Part 1

THE REBELLION OF THE PRINCESS

OTHER BOOKS

BY M. IMLAY TAYLOR

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_On the Red Staircase_ _The House of the Wizard_ _The Cardinal’s Musketeer_ _An Imperial Lover_ _A Yankee Volunteer_ _Anne Scarlett_ _The Cobbler of Nimes_ _Little Mistress Goodhope and Other Fairy Tales_

The Rebellion of the Princess

_By_ M. Imlay Taylor

[Illustration]

M^c.Clure, Phillips & Co. New York 1903

COPYRIGHT, 1903, BY

McCLURE, PHILLIPS & CO.

Published, March, 1903, R

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

I. THE MAJOR-DOMO’S WHIP, 1

II. THE MINIATURE, 14

III. THE BOYAR KURAKIN, 23

IV. THE MAKING OF A FRIEND, 35

V. THE PRINCESS DARIA, 45

VI. THE DWARF, 56

VII. THE SUMMONS, 66

VIII. THE GREAT CZAREVNA, 73

IX. I MAKE A PRISONER, 81

X. IN THE GARDEN OF THE KREMLIN, 89

XI. THE PLOT THICKENS, 98

XII. ADVOTIA AS AN INTERPRETER, 104

XIII. THE TOCSIN, 110

XIV. A DESPERATE CLIMB, 121

XV. THE PRINCESS AND THE CZAREVNA, 129

XVI. THE PAINTED GALLERY, 138

XVII. CROWNED WITH RUE, 147

XVIII. AN HOUR OF PERIL, 155

XIX. AT NIGHTFALL, 163

XX. THE ESCAPE, 174

XXI. THE STEWARD’S REVENGE, 182

XXII. A DRUNKEN ORGY, 189

XXIII. A SPRIG OF RUE, 199

XXIV. GALITSYN, 206

XXV. MICHAUD’S REPENTANCE, 216

XXVI. MALUTA BUYS TWO SOULS, 224

XXVII. “IS IT THOU?” 234

XXVIII. THE HUT ON THE ROAD, 243

XXIX. A DUEL WITH SWORDS, 254

XXX. THE PRINCE VORONIN, 261

XXXI. VASSALISSA, 268

XXXII. THE MAN WITH THE PURPLE SCAR, 277

XXXIII. I SOW DISSENSION, 285

XXXIV. A BOYAR’S FUNERAL, 293

XXXV. THE DWARF AND I, 301

XXXVI. THE PRINCESS, 309

XXXVII. THE WOMAN, 316

THE REBELLION OF THE PRINCESS

_I: THE MAJOR-DOMO’S WHIP_

FROM my post at the window I could look down upon the court-yard of the palace of the Boyar Kurakin. Although it was early in May, it was a cold day in Moscow, and the sun shone obliquely into the yard, cut off as it was by the walls of two houses. The black mud of winter had not dried off the centre of the court, and there was ice in the corner by the water-butts, and ice hung, too, on the north side of the roof, under the eaves, like the ragged beard of the old man of the north, Moroz Treskun, or the Crackling Frost, as the moujik names him, while above, around the great chimney, a group of ravens were huddled together in the sun, preening their plumage and croaking now and then in a solemn fashion.

The boyar’s house was large, and shaped like a Greek cross, the kitchen and the servants’ quarters opening on the court, which was crowded now with the serfs, for the steward of the household was giving one of the varlets a taste of the whip. The doors and windows of the kitchen gaped wide, filled with curious spectators; some, I fancied, half in sympathy with the poor rogue who squealed under the lash, and others applauding the major-domo, whether from fear or love I knew not. He was a burly fellow with a red head and a short, red-bearded, fierce-eyed countenance, and had the serf by the waistband with one giant hand and with the other he laid the whip on his bare back, leaving a long welt across the brown flesh with every cut. The slave howled and writhed, the whip cracked, the spectators applauded or jeered, as fancy seized them, and then, quite suddenly, there was a diversion.

The water-butts were in the corner at the steward’s back, and a dwarf darted out from behind them, quick as a wasp, and cut at the major-domo’s calves with a leather thong and was back under cover before the big man could wheel around. And he, thinking that he had cut his own legs with the long end of his lash, and furious at the titter of the servants, laid it on the poor serf with redoubled venom until the blood ran. Meanwhile the dwarf executed a weird dance of triumph on the ice by the water-butts, mocking the steward in dumb show, and beating an imaginary victim, his thin cheeks blown out and his brows knotted, to the delight of his audience, thus furnished with a double entertainment. He was one of those wretched little creatures that haunted Moscow, the playthings and spies of the courtiers, and he was unusually small, even for a dwarf, with a strange pointed face, white and three-cornered, like a patch of paper, and with great ears shaped like the leaves of a linden standing out from his head as if upon stems; it was by these ears that I always knew him afterwards, even in the crowd of court midgets. Encouraged by the success and the private applause, the little wretch darted out again and repeated the performance of whipping the steward’s legs, while the men and women held their sides with laughter, because the fat beast danced and swore and lashed, like one beside himself.

