The rebellion of the Princess

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.