Chapter XXXVII: The Woman, 316 (3)

“Serene highness,” he said proudly, “you forget that we are both Frenchmen, and subjects of the greatest monarch upon earth, his most Christian Majesty, Louis, King of France, and we are here under the safe conduct of the Russian government.”

She shot a look at him that defied all law and all authority but her own; it was the look of the royal tigress at bay.

“We are in Moscow, master goldsmith,” she said tartly, “the King of France rules not here.”

“His arm is long, madame,” retorted Le Bastien coldly.

She laughed, and it was such an unpleasant laugh that I saw the goldsmith wipe the perspiration off his forehead. There were torture rooms in the Kremlin, and he knew it.

“If I may be permitted to return to my lodgings,” he said, “I will undertake to restore the miniature to your highness--to rectify the mistake.”

“You are under arrest,” she replied shortly, and stood looking at him much as I have seen a cat watch a mouse.

“Perhaps she will let me go,” I suggested in French.

“Will your highness allow my apprentice to go for the miniature?” Le Bastien asked, in a dignified tone.

She hesitated. I think she began to suspect me more than the grave, elderly goldsmith, but she was determined, and she did not believe in the story of the mistake. She took two short turns across the room, stopping once to look out of the window, and then she touched a bell on the table. Immediately my fat friend, the chamberlain, appeared, as if she had conjured him from the subterranean regions.

“Vasili Ivanovitch,” she said to him, “you will accompany this goldsmith,” she pointed at me, “back to his lodgings; you will wait there until he makes a search for a picture of me; you will bring him back, with or without the picture. You will not let him escape.”

“It is well, Sophia Alexeievna,” replied the chamberlain, bowing profoundly.

She turned a strangely malicious glance upon me. “You may go,” she said calmly.

I made my obeisance, but I could have laughed at the irony of fate. The miniature was in the keeping of the Princess Daria, and what in the world could I do with this fat old fool at our quarters? Verily, my falsehood seemed likely enough to stick in my throat and be the ruin both of Maître le Bastien and of me. I cast a look at him and saw that he was as pale as ashes, but I could give him no comfort,--there was none to give,--though I went out behind my portly friend, with thoughts of such a nature that, had he divined them, he would scarcely have walked in front of me, even on the Red Staircase.

_IX: I MAKE A PRISONER_

WE went back very deliberately to Maître le Bastien’s house. It was not the chamberlain’s habit to walk rapidly, and I dragged purposely, not only to gain time, but to plan some way of ridding myself of my companion. Vasili Ivanovitch, as Sophia called him, but more commonly Chamberlain Kourbsky, was determined to keep me close under his eye, and I was equally determined to evade him. How, it yet remained to be seen. We walked along, therefore, in grim silence, each busy doubtless with his own plots, each watchful of the other. But slowly as we walked we got to the house at last, and by that time I had made my plan, but I know not whether he had his or not; if he had, it miscarried for the time.

We entered the lower hall and I called loudly for Michaud, but the varlet, taking advantage of his master’s absence, had gone out; neither could I find Maluta; only Advotia came to stare at us stupidly, so there was nothing left but to go on up the stairs with my friend the chamberlain. And on the way he was suddenly seized with a sense of his duty.

“You must haste, Master Goldsmith,” he said pompously; “the czarevna waits.”

“Precisely,” I replied, nodding my head and passing the door of the workshop; “you will follow me, sir.”

He stared a little, having halted at the shop, supposing that the miniature was somewhere there amidst the litter of Maître le Bastien’s work.

“It is not there,” I said, replying to his glance, “it is necessary to secure the valuables. Ascend, monsieur.”

He sighed and followed me up the second flight, narrower than the first, and we reached the _terem_. This part of the house, occupied now only by Advotia and a female scullion, was bare and poor enough, and I saw him stare about in astonishment, but I was not yet done with him.

“Higher, monsieur,” I said blandly, and led the way to the little stairs that went to the turret, which contained one small room with three narrow, slit-like windows.

He followed, obstinate as a bull, but I heard him pant as he laboured up. The stairs were steep and narrow, and at the turn he nearly stuck fast, and I heard him mumbling some incoherent ejaculations. Up I went and he followed, blowing now and puffing out his cheeks. I was well ahead, and slipped the key from the inside to the outside of the lock; then I went into the little chamber and waited for him. On one window-sill some pigeons sunned themselves, I could see the belfry of the great tower of Ivan Veliki. I heard Kourbsky come up, blowing now like a whale. There was a chest in the room, under one window, and, as he entered, I pretended to be trying the lid. He stood getting his breath, his face as red as blood, for he was very angry.

“The lid sticks,” I said. “Will monsieur take hold of the farther end? The miniature is here.”

He bent reluctantly, grasped the end of the lid, and commenced to pull with all his strength. As he did so I let it fly up and back, and he fell over backwards, sitting down on the floor with a crash, and the dust rose in a cloud about him. In a trice I was out of the room and had slammed the door, and locked and bolted it on the outside. I had caught my enemy, and for a moment I leaned on the stairs laughing, hearing him bellow all the while within.

Then I looked down and saw Michaud staring up at me, with a strange expression; he heard the chamberlain’s shouts and ejaculations as plainly as I. Indeed, the great man’s voice seemed to shake the house to its foundations, and his threats were blood-curdling. I went down the stairs and touched Michaud on the shoulder.

“Follow me,” I said.

He obeyed, curious enough to know the meaning of it.

