An imperial lover

To Zénaïde I gave a full description of the scene at Mentchikofs palace, and she soon discovered the key to the matter. The episode was much discussed, and she found that Yury Apraxin was an adopted son of Madame Zotof’s brother, and called by courtesy a nephew of the Councillor Zotof. No blood relationship existed; madame’s brother, having no children, had adopted the son of a friend, but young Apraxin held the place of a nephew in the Zotof household. Here, then, was a complication. Not only was the czar offended at one of mademoiselle’s connections, but how would Zotof endure the insult offered to his family? Beyond all this there was another tangle in the skein; Zénaïde was informed that young Apraxin had been absent in Lithuania and was a lover of Mademoiselle Zotof, that her hand had been promised to him,—one of those marriage contracts common in Russia, as in France, when a boy and girl were betrothed in infancy by their parents. At an inopportune time the fiancé had returned to claim his bride, but had been quickly repudiated by Zotof, and in a few days he discovered the cause of his discomfiture. Consequent jealousy of the czar led him to make the offensive speech which had caused Peter’s outburst. Apraxin had been only a week in Moscow, and probably knew nothing, as yet, of M. de Lambert; but I fancied that as soon as he learned the truth, his jealousy of the Frenchman would be more bitter than that which had animated his attack upon the czar. So it was a wheel within a wheel, and it required my wife’s wit to trace it all out.

Meanwhile the czar was apparently wavering between the two fair women, although showing more favor to Catherine since the offence from one of mademoiselle’s family. It was whispered, too, that M. Zotof had found it difficult to accept the affair at Mentchikof’s with toleration. The open insult to his protégé was scarcely repaired by the czar’s forgiveness of the youth’s offence; however, the councillor was, in the end, too wise to quarrel with a sovereign who might smite his adopted nephew with one hand, and raise his niece to a throne with the other. Moreover, madame would not allow him to resent the affront while she had visions of her niece upon the throne of Russia, and it ended in Apraxin being left to nurse his hatred of the czar in secret.

In the midst of these intrigues there was a little ripple of excitement at court over the arrival of a secret envoy from Augustus of Saxony, King of Poland. The envoy had important despatches, and came with great secrecy and precaution, but in two hours his errand was known all over Moscow, so difficult is it to keep court secrets. It was a matter of particular interest to me, as it was my mission to watch the Swedish-Saxon imbroglio. M. de Lambert and I were especially active, and this very Polish envoy was, in a singular way, the cause of an incident that proved more or less important to M. Guillaume. We had both gone to the Kremlin at a late hour in the afternoon, and I had an interview with the czar, while my companion was engaged with the chief of the Department of Foreign Affairs. As we were leaving the palace, the Polish envoy arrived; he left the ante-room as we entered it and, taking up our cloaks, went out into the early Russian twilight. It was a threatening evening and rapidly growing dark. A few drops of rain fell on our faces as we crossed the square, and M. de Lambert looked up at the lowering sky.

“More ice and snow,” he said; “how thankful the Russian must be to see the spring! A man is fortunate to be born in a milder climate.”

I laughed softly. “In my young days, monsieur,” I said, “I remember thinking that the sun shone only in Moscow, and I thought it was even so with you.”

“My sun is for the time obscured by a cloud, M. le Vicomte,” he responded readily.

We had passed out of the Gate of the Redeemer, and were walking slowly towards our quarters. We were unattended, having left both Pierrot and Touchet in Zénaïde’s service, and after a little we fell to talking of the czar and the Polish envoy, and our voices were lowered. A few yards from our quarters, there was a long lane flanked on either side by the blank walls of vacant courtyards. When we reached it, it was quite dark and the rain was falling fast. We were near the end of the lane, when there was a rush behind us and a man flung himself upon my companion. M. de Lambert’s foot slipped, and for the moment he had difficulty in recovering himself under the sudden assault, yet he had grasped and thrown his assailant before I could interpose. The man lay still on his back in the mud, stunned by the heavy fall. We both bent over him curiously, I fully expecting to see Tikhon. He stirred and made an effort to rise, which caused M. de Lambert to lay a heavy hand on his collar, while I removed the pistol from his belt; in doing so, I discovered that it was not Dolgoruky’s equerry, but a younger and smaller man. We ordered him to rise, and he obeyed sullenly, and then stood motionless, an inconvenient prisoner.

“What shall we do with him?” M. de Lambert asked of me in French.

“Take him to our quarters and there probe the matter,” I said at once.

Between us we managed to force the fellow to walk along with us; but a few yards from my door, he made an effort to break away, and only M. de Lambert’s agility checked him. My companion caught him in his arms, and there was a fierce struggle before he submitted and walked before us to the house, where Pierrot took him in charge. I had him taken to an upper room, and, calling for lights, sat down and looked at him. M. de Lambert was handing his cloak and sword to Touchet, when he uttered an exclamation of surprise.

