An imperial lover

When I warned M. de Lambert of Apraxin’s jealousy, he treated it with the scorn that I had anticipated. To him the disappointed lover seemed but a sulky boy, and he attached no importance to his threats until he found that mademoiselle came no more to the cathedral. It was evident that the ill-tempered youth had become a tale-bearer; failing to execute his threat in any other way, he separated mademoiselle from her lover by the interposition of her uncle’s authority. M. Guillaume fretted and fumed to no purpose; if he had met Apraxin he would undoubtedly have given him a thrashing, but the young fellow had cleverness enough to evade him, and time passed with no news from mademoiselle. The day arrived for the semi-annual blessing of the river Moskva before this silence was broken.

The blessing of the river was a ceremony as old and as sacred in the eyes of the Moscovite as the holy white city of Moscow itself. Four years before, Peter had made one of those changes which shocked the conservative Russian. It had been the custom to begin the year on the 1st of September, dating from the beginning of the world, for the Russians believed that the earth was created in the autumn with its perfected fruits. By an imperial decree, his Majesty ordered the year to begin on the 1st of January, dating from the birth of our Blessed Lord, as all the nations of Europe were accustomed to date it. This was in 1700, and his people received the change with as little favor as they received the czar’s other innovations. The custom of blessing the river fell upon the Feast of Epiphany, and was a solemn event. The patriarch and all the clergy of Moscow were present with the czar and the court officials, foreign ministers and residents; rich and great, poor and humble, assembled on the banks of the river to witness the benediction.

The day was fair; the sun shone on the white walls and buildings of the Kremlin and on domes of gold and green and azure, and on a myriad cupolas, all studded with stars and surmounted by crosses, and everywhere touched by the white hand of the snow; and circling around them, soaring high overhead, flew the ravens of the Kremlin, their croaking voices making a strange monotone through all the ceremonies, their black forms now sweeping around some tower, now floating, with suspended wings, above some great cathedral. The city was full of activity, its narrow streets thronged with people, crowding toward the one spot, until every avenue was choked with the masses. M. de Lambert and I were fortunately placed, and could look down upon the scene. It was an orderly assembly, for the Russian has a deep reverence for holy things, and there was no confusion even where the populace pressed close upon the soldiers. The river was frozen, and the troops were drawn up upon its bosom, phalanx after phalanx, war-worn veterans and raw conscripts, Russian and Cossack, presenting a curious spectacle to the eyes of the foreigners. I marked the great improvement in organization, in bearing, in clothing. Here was an army where there had been none, and it was due to the untiring energy and ambition of one man. The sun flashed on polished arms, on coats-of-mail, on helmets, and on the blades of Damascus, as the troopers waited there upon the ice, a great, compact, unwavering mass of men; and in their midst, mounted on his favorite horse, Lisette, was the czar, more like an image than a man, his great stature and huge limbs seeming to make other men diminutive. The center of all the pomp and panoply of war, surrounded by his glittering staff, he wore the simple uniform of a Colonel of the Preobrazhensky regiment, his personal guards, and there was no order, only the Greek cross on his breast. The Preobrazhensky regiment was the outgrowth of those boy soldiers that the common people had called the Potieshnie Koniukhi, “troops for sport,” and Peter had risen from the rank of bombardier sergeant, having enlisted in that capacity under the name of Peter Alexéief. It was his peculiarity to court a simplicity that was sometimes an offence to the pride of the Russians accustomed to look upon the person of the czar as sacred. That day, the expression of his face was stern and even sad. He was subject to seasons of melancholy, and for the time was under the shadow of some depression. A man who stands above his fellows, not only by virtue of his rank but by a certain greatness of soul, is alienated from their sympathy,—isolated in his elevation. Peter was a reformer, and since the world began reformers have been more or less hated by their contemporaries. I think the czar felt peculiarly alone, and there was, too, some shadow on his soul that no human sympathy could reach. He sat there on his splendid horse, a solitary figure amidst those tens of thousands, a soldier, a statesman, an emperor, and alone in the presence of his people. Every eye in that vast assembly was upon him, but he was as unconscious as a statue. Near him was the patriarch, his pontificals blazing with gold and silver and jewels, his miter surmounted by a jewelled cross,—an imposing figure surrounded by his priests in their Byzantine robes, their copes of silver and gold, and the acolytes in vestments of nacarat velvet and gold. They went down into the little open chapel that had been erected over the square cut through the ice to the dark water below; the slender pillars of the chapel supported a dome in which was suspended the dove with its golden rays, and about it stood the silent, statuelike guard of soldiers, and in the biting cold every head was bare. In the silence that falls upon a multitude when hearts are stirred, the priests chanted the solemn service, and at the final moment the cannon boomed heavily upon the air, then again came the low, even chant of the priests. The patriarch’s voice, though clear and loud, did not reach the outskirts of the vast assembly, and many there could only follow the ceremony by his gestures; but the responsive tones of the people rose in low deep notes, one mighty wave of sound, which was echoed from the battlements of the Kremlin and rolled away toward those vast plains that, surrounding the city, extend as far as the eye can reach to be lost in the horizon. Yet, impressive as was the ceremony, splendid as was the figure of the patriarch, all were alike insignificant beside that silent man upon his horse; the ruler of the Russias held the throng fascinated by that peculiar power that made Peter always the central figure; something about his individuality that was more than the mere habit of command and was born with him, constituting one of those influences which exalted his personality in the estimation of his people, in spite of a hundred faults and weaknesses that would have ruined a lesser man.