“Where were you when I came in?” I asked sharply, when we reached the workshop.

“I came in a moment ago,” he answered sullenly.

I eyed him sharply; I had no time to waste upon him and saw no great reason to distrust him. I told him, therefore, of Maître le Bastien’s arrest, of his peril, of the necessity of keeping the chamberlain in the house until I could return, and I watched him narrowly, all the while, to see how he felt about it. That he was alarmed and sorry for Maître le Bastien, I could not doubt; he showed it plainly, and my first doubts of him began to slumber. Besides, he knew no Russ, and hated the Russians, and I had the key of the upper room in my pocket. I felt that I could trust him for an hour. I pledged him, therefore, on his honour, to guard the upper room, to keep Advotia away from it, and to let no one in at the front door in my absence.

“Remember that the master’s life may depend upon your faithfulness,” I said severely, as I went down to the lower floor, feverish to be off to the Princess Daria.

“_Sapristi!_” he replied, “would I fail the good man now? Have no fear, monsieur.” He dragged a little on the word in a way I did not like, but I knew his temper and thought little of it; besides there was no time to lose.

I went at the top of my speed to the Voronin palace, pausing for no man, scarcely conscious of the passers in the streets, and once in the court-yard I knocked boldly at the door, where I had been so ridiculed on the occasion of my former visit. But I met no ridicule now; scarcely had I knocked before the door flew open, and old Piotr, grave and stern, stood on the threshold eyeing me in a forbidding fashion. But I did not heed it; instead, knowing that he could be trusted, I told him of the gravity of my errand and that I must see the Princess Daria without delay. At the mention of the czarevna and the visit of the two young girls to the workshop, his face clouded yet more deeply, and I thought that he was strongly agitated, though he answered me soberly enough.

“Sir,” he said gravely, “the princess is not at home; she is in the Kremlin.”

At this I started, deeply alarmed, and I saw my anxiety mirrored on his face.

“We have not a moment to lose,” I said, almost fiercely, “to the Kremlin, man, with me to find her.”

He shook his head, pointing inwards. “I dare not,” he replied, very low; “the prince is here.”

“But his daughter’s safety, man!” I cried impatiently, “let me in to tell him all.”

Old Piotr looked at me, much as he would have looked at a madman.

“Never tell him,” he said; “never betray her excellency--if you do!” he lowered his brows, he curled his lips back from his strong white teeth, like a wolf; “if you betray Daria Kirilovna, I--I, Piotr, will surely kill you, so help me Saint Nikolas of Mojaïsk,” and he lifted both hands over his head, swearing by the saint before whom all Russians pledge their fidelity.

The strong old man, his grey head lifted, his hands also--with the palms up--was a striking figure.

“I will never betray her,” I said heartily, and held out my hand.

He took it and pressed it lightly, not wholly trusting me. Then I left him, for I had no time to lose. To the Kremlin--that was my one thought as I sped. As luck would have it, at the very gate I stumbled on Maluta. The dwarf looked at me keenly and began to follow me, and I, impatient of him and not minded to be troubled with him, turned sharply.

“Be off, Maluta,” I said. “I have no time for you now--or use either.”

But he still followed. We were entering the Red Place and a second time I ordered him off, but he came on and plucked at my coat.

“You seek her,” he said, peering at me, white-faced and ferret-eyed; “you seek the Princess Daria?”

I started; was the thing unnatural in mind as well as body?

“Yes,” I said, “O astrologer, I seek the princess.”

“She is in the gardens of the Kremlin, serene excellency,” he said, bowing low.

I stared.

“Do you mean it, goblin?” I cried. “Is she really there? If this is a piece of your acting--of your trickery, you will pay dear for it!”

He laid his hands on his heart and then his forehead.

“Did not your excellency give me life?” he said. “By the great saint over the gate, by----”

“Yes, I know, by the Saint Nikolas,” I said. “Where is she?”

“Follow me, O excellency,” he said eagerly; “she is in the gardens, she and another, her cousin Vassalissa Feodorovna.”

“By Saint Denis!” I exclaimed, under my breath, “what absolutely gigantic luck! The little varlet is an angel in disguise. Lead on, O prophet!” I added; “lead and I follow.”

He smiled and, turning sharply on his heel, led me toward the gardens. We walked so rapidly that in a few moments we were following a path amidst the trees and shrubbery of the Kremlin pleasure-grounds. The green of the spring was here and the sunshine; I heard a bird singing overhead, I saw the splash and glimmer of a fountain. There was the faint sweetness of early flowers, delicate, thin in essence, the first breath of the northern summer. The place was very quiet, the turf green and soft under foot; there was a grove of slender young trees before us, their branches feathered with spring, their stems tall and sparsely grouped, framing a pathway where the sunshine made a mellow light. In it I saw two tall young figures in long cloaks, and each wearing the _fata_--a veil like a nun’s--to hide their faces, but I could not mistake the taller figure; the bearing, the very gait had been graven on my mind. It was the Princess Daria.

_X: IN THE GARDEN OF THE KREMLIN_

AS the girls drew nearer I caught a glimpse of a third figure in the rear; my friend the duenna was following slowly, leaning on her staff. Meanwhile Vassalissa had stopped at the sight of me and plucked at her companion’s skirts, but the princess did not heed her, she came steadily toward me, stepping so lightly that I do not believe a blade of grass was crushed beneath her feet. She would have passed me, responding but slightly to my salutation, but I barred the way; with uncovered head.