“I have made some mistake,” he said; “this is not my cloak.”

Looking around, I saw Touchet holding up a dark brown velvet cloak with an enamelled clasp.

“I must have picked up the wrong one in the ante-room,” M. de Lambert remarked in an annoyed tone.

I had been examining the garment, and all at once recognized it.

“It is the Polish envoy’s,” I said; “I noticed the clasp.”

“Ah, to be sure,” replied M. de Lambert. “I remember that he laid his cloak aside just before I assumed mine. I have not profited by the exchange. Take it back to the Kremlin, Touchet, and bring me mine.”

While he spoke, I saw a sudden flash of intelligence in the prisoner’s expression which convinced me that he took a curious interest in the cloak. He was a short man, slight but well formed, with a broad stolid face, and his hair and complexion were light, his eyes being pale blue. His garments, although plain, were not poor, and he had nothing of the appearance of a common cut-purse, neither did he look a Russian. A sudden inspiration coming to me, I took the opportunity when his attention was riveted upon M. de Lambert to address him abruptly in Swedish, with which language I was imperfectly acquainted.

“How long is it,” I said, “since you left Sweden?”

“Not two months,” he answered mechanically, and then, realizing that he had betrayed himself, stood staring at me like a trapped tiger, while I laughed. He had fallen so easily into my snare.

M. de Lambert and Touchet both turned at the sound of our voices; the former understood the Swedish tongue more perfectly than I did.

“I have it,” he exclaimed, “he mistook me for the Polish envoy; it was my cloak that he seized first.”

“Ay,” I replied significantly, “the envoy had papers. We have here a pretty bird.”

The fellow eyed me sullenly, the color rising to his fair hair. The more I examined his face the more satisfied I became that he was no common miscreant, and his evident youth appealed to me. Touchet had departed with the envoy’s cloak, and M. de Lambert sat down beside me at the table, shading the taper so that he threw the light full on the face of the Swede.

“What was the motive of your attack on a Frenchman, knave?” he asked, addressing the prisoner.

The man looked at him strangely for a moment, and then seemed to come to a sudden determination.

“I made a mistake, your Worship,” he replied hoarsely. “I pray you, pardon me and let me go. I took you for an enemy of mine.”

“A likely story,” said M. de Lambert; “why should I not rather believe you a common thief? You tried to drag my cloak from my shoulders, and wellnigh strangled me to boot.”

“I made a mistake,” the man protested stolidly.

“You made a mistake only in the person,” I remarked dryly, “you intended either to rob or stab some one—you admit that. Why should we let you go?”

“We ought rather to turn him over to the authorities at Preobrazhensky,” M. de Lambert said quietly.

Now, the secret-chancery of Preobrazhensky had borne an evil name since it had been the scene of the tortures and executions of the Streltsi, when Peter summoned those stubborn rebels to a bloody judgment, and it was a common byword of horror to the Russian miscreant. At the mention of it, the Swede started and his face paled perceptibly. I was watching him keenly, and was quick to see the signs of weakening.

“Call Pierrot,” I said to my companion, “and send him for the captain of the guard.”

At that the prisoner broke down. He made an effort to speak, but only his lips moved at first, then he came nearer to the table.

“Gentlemen,” he said excitedly, “you are Frenchmen. King Louis has no quarrel with the king my master; he even offered mediation at one time between him and King Augustus. I pray you, deal leniently with a Swedish subject. It is true that I mistook his Excellency for the Polish envoy; it is true that I tried to snatch the cloak, which I believe concealed valuable papers; but what of it? I was trying to serve the king. If you deliver me up to the Russians, I shall be hung as a spy, or perhaps tortured to death. I appeal to you as subjects of the King of France to spare me for the sake of Charles of Sweden, whose servant I am.”

M. de Lambert and I looked at each other. Here was a situation. We had unwittingly captured a Swedish spy. If the czar discovered it, we should be called to a sharp account, for Peter was not delicate in his understanding of diplomatic relations. On the other hand, neither of us cared to play the bloodhound for Russia or to sow the seeds of greater discord between Sweden and France. Charles XII. himself could scarcely have been a more troublesome or unwelcome prisoner. I knew from the expression of M. de Lambert’s face that he regretted his own skill in capturing the Swede. But the fact that we had him was palpable enough, and what should we do with him? He was scanning our perplexed faces with an anxious eye. I turned on him sternly.