The scene left an enduring impress upon my mind; the clear atmosphere, the pale blue sky, the white Kremlin, the frozen river, and the brilliant assemblage, blazing with gold and jewels, against the background of the populace in their dark and often ragged clothing, brightened here and there with a touch of scarlet or of blue.

After the ceremony was concluded, there was a procession to the churches, and a banquet at the Kremlin, at which the czar entertained all the ambassadors and the nobility,—one of those tedious and interminable feasts which were so burdensome with their ceremonial and their inevitable termination in carousal, for the Russians and the Germans, of whom there were many, were heavy drinkers. I noted a significant indication of the drift of intrigue in the presence of the Councillor Zotof in the personal circle of the czar, and saw that Mentchikof was as uneasy and watchful as his opponent was complaisant. Zotof was one of those blatant fools who congratulate themselves too soon on an apparent victory, and was not keen enough to measure the wit and the resources of the favorite. The czar’s gloomy mood cast a shadow upon the fête, and I observed that he did not respond at all to M. de Lambert’s obeisance,—another sign of the times. King Augustus’ private envoy had departed, and I could not avoid some speculation about the Swedish spy. I fancied that he had either followed the Pole or was still loitering about the court in quest of valuable information. We had so happily escaped all responsibility in regard to him that I congratulated myself on my good fortune in finding a solution of the difficulty.

In the course of the day Alexander Mentchikof found an opportunity to speak to me privately.

“M. le Vicomte,” he said, “I thank you for your visit to my house. Mademoiselle Catherine told me all, and I shall not forget your friendship. Tell M. de Lambert to be of good cheer; the game is not yet lost, and it will be many a day before I yield to that old fool across the way.”

He referred to Zotof, who was standing opposite, talking to a group of his friends, and the picture of self-satisfaction.

“Mademoiselle Shavronsky is well?” I inquired courteously, anxious to avoid a too personal conversation.

The favorite smiled, and gave me a keen glance. “Mademoiselle is under a cloud at present,” he said significantly, “but there must be a change erelong, unless we surrender at discretion, and you know how probable that is.”

“I cannot imagine it, monsieur,” I replied dryly, “and you have my good wishes.”

“I thank you,” he said with dignity, as he turned to rejoin the czar.

Peter had been observing us, and it was sometimes unpleasant to find his keen eye upon you; it must have been peculiarly uncomfortable for Mentchikof at a time when he was straining every nerve to thwart his master’s fancy for Mademoiselle Zotof.