“I must speak with you, Princess,” I said firmly, “of a matter that concerns your safety as much as that of Maître le Bastien.”

She halted at that, though the duenna began to chatter objections and shake her staff at me, but Daria silenced her by a gesture.

“Speak on, sir,” she said to me, and through her veil I could see her beautiful eyes regarding me gravely.

I plunged at once into my story, telling her--as briefly as I could--of the summons to the Kremlin, and of Sophia’s anger, and of her determination to solve the problem of the lost miniature. While I spoke I saw that Lissa was listening with evident agitation, clinging to her cousin’s arm, but I could not read the thoughts of the princess. She heard me to the end, without the slightest interruption, and once or twice she glanced in the direction of the palace and then back at my face, but her composure was entirely unshaken.

When I had finished my recital Lissa could be restrained no longer; she broke out impetuously, and in a frightened voice.

“It is all my fault, Daria,” she said. “Oh, forgive me! What shall we do? Of course, the fat creature is furious!”

The fat creature! Oh, if Sophia had heard her!

The princess cast an impatient glance at her cousin.

“For myself it does not matter, Lissa,” she said quietly, “and I, too, am to blame--but, look you, here is the good goldsmith in peril for our sakes.”

“I know,” said Lissa, nodding her head at me, “I know--but we must get him out of this trouble.”

“Can you give me the czarevna’s picture, Princess?” I asked. “If you can, I will undertake to straighten the matter for you.”

She looked at me absently, apparently lost in thought.

“Of course, he can have the picture, Daria,” Lissa cried eagerly.

“Yes, he can have it,” the princess replied calmly, “but that will not matter--it is only the beginning of the end. It was folly, it was madness----” She broke off, and stood looking at the ground, an expression of great perplexity upon her face. She had pushed her veil aside and I saw that she was very pale.

Lissa looked at her, clinging to her hand.

“Oh, I think it will not matter so much, Daria,” she said. “Uncle Kirill will straighten it for us.”

The princess smiled sadly and shook her head.

“If you will trust me,” I said, addressing her, “I will take the miniature to her highness, and I will so bear the matter out that you shall not fall under the shadow of a connection with the change of portraits. You may trust me, mademoiselle, on my honour as a French gentleman.”

She gave me a swift, searching glance, and with her hand on Lissa’s lips checked that young girl’s impulsive reply.

“Sir,” she said gravely, “you cannot understand how serious this matter is. It began in a moment of folly--a jest upon Prince Galitsyn, but I had repented of it--and all would have been well but for the--the accident that gave the locket back to him, and through him to the czarevna.”

“Surely, mademoiselle, not by his free will,” I said, “if he is the brave man that men call him.”

She coloured deeply. “I think not by his free will,” she said, “for he must know the peril of it for me, and for mine. Howbeit, I am no coward,” she added proudly, “and I must face it to the end. But you must have the miniature, if only for Maître le Bastien’s sake, and”--she stopped and glanced at me almost shyly, more girlish in her aspect than I had ever seen her--“and for yours, monsieur.”

I bowed gravely. “Consider me not at all, Princess,” I said softly, “except as your servant.”

“I thank you,” she replied, with simple dignity. “I will send at once for the miniature.”

“Let me go!” pleaded Lissa; “let me do this much to atone, Daria.”

“So you shall,” replied the princess, clapping her hands softly, and as she did so another attendant, a tall, raw-boned lad, in a serf’s dress, appeared.

“Take Konrat and go,” she said to Vassalissa, “and let your feet be fleet as the raven’s wings, Lissa, for a good man is in trouble for our folly.”

Her little cousin needed no second bidding, but ran off, with the serf, in the direction of the Bielui-gorod. And the Princess Daria, after a few words to the duenna, walked a little apart on a mossy bank below the fountain, and then signed to me to follow her. I supposed that she intended to question me about the czarevna, but she did not. The sun was shining on her, as if it loved her, and her veil made a filmy white hood above her charming face.

“You are from France, sir,” she said softly; “will you tell me something of that far-off land--more than I have learned in books? Is your home in that great city where the king lives?”

“Nay, mademoiselle,” I replied, surprised and pleased, “my home is in a province of France, called Normandy, and from the turrets of my house I can see the waves sweep wild and free on a long stretch of hard, white beach, and the smell of the salt is in the air, and there is ever the deep boom of the ocean. When the day breaks there is a whiteness on the sea, and when the night falls, a shadow, and the stars shine on the water. And the turf is green there, and the trees and flowers come to an earlier budding, and I think, too, the birds sing more sweetly. And there are orchards, and fields of grain, and you can see the cattle standing, ankle-deep, in the stream that runs across the meadows below the château, and----” I broke off; presently I should tell her more than I cared to have her know.

She had listened attentively, her eyes on the distance, and as I paused, she sighed softly.

“It must be a fair country,” she said. “I see you love it, sir--but I thought you were a goldsmith from Paris,” and she darted one of her keen looks at me.

It was now my turn to redden. “I am from Paris last, Princess,” I said, “but I am Norman-born.”

“I understand,” she said. “’Tis so here also. We are from different provinces; from the north and the south, from Great and Little and White Russia, from Kief, and Novgorod, and Kazan, and Lithuania, but,” she added softly, “we all love the White Mother Moscow. Is it so with Paris?”

I shook my head, smiling a little. Our brethren south of the Loire had not loved Paris much since Saint Bartholomew, and there were others. I remembered that I had thought it an evil star which took me to Paris, but now I began to think differently.