“Young man,” I said, “you admit that you are a Swedish spy and that you intended a mischief to the person of the Polish envoy. How dare you appeal to French gentlemen for protection from your just fate? We have no authority to save you from the Russians. This is Moscow, not Paris. Why should we interpose at the expense of our country to save a miscreant from the gallows?”

He had listened to me in silence, but a strange change came over his face; it was no longer stolid, but quivered with emotion. He did not appear like a coward at first, yet now he was showing every sign of trepidation. When I finished speaking, he looked at me with a haggard face.

“You will give me up, then?” he exclaimed in a low voice.

“Why not?” I asked coolly, leaning back in my chair, and shading my face with my hand that he might not see my perplexity; “why should I save a criminal?”

“And I shall die that shameful death,” he groaned. “My poor mother!”

I could see by M. de Lambert’s face that he was weakening. He was a gallant soldier, but he had the softest heart I ever knew save in woman. At the first sign of the fellow’s distress he began to waver, and cast reproachful glances at me as I spoke sternly and sharply.

“What is your name?” he asked, abruptly addressing the prisoner.

The Swede’s cheeks burned with shame, but he seemed to derive some comfort from the expression of M. de Lambert’s frank face.

“My name is Gustavus Lenk,” he said slowly; “a poor Swedish gentleman of the king’s household. My record has been honorable, but now they will hang me like a common spy.”

He covered his face with his hands, and broke down in unmanly grief. M. de Lambert plucked my sleeve, making a mute appeal to me for mercy, but I shook my head and answered him in low tones in French.

“We cannot take the responsibility,” I said. “We are in the service of the King of France, we must do our duty.”

“I know it,” he replied; “but this is a poor fellow, and you know what Russian justice is, monsieur.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “It is but a chance of war,” I said calmly; “a man coming on such an errand takes his life in his hand. I confess I should pity him more if he showed himself more of a man. He is too womanish.”

“He is young,” M. de Lambert rejoined pitifully, “and they will torture him. I know that Madame de Brousson would intercede for him; she—”

“Saint Denis!” I exclaimed sharply, “do not tell her. This is no case for a woman!”

The Swede had recovered his composure and was watching us. I read his face, and saw that he knew that M. de Lambert was pleading for him; hope was kindling in his eyes. I pitied him myself more than I chose to admit; he looked but a boy, and I knew only too well the truth of M. de Lambert’s plea.

“Young man,” I said harshly, “you will be shut up in this house for an hour or so while we deliberate, but prepare yourself for the worst. M. de Lambert,” I added, “let Pierrot take him to the west room and guard the door.”

M. de Lambert looked at me a moment, as if endeavoring to read my thoughts, and then went himself with the prisoner, who submitted without a word, a look of dull despair on his face. I heard them walk across the hall, heard the thud of the bar in its sockets as M. de Lambert secured the door. Then I heard him summon Pierrot to go on duty at the door. After a moment he came back and sat down at the table. I had extinguished two of the tapers, but the light of the remaining one fell on his face, which was still anxious. We looked straight into each other’s eyes.

“It was the only way,” I said, after a moment, smiling in spite of myself.

“He is extremely dull,” M. de Lambert replied thoughtfully, “and half stupefied with terror.”

“But, monsieur,” I said dryly, “the window is unbarred.”

Guillaume’s face lighted. “Then surely it will dawn upon his intelligence,” he exclaimed with relief.

“It is an awkward situation,” I returned, “and if he is the blockhead I think him, he may not look for an escape.”

“Or Touchet or Pierrot may recapture him,” suggested my companion, uneasily.

“Pierrot is no such fool,” I said, smiling, “Touchet might blunder, but not the other old fox.”

Nevertheless, we sat there above an hour in some suspense, and then Pierrot came to the door. His manner was perfect.

“M. le Maréchal,” he cried, “shall I alarm the guard? The prisoner has escaped!”

“How and when?” I exclaimed sharply, playing my part; but M. de Lambert’s honest face flamed.

“Through the window, monsieur,” said Pierrot; “the shutters are broken open. He must have been gone some time, for Touchet relieved me at the door, and says he had heard no noise since he was there.”

“Then pursuit is useless,” I said calmly; “you may secure the house and retire, Pierrot. We must avoid the west room as a prison; see that the shutters are barred.”

“Very well, your Excellency,” he said, and moved away with his usual unruffled countenance.

M. Guillaume drew a breath of relief, and I laughed.

“Not such a dullard as we thought,” I said, “and we have escaped more easily than I hoped.”

“What will become of the Polish envoy?” he asked after a moment.

I shrugged my shoulders. “He must protect himself,” I said dryly; “and as for you, monsieur, be careful to wear your own cloak in the future.”

“It is a dangerous thing to wear another man’s in Russia, it appears,” he replied with a smile.