar Feodor. It was the darkest hour in that period of history, and just before the dawn of a new reign; the star of the house of Romanof was in the ascendant, but its light was not yet diffused.

It was a dull day; the sky was heavy, and the Kremlin wore its most gloomy aspect; even the red pavement of the square was almost obscured by the mass of people, and the voices of the multitude were hushed as the deep notes of the great cathedral bells tolled solemnly, on every hand, the mournful dirge of Russia’s mightiest, laid in the dust to share at last the common fate of his humblest subject,—for how great a leveller is Death!

Miloslavsky and I were parted when we took our places in the dreary procession, and the slow march to the cathedral was begun. Every eye was turned on the Czarevna Sophia Alexeievna, who walked beside the bier of the late czar. I saw that the Miloslavskys were playing for high stakes, for the unusual presence of one of the princesses and her manifest grief were producing a strange effect upon the vast crowd surging about the cortége. It seemed a long time before we stood at last within the great cathedral, which was draped in black until it looked like a huge sarcophagus, and the multitude, swayed by a new and deep emotion, packed the immense edifice and filled the square without. It was a scene of strange solemnity. Before the altar stood the bier, covered with the imperial pall, and the tall tapers around it made a blaze of light almost dazzling in its contrast to the gloom of the rest of the great interior, except here and there, where a ray of light was caught and reflected from the gold upon the pillars. By the dead czar stood the patriarch and the archbishops in their rich robes, chanting the service, while the multitude knelt in the silence beyond. Every word that the priests chanted sounded clearly in that intense quiet, and the awful solemnity of death brooded over us. A dead man, but for that hour, czar of all the Russias still! It seemed to my imagination that some secret emotion possessed the kneeling crowd, that every breath was drawn with some new resolution, that even the atmosphere was surcharged with foreboding. The blaze of gold and silver upon the high altar flashed in the light of a hundred tapers, and every line in the patriarch’s face was magnified in that clear blaze; but beyond the circle of the tapers, not even the daylight seemed to penetrate to where we knelt in the shadow, and the low chant of the clergy rose and fell and sobbed in its monotonous refrain.

Suddenly, in the midst of that solemn ceremony, we heard a woman’s voice raised in lamentation. I think that every man in that great multitude caught his breath to listen, and every eye was fixed on that circle of flame about the pall, as the Czarevna Sophia rose and stretched out her hands in passionate supplication to Heaven. Her words were incoherent, but we heard her voice, and we saw her as she flung herself down beside the bier, clutching it in an agony of grief.

Was she acting? I asked myself the question even while I felt a scorn of myself for being contemptuous in my judgment of a stricken woman; for truly, in losing her elder brother, she had lost her chief stay and hope. Yet I knew the great Sophia too well to be wholly sure that her emotion was entirely without thought of its effect upon the people; I knew her to be an astute politician and an adroit manager. Yet it was a pathetic scene,—the strong woman’s abandon in her grief and despair. The effect upon the multitude was at once apparent; there was a murmur through the crowd, low but deep. And it was then that the Czarina Natalia took that step which caused so much unfavorable comment. Taking the little Czar Peter by the hand, she left the cathedral, and in a few moments, by some mysterious agency, the news spread through the crowd; and in that hour the czarina lost more prestige than she was likely to regain for many a long day. The sharp contrast between the agony of Sophia’s grief, and the absence of reverence for the dead in the czarina’s conduct was too strikingly presented to the people. The excuse that Natalia pleaded, that the child Peter was weary with the long service, was insufficient, for the Miloslavskys were only too eager to fan the flame of popular resentment against the young czar’s mother.