“Paris is a very great city, mademoiselle,” I said, “and emulation and jealousy and strife are there--in secret places--just as turbulence and strife are brooding here to-day in Moscow.”

She opened her eyes and looked at me in surprise.

“I do not understand you, monsieur,” she said.

“I mean the Streltsi, mademoiselle, and the jealousy between the Naryshkins and Miloslavskys. The soldiers seem ripe for rebellion.”

She shrugged her shoulders with a disdainful smile.

“They would not dare,” she said haughtily; “what are they? Nothing but moujiks, and the sons of moujiks; there is no aristocratic blood there to lead.”

“Sometimes the _canaille_ can do much mischief, Princess,” I replied, “and what if these moujiks are secretly led by royalty itself?”

She glanced at me quickly, a little startled, but she had an aristocrat’s contempt for the mob.

“I cannot believe they would be,” she said. “He who turned the rabble loose would be in the greatest danger himself. Besides, the government has conceded so much to these soldiers; too much, my father says.”

“That is precisely the point, mademoiselle,” I replied; “it has conceded so much that it can no longer command; it is entreating them.”

Her expression changed and grew grave. Then, after a moment, she smiled and seemed to cast the whole matter to the four winds.

“Where is my bracelet, sir?” she asked suddenly. “Have you mended it?”

“Not yet, mademoiselle,” I replied, as glibly as I could, “but it shall be mended in a manner worthy of the arm that is to wear it.”

“You have never mended bracelets!” she said, looking at me from under her long lashes.

“If I mended one for anyone, it would be for the Princess Daria,” I replied, with gallantry.

She blushed. “You are long about it,” she retorted, pouting. “I want my bracelet!”

“’Tis hard to part with it, Princess,” I said daringly.

She bridled, and I know not what she would have replied, for, at the moment, Lissa came running up, breathless, with the miniature, which she thrust into my hands.

“Go, go!” she cried, “and save your master and save us too!”

“Yes,” said the princess gravely, “there is no time to lose, master goldsmith!”

It was hard to go, but I knew also that time was precious; I concealed the miniature on my person, and bowed profoundly to the two young girls.

“To hear you is to obey, Princess,” I said, looking straight into her eyes, and she blushed furiously and dropped her veil over her face.

“Then go, sir,” she said imperiously.

“At once, mademoiselle,” I replied, and turned away.

I had gone, perhaps, ten or twenty yards, when I heard the patter of feet behind, and Lissa came running after me.

“Do not mind her,” she panted. “Daria is not really cross, only she will play the princess. But, oh, do smooth the matter over with that dreadful czarevna, for it was all my fault! I gave the trinket to Galitsyn; you know he is half mad with love of Daria? Oh, there! I have told too much----” She clapped her hands over her rosy lips, her eyes dancing.

We heard the princess calling sharply: “Lissa, Lissa!”

“I come, I come!” cried the girl and to me, “there--do, do it, sir, do help us!”

“Trust me, mademoiselle,” I said, smiling; “not only for her sake--but for yours, too.”

“I thank you.” The girl poised on one foot, ready to run back to her cousin; “and--and I do not believe you are a horrid old goldsmith either!” and she was off, fleet as a young fawn.

_XI: THE PLOT THICKENS_

WITH the miniature in my possession again I had not a moment to lose. It was necessary to take it to Sophia at once, and I could not release the chamberlain Kourbsky until I had seen the czarevna. Indeed, I did not know how I could let him out at all, for he would surely stir up a great commotion. Yet it had been absolutely necessary to get rid of him, or to betray Daria. And as I sped toward the Red Place again, I made up my mind to think no more of the chamberlain until Sophia was satisfied with her picture, and then to find some way out of the other difficulty. That he was wild with rage in that little turret room I did not doubt, and thinking of him as I saw him last, sitting in a cloud of dust, I laughed aloud--but I laughed too soon.

Maluta had waited for me in the garden, and was at my heels now, and, having found him so useful, I suffered him to follow me still. It was fortunate that I did, for as I drew nearer to the palace it occurred to me that, without Chamberlain Kourbsky, I had no means of reaching the private audience chamber of the _terem_, and while casting about in my mind for an expedient that would help me, I bethought myself of the dwarf’s former place at court. Calling him to me, I told him that I wanted to enter the _terem_ and see the czarevna, mentioning my former interview with her, an hour or more before, and explaining my anticipation of difficulty in obtaining admittance. Maluta listened attentively, looking up at me sideways, his forehead wrinkled and his great ears standing out. As I finished, he nodded knowingly.

“You cannot enter by the public way,” he said, at once, “but there is a way--follow me, excellency.”

We were at the foot of the Red Staircase; above us rose the palace. It was about two hours before sunset, and the shadows fell long across the court of the Kremlin. It was the 24th of May, and the aspect of the place was singularly peaceful; the bells of the Church of Saint Basil the Blessed began to ring sweetly and softly.

I looked down at the tiny creature at my side.

“You belong to the court no longer,” I said. “How can you obtain admittance?”

He laughed, malicious mischief peeping out of his sharp eyes.

“They do not know,” he said; “not one usher in fifty knows one of us from the other, and the dwarfs are always running the secret errands of their czarish majesties. Trust me, my master. I will take you there. Why, there is not a secret,” he held his finger up to his lips, “not a conspiracy up yonder, that we do not know; they cannot deceive us--not they!”