It was near midnight when M. de Lambert and I left the Kremlin together. We were not in a talkative mood, and traversed the streets in silence, each wrapped in his own thoughts. Mine were anxious, and I fancied that his were gloomy, since there had been little to reassure him at court to-day. We had reached the door of our lodgings when a man stepped out of the shadow of the house and, approaching M. de Lambert, addressed him in Russ.

“A word with you, master,” he said.

My foot was already on the doorstep, but I stopped, feeling some alarm for my companion.

“You may speak here,” M. de Lambert said sharply.

The fellow hesitated. “I was directed to deliver my message to you alone,” he replied, drawing a small packet from under his cloak.

“I am alone,” M. Guillaume said.

“My mistress directed me to place this in your hands,” the man explained, giving him the packet and turning away.

“Hold!” exclaimed M. de Lambert, excitedly; “there is some answer?”

“None,” the messenger replied, “and I dare not linger. I have waited too long already.”

He turned as he spoke and walked rapidly away, his figure soon disappearing in the darkness. M. de Lambert, following me into the house, went directly to a table in the hall where Pierrot had left the tapers burning. The packet was a small one, tied with a gold cord. In a moment M. de Lambert had it open, disclosing a band of gold with a single large emerald on the clasp, a bracelet that I had myself seen on the arm of Mademoiselle Zotof; wrapped about it was a strip of paper which her lover unfolded eagerly. I confess that I was nearly as curious as he, and watched his face as he read it.

“She has been closely guarded,” he said after a moment, “but she can be at the bridge to-morrow at dusk.”

“At the bridge at dusk,” I repeated; “this is a strange appointment, monsieur. If she has been closely guarded, it is marvellous that she can evade them at such an hour and that she should select such a spot Are you sure that it is her writing?”

He was half indignant at my criticism.

“It is not only her writing, monsieur,” he replied, “but this is her bracelet.”

“I recognize the token,” I said, “but older blood is cautious, and I like neither the place nor the hour of the appointment. However, you can take both Pierrot and Touchet with you, which will be a greater protection for mademoiselle.”

“That cannot be,” he answered quickly, “since she especially requests me to come unattended, for some reason of her own.”

For the moment I was silent. Not only did mademoiselle’s request surprise me, but it seemed unnatural and without justification. She knew that her lover was encompassed by a net of intrigue, and it was more like a woman to surround him with precaution than to desire him to risk his person unprotected in a lonely spot at nightfall, and I could not suppose that she intended to bring a sufficient guard, for in the very act of evading the authority of her guardian she could scarcely command a numerous escort. The whole business seemed to me suspicious, but I saw that he was carried away by the one thought of seeing mademoiselle once more.

“At least, monsieur,” I said, “you will permit me to accompany you as a friend, if I stand at a distance and do not offend against mademoiselle’s rules.”

He smiled a little at my words.

“I cannot even permit that,” he replied. “I must obey not only in the letter but the spirit.”

“A faithful lover,” I said, smiling also; “I wish I shared your confidence in the authenticity of the document. At least, monsieur, go armed and be watchful. There are many here who would rejoice at your undoing; the fact that we have not lately seen a spy at your heels does not reassure me. Prince Dolgoruky saw that we were over-watchful, and it may be that he would disarm our suspicion, if he could. I know the ways of Moscow, and I warn you to beware upon what ground you tread.”

He was standing on the opposite side of the table, holding mademoiselle’s bracelet in his fingers, and he looked at me and smiled.

“In the old days, monsieur,” he said, “were you as cautious? If Madame de Brousson had sent for you, would you have waited for an escort?”

I laughed and shook my head.

“Young blood,” I said, “young blood! I do not criticise you, monsieur, I only suggest caution. I cannot say that I exercised it. Fortunately for me, I got off with my life. The dangers which surround you are less violent, but far more subtle. Be warned, M. de Lambert, and look well to sword and pistol before you keep the tryst.”