I believed him, looking at his sharp, malicious little face. How often do princes pay for spies upon themselves, and nourish vipers in their bosoms! I shrugged my shoulders.

“Go on, then,” I said, “and be quick!”

He led on past the Red Staircase, skirted the walls of the palace, came to the rear and there, at a little postern, stumbled upon a crowd of dwarfs. At the sight of their comrade they yelled shrilly and made strange gesticulations, but Maluta silenced them by signs, laying his finger on his lips, his forehead, and his heart, and then pointing at me. They fell away and let us enter, staring at me, and swarming in after us, as I have seen bees swarm into a hive. It annoyed me; I wanted more elbow room, but remembering the difficulties before me, I tried to endure these little creatures with patience. Once in the palace we began to ascend a narrow flight of stairs,--the back stairs of the _terem_,--where many a secret, whether of joy or sorrow or sin, had crept up and down for years; crept until the marble steps were worn and lustreless, and the very arches, fluted and dim above us, were darkened by an atmosphere of secrecy and fear. The pattering of many little feet behind began to grow more distant and ceased altogether when we left the swarm at a turn of the stairs, below a landing, where we came suddenly upon a sentry. He lowered his staff across the narrow space and would not let us pass, but Maluta threw out his little chest and strutted, as I have seen game-cocks in the _halles_ of Paris, and reaching up on tip-toes, he whispered to the soldier, two words that--for the next few days--were magic in their effect.

“Sophia Alexeievna.”

In an instant the staff was raised, the man saluted, and we passed safely on, through a dim gallery where, behind closed doors, I heard the murmur of subdued voices. There was something in the very air of this part of the palace that choked an honest man; it was a place for the toads that live upon the sovereign’s bounties and betray him. I was glad when the dwarf finally entered a wide corridor, lighted by windows that looked out upon the Red Place, and I saw the sun shining on the wall beside me, and felt the breeze from an open casement. Halfway down the corridor we found an usher on duty, and to him Maluta used the same password, and he opened the door and bowed me into the ante-room of the very chamber where Sophia and Maître le Bastien still awaited me. The dwarf’s cleverness had served me well indeed, but I had no time to thank him. Sophia sat in the carved chair, waiting for me with a face like a thunder-cloud; and the goldsmith had aged six months in two hours.

“You are long about your errands, sir,” snapped the czarevna as I advanced, her little eyes searching me, as keen as two needles. “Where is Vasili Ivanovitch?”

“He will be here presently, your highness,” I replied evasively; “but I have brought the miniature,” and I presented it with a profound obeisance.

I think she was surprised, but she showed no sign of being pleased. She took it with much deliberation, and turning it over and over in her hands, examined it jealously, as if she feared either deception or some injury to the precious picture, but she failed to find even a scratch upon the ivory. Relieved by this turn of affairs, Maître le Bastien found his voice.

“If your highness will permit me to take the picture and the locket back to my shop,” he said, “I will replace the miniature in its former position with such care that it will not show its removal.”

She cast a strange glance at him over her picture.

“Do you suppose I wish to have it replaced?” she asked scornfully.

“I thought so, madame,” he replied, in evident perplexity.

“Well, I didn’t!” she said acidly, and she looked at the locket viciously. “Have I not evidence here?” she added.

Maître le Bastien caught my eye, and an expression of deep concern clouded his face. To both of us came terrible misgivings; the woman--jealous, powerful, and malicious--was hatching some mischief; what, we could not easily divine. We stood looking at her, both stricken dumb, and feeling the helplessness of our position in her hands, and she eyed us fiercely and keenly, a gleam of amusement on her face. No one spoke, and for a few moments there was profound silence and then--suddenly an uproar in the corridor. The czarevna turned her head sharply and listened, alert and eager, and Maître le Bastien and I listened, too, for we had an intuition of some impending catastrophe. We heard doors slam and feet skurrying across the ante-room, and then a puffing, gasping sound that smote my ear with singular familiarity.

The door burst open, and unannounced and without formality, the fat chamberlain, Kourbsky, my prisoner of the turret, rushed in, puffing and panting, his face scarlet, and behind him came two soldiers guarding two formidable prisoners; the apprentice, Michaud, and our fat cook, Advotia.

_XII: ADVOTIA AS AN INTERPRETER_

IN spite of the uproar attending the hasty entrance of the chamberlain and his captives, the czarevna sat unmoved, her fierce eyes fastened on them.

As soon as he could articulate, Kourbsky pointed at me, with a finger that trembled with rage.

“Arrest that villain!” he sputtered; “chain him, scourge him! He--he locked me in a turret room--your highness, he--he left me a prisoner, and here I find him fawning on your feet! He is a deep, a dangerous rogue, O Sophia Alexeievna; he stops at nothing, he--he----”

“He--what, sir?” I said fiercely, suddenly dropping my assumed character and stepping up to him. “What, sir? Speak out--if you dare--a false accusation against the Marquis de Cernay.”

He staggered back, his eyes starting, fairly frightened into silence, and I thought I caught a gleam of keen amusement in Sophia’s eyes. I turned to her with my natural manner.

“Madame,” I said easily, “this gentleman is stout and suffers from shortness of breath. I found it impossible to carry him about with me, and left him to rest at our quarters until I had despatched your highness’ business.”

The chamberlain fell on his knees before Sophia with a thud that shook the very floor.

“Hear, O Princess!” he said, glaring at me furiously; “the man is a villain. He locked me in a turret after--after treating me with great indignity, and, but for that good fellow yonder,” he pointed at the rogue, Michaud, “I would be there now and, perhaps, murdered. But the good youth let me out and that woman made known to me many things, many----”

“For instance, how to cook sterlet!” I interrupted contemptuously.

“Saint Denis!” murmured Maître le Bastien, “be still--your rashness will cut our throats!”

“She told me what the good youth said; she has learned enough of their heathen tongue to interpret,” continued Kourbsky, “and if I may speak privately with your serene highness, I will unfold all--all. I know who brought the miniature and the locket, and who ordered them changed.”

I stood near Michaud, and at this I turned a fierce look on him.

“Villain,” I said, “for this alone you should hang.”

He looked down sheepishly, but sullen still, and I saw his hands shaking as if with palsy. He had not counted the cost. Sophia’s silence during this scene had been singularly ominous, and now she spoke calmly.

“Go on, Vasili Ivanovitch,” she said; “who brought the locket to the goldsmith’s house?”

“Princess,” I said, forestalling Kourbsky, but speaking with courtesy, “permit me to warn you that the knave who has talked with your chamberlain is but a lying servant, and the woman a cook; neither of them knows anything of the matter.”

“That is so,” added Maître le Bastien gravely; “these people were never in my confidence. Your highness may be greatly misled by them.”

But she was too keen to be thrown off the track. She narrowed her small eyes, drooping her lids, and looked at us, but she signed to Kourbsky to proceed, which he did joyfully.

“The man tells me--through the woman,” he said, “that the locket was brought to the shop one afternoon by the Princess Daria Kirilovna.”

I saw the czarevna draw a deep breath, and her eyes sparkled with something akin to fierce joy. I tried to speak, but she ordered me to be silent, beckoning to Advotia.

“Come hither, woman,” she said sternly, and then to Michaud, “come hither also, knave.”

They both obeyed; Advotia dropping on her knees in great agitation, her fat cheeks quivering, while Michaud--comprehending her gesture rather than her words--stood forth, half sullen and half frightened. The princess began to question him in Russ, but as he understood not a word of what she said, he could only shake his head and stare blankly. Then she addressed her questions to Advotia.

“So you cook for the Frenchmen?” she said.

“Yes, your highness,” faltered the cook, evidently afraid that her service would be accounted a crime, “but if your highness is offended at them, I will cook for them no more--forever!”

“Why not?” asked Sophia maliciously; “could you not the more easily poison them, if I desired it?”

Advotia stared, and then crossed herself in the orthodox fashion.

“I have never poisoned anyone before,” she said piously; “but if you desire it, little mother----”

She broke off, folding her fat hands, the picture of submission. _Ma foi_, I thought, with what security one eats soup in Moscow! But Sophia received the offer with perfect composure.

“Who brought this locket to the goldsmith?” she asked, showing it.

“The Princess Voronin,” said Advotia, so glibly that I could have wrung her fat neck for her.

“She knows nothing, Princess,” protested Maître le Bastien, “she was never in my workshop.”

“You hear what your master says; how do you know, then?” asked the czarevna of our cook.

“There is a keyhole in the door,” said Advotia, with perfect simplicity.

Sophia cast a triumphant look at us. I, meanwhile, remembered the Boyar Kurakin’s adventure with the skillet of soup.

“What I did not see, he told me,” our faithful cook continued, pointing at Michaud, who hung his head now, the picture of dejection; “he told me secrets for choice morsels; he is a great pig,” she added; “he can never eat enough!”

“The locket was brought by the Princess Daria Kirilovna, and the pictures changed by her order,” said Kourbsky triumphantly; “and,” he added, with unusual penetration, “’tis my belief that yonder rogue, after locking me in the turret, went to the princess for your beautiful miniature, little mother, and if your serenity has it now, it is through his cleverness in getting rid of me.”

“I have the picture,” said Sophia.

Kourbsky’s face beamed. “I knew it!” he exclaimed; “I divined the manœuvre; my wisdom could not be deceived.”

“You are a fool, Vasili Ivanovitch,” retorted the czarevna sharply.

The poor chamberlain collapsed; even his fat cheeks seemed to shrink and shrivel. Meanwhile the princess turned to Maître le Bastien and me.

“You deserve the _pravezh_,” she said, in a terrible tone, “but as I have recovered both the locket and the picture, I will only confine you for the present that you may plot no more mischief.”

Maître le Bastien protested. “We are French subjects, madame,” he said; “the King of France----”

“Is in France,” said Sophia arrogantly; “not a word from either of you. Vasili Ivanovitch, take them to the guard-room and keep the two more securely than you kept the one, or else----” She raised her eyebrows and looked at him.

So significant was her expression that poor Kourbsky turned from purple to white.

“They shall be kept, O Princess,” he stammered; “on my head be it!”

“On your head be it!” she replied, and walked slowly out of the room, leaving us surrounded by our guards, and at the tender mercy of the angry chamberlain, who had a double cause to hate us.

_XIII: THE TOCSIN_

IN a little while Maître le Bastien and I found ourselves locked in an unused guard-room of the _terem_, and for company we had the rogue, Michaud. If my scorn had not been equal to my anger, I would have beaten him, but the vermin was not worthy of chastisement from a gentleman. The goldsmith had seated himself in the centre of the room at a table, and was strumming on it with idle fingers, his sober glance bent on the culprit. Michaud, meanwhile, feeling our wrath, and, no doubt, conscience-stricken, stood in the farthest corner, hang-dog in expression, his face drawn and his lips bloodless, while he linked and unlinked his hands before him in a fever of unrest.

“You are an ungrateful dog,” his master said to him at last. “But for me, you would be grovelling for bread in the gutters of the rue de Boucherie. I made you.”

Michaud raised his eyes sullenly.

“I did not mean to harm you, Maître le Bastien,” he said. “I did not know that it would hurt you.”

“You villain!” I exclaimed sharply, “did I not tell you?”

He stared at me. “I did not believe you,” he replied bluntly. “I thought it was some trick of yours--for your own advancement--and I would spoil it. I was tired of your airs; you think yourself better than you are!”

“Silence, you cub,” cried Maître le Bastien; “this gentleman is the Marquis de Cernay.”

Michaud fell back open-mouthed; his face turning from white to red. His crazy jealousy of me had made him betray us, and now he was dumbfounded.

“If I had my cane here, I would lay it over the rascal’s shoulders,” said the Master Goldsmith grimly; “these varlets that insult their betters deserve hanging.”

“Tut!” I said, laughing; “if it had only been the disrespect to me, it would not matter; the fellow is not worth the caning, but he has imperilled a noble lady and lost us our liberty. However, as we cannot hang him, let his conscience do it, Maître le Bastien.”

“He shall be dismissed from my service without a sou,” said the goldsmith sternly.

At this the knave began to whimper, overcome with shame and consternation.

“I vow I meant no harm, but the spoiling of monsieur’s trick,” he protested. “I did not know what the great brute said, until Advotia told me, and then he had whistled up his men and had me fast enough. I do swear to you, Maître le Bastien, that I never dreamed of any peril for either of you; I thought that M. le Marquis only meant to frighten me. I am not ungrateful to you, my master, or unfaithful,” and the fellow drew his sleeve across his eyes.

“Much cause you have to talk of gratitude and faith,” retorted the master harshly; “you are a rascal from head to heels!”

“Was I a rascal when I stood between you and the dagger on the rue Saint Denis?” cried Michaud hotly. “Was I a rascal when I nursed you through the fever at Blois, in ’79?”

Maître le Bastien was silent, his face changing. As for me, I saw now the whole matter; the fellow had been jealous of his master’s favour. I was a new apprentice, or claimed to be one, and had been admitted at once to a greater intimacy and confidence than he had ever attained; I had eaten at his employer’s table and done no work.

“Let the matter pass, Maître le Bastien,” I said lightly. “He has erred, and he is like enough to atone for it here. I forgive him--I pray you, follow my example.”

I did not add that I would never trust the varlet more; it would have seemed a poor revenge on an inferior.

A cloud passed from Maître le Bastien’s face; he was a man of an exceeding kind heart, and loved to give or take offence less than any man I ever saw.

“He must win my confidence again,” he said, relenting; “which will be no easy matter.”

A deep flush passed over the apprentice’s face.

“I will win it, monsieur,” he said.

Willing to let the matter pass, I walked to the window and looked out, trying to locate our position in the palace. The room, which was square and marble-floored, had three narrow windows in it, which were not barred, but, as I found, too high from the ground for the most daring to leap from them. I saw that we were in the front of the palace and our windows all overlooked the Red Place and the Red Staircase. There were wide sills, wide enough for a man to stand upon, both inside and out, and beside the third window on the right, a fretwork of iron ran upward to the roof. I looked at it sharply, to see if it would afford a possibility of escape, but it seemed too slender to uphold a man, and besides it ran up, not down, and the chances of escape by the roof were too remote to tempt anyone to take the risk.

Evening was approaching, and below the court of the Kremlin lay in the shadow; a purple dimness wrapped the distant places, and swathed itself, cloud-like, about the foundations of cathedrals and palaces, creeping upward, as a vapour creeps, while above the white domes and minarets caught the afterglow, and the golden crosses gleamed against the deep, clear sky.

I stood leaning on the window-sill, looking down and reflecting on the strangeness of our position, and deeply troubled, too, over the peril that I knew threatened the Princess Daria, and that I was powerless to avert. I could not even warn her. If I could only find Maluta and speed him on an errand to her, I thought, but the dwarf had disappeared when I entered the presence of Sophia; and I had no means of communicating with him. Knowing that accidents of a sudden and mysterious nature often happened in Moscow, that even the young women chosen as brides by the various czars had been summarily disposed of by jealous factions at court, I had no reason to feel comforted in regard to the princess. That Sophia was jealous of her I could not doubt, and it was not difficult to conjecture the result, and I was helpless! It was this that drove me well-nigh to distraction and made me give tart answers to Maître le Bastien when he began to talk of our situation. Naturally enough the worthy man thought more of his own peril and inconvenience than of anything else, and I had no mind to betray the cause of my uneasiness, so we talked often at cross-purposes, and with little sympathy.

“This is a most unhappy matter,” he said gravely, “and may end in a worse way still.”

“It is,” I retorted, “for a woman’s jealousy is like a fire kindled in a stubble field, and consumes all before it.”

He stared. “I hope the Prince Galitsyn may discover the true situation and deliver us,” he remarked.

“I hope he may,” I said, “and withdraw his ridiculous pretensions.”

“I do not understand you, monsieur,” replied Maître le Bastien.

“I beg your pardon,” I rejoined, “but we both hope for similar results, though from different causes, so we are both of the same mind in the end.”

He looked perplexed. “I do not believe that the czarevna will dare to carry matters to extremes against two Frenchmen,” he said.

“Bah!” I retorted; “she has no conception of the greatness of France, of its splendour, its resources, its power! These Russians think that Moscow is the centre of the earth; their arrogance is absurd!”

“It is,” said the goldsmith; “but it is ever the smallest cock in the barnyard that crows the loudest.”

I replied in kind, and we continued, for some time, to give vent to our feelings by similar expressions, and then, finding that no one came to our relief and that we could not escape, Maître le Bastien produced a pack of cards from his pocket and we fell to playing picquet as long as our one taper lasted. As for supper, we had none, and were forced to go hungry, and to sleep on the wooden settles in the corners; for they gave us no beds, and we would have suffered from thirst as well as hunger, if we had not found a pitcher of clear water on one of the window ledges. In these dismal quarters, therefore, we passed the night, and, awakening with the sunrise, found the prospect still unchanged.

Hunger does not mend the temper, and we began the day grumbling at our treatment, and we were not destined to immediate relief; it was on in the morning, toward seven o’clock, when the door opened, at last, to admit Kourbsky and a serf who brought a meagre meal and set it on the table, so meagre indeed that I began to wonder how three men were to partake of it, when the chamberlain solved the mystery.

“The master goldsmith comes with me to Prince Galitsyn,” he said pompously; “his excellency has interceded for him to her serene high mightiness Sophia Alexeievna.”

Maître le Bastien rose joyfully from his seat at the table and Michaud and I followed his example, but here Kourbsky interfered.

“The master goldsmith,” he said, “and this man,” pointing at his favourite Michaud; “but not you,” and he regarded me maliciously.

Le Bastien halted. “We cannot be separated,” he declared generously.

“That is a short-sighted policy, Maître le Bastien,” I said, in French; “for when you have your liberty, you can obtain mine.”

“You can choose,” said the chamberlain amiably, “between parting with your apprentice or your head.”

The good goldsmith, though by no means a coward, was not a soldier by profession, or even a reckless man. He yielded, saying to me in French.

“My first care shall be for you, monsieur.”

“It is well,” I replied, smiling; “but I hope you will first get a breakfast.”

“Come, come,” said Kourbsky, casting a suspicious glance at me, “we have no time to lose--forward, march, sir goldsmith!” and he hustled master and man out of the room.

Then I heard the door clang behind them, the bolts fall into place, and I was alone in my prison and before me was a _chelpan_--a kind of dough cake--and a cup of water! Both might be poisoned, but a hungry man is not over-cautious. I despatched the dough and drank the water, reflecting that I might need both before I escaped the clutches of my portly friend, the chamberlain, who had evidently determined to avenge himself for his own capture, whether by order of the czarevna or not. Having disposed of my breakfast, which served to whet my appetite rather than to satisfy it, I walked to and fro in the room, lost in thought--and not very pleasant thought. My reflections running so much on the line of those of the previous night, it is useless to record them, but I was in no pleasant frame of mind when I went, at the end of an hour, to look out of the window. The Red Place was nearly as quiet as on the previous evening, but now the sunshine illuminated it, and occasionally a boyar crossed it, or a servant ran out of the palace. The ravens of the Kremlin were circling around the windows and some alighted even on the balustrade of the bedchamber porch. The stillness struck me as unusual; not even a church-bell sounded; it must have been then between eight and nine in the morning. As I stood looking down, I saw the carriage of some great noble roll slowly across the court, attended, according to custom, by twenty or thirty serfs on foot, who went before and behind the vehicle. They were clad in crimson tunics edged with gold embroidery, and yet ran bare-foot, while the harness on the horses was covered with the dangling tails of martens, a decoration much in vogue with the aristocracy, and the _duga_ above each animal’s neck shone with jewels. An old man, stately in bearing and magnificent in dress, sat in this carriage, and at his feet was a slave, also liveried in crimson, while beside him was a slender girlish figure, attired with equal splendour and wearing a long white scarf about her throat, besides the _fata_ over her face. This strange procession halting at the Red Staircase, the serfs assisted their master and mistress to alight, and as they did so, a breeze lifted the nun’s veil and I saw the features beneath it.

It was the Princess Daria.

I stood a moment rooted to the ground, and then the full significance of her arrival at that hour came upon me. That must be her father, and they had been decoyed there, doubtless by the Czarevna Sophia.

I flew to the door and shook it, like a madman. I ran again to the window and measured with my eye the leap to the flint pavement below and knew it to be impossible, and then I stood and cursed my evil fortune. She, meanwhile, had gone on blindly to her fate, whatever it might be, in the same palace where I was a prisoner. There followed an interval of absolute despair and rage; I felt like a caged beast ready to tear my jailers in pieces, if they came, but happily for them they did not, and--though I knew it not--they were little likely to remember me again that day.

The whirl of my passions had made me deaf, but now at last there came a sound that roused me and made me listen. Far off at first, and then nearer and nearer, the bells began to toll, the deep notes of their metal tongues clanging in the clear spring atmosphere, and with this burst of music came the sullen roll of many drums, and deeper, louder, fiercer, the mighty boom of the tocsin--sounded in four hundred churches--rolled like the roar of thunder over Moscow.

I looked out and saw a man running like a wild creature across the square, and then--between the deep notes of the tocsin--came an awful sound, a fierce, many-voiced roar, the cry of the multitude, the savage yell of the mob. A shout below me, thin and shrill, cut the tumult like a knife.