But it was an ill jest for the rogue in his clutches, and, minded to end their sport, I shouted to him, in Russ, to look behind the water-butts for the wasp. The fat fool gaped at me in amazement, and the dwarf, darting from his covert, was running full speed for the kitchen before he spied him and made after him. But one of the men, willing to save the little beast, no doubt for the sake of the laugh, tripped the major-domo as if by accident, and down he went in the mud of the court-yard, bellowing and splashing like a whale.

I laughed until the tears came into my eyes, and whether he heard me, or thought I had some hand in it, I know not, but when he got to his feet, all bedaubed with mud and green slime, he shook his two great fists at me and shrieked defiance; at which I laughed the more. His face grew as red as his beard.

“Come down, you dog of a tinsmith!” he shouted, cracking his whip in the dirt. “Come down, and I’ll take the hide off your back!”

I laughed again; for the life of me, I could not be angry with the wretch. His burly figure and his impotent rage only aroused my contempt, and I heeded his threats and his gestures as little as I did the mirth of the kitchen behind him. I know not how long he would have continued his pantomime, if it had not been for another attack of his inveterate enemy. While he was shouting at me I saw the ravens rise suddenly from the roof with a whir of black wings, and the dwarf came dancing along on the very verge of the eaves. He had evidently dropped from the windows of the _terem_, the women’s quarters, which there, as usual, occupied a separate upper story of wood, which overlooked the flat roof of the wing. The little creature executed a fandango over the steward’s head and then suddenly let fly a pebble, with such accurate aim that he took the fat man fairly under his left ear. He was alive to dangers now, however, and, discovering his foe, started for the kitchen-door with a bound, while the dwarf, waiting only for him to disappear, came sliding down over the edge of the roof, and swinging by his long arms he dropped, with marvellous agility, on the ledge of the window below, and from there, swinging again, monkey-fashion, on the window of the lower story, he finally dropped into the yard, amidst a burst of applause from the serfs. Meanwhile, the major-domo, arriving at last at the window over the roof, looked out in baffled fury, and seeing me still at my post, cursed me in Russ and two or three other dialects. “O meat for dogs!” he bellowed, “’tis through some signalling of yours, and I’ll pay you for it! I will--by the beard of the Saint Nikolas of Mojaïsk! May the black god smite you!”

I shrugged my shoulders and left the window in disgust. So he called me meat for dogs and a tinsmith; that was the cream of the jest! By Saint Denis, a tinsmith--I, Jéhan de Marle, Marquis de Cernay, an officer of the household troops of Louis XIV., King of France, and cousin to the Duc de Richelieu! Yet, after all, the varlet had some reason for his gibe, for did I not figure in Moscow as the apprentice of Maître le Bastien, the goldsmith of Paris? Ah, and thereby hangs a tale!

Twelve months before, my evil star took me to Paris for Easter. I had been in Normandy, on my estates, and had served in the Palatinate. Before that I won distinction, under the very eye of the king, at Ghent and Ypres, and the saying at court was that no service paid out of his sight, while in it there was such a scramble that Spinola bit the royal finger--when he saluted the king’s hand--to make his mark among the herd of sycophants. But, as it happened, the king noticed me without the bite, though afterwards I paid for the recognition.

It was then scarcely three years after the Peace of Nimequen; France was on a pinnacle of glory; Strasburg had fallen without a shot, and Catinet had entered Casale. King Charles the Second of England had taken his wages with some grumblings, and retired from the war, and the Prince of Orange had been forced to yield to the Estates of Holland and conclude the peace; the King of France held a line of towns from Dunkerque to the Meuse, and Spain was disarmed. Louis had maintained the war against Europe and was victorious; “singly against all,” as Louvois said. It was a season of glory and joy for every Frenchman, and especially for every French soldier.

But what of it? What if fortune seemed to smile, and the rewards of courage were within my grasp; what of it? I say. My evil star took me to Paris, and all the world was at the festival. Mme. de Montespan, the king’s mistress, was at dagger’s point with Mme. de Maintenon, who was the governess of her children and the rising star, as all the world knew; for “the Star of Quanto,” as they called Mme. de Montespan, was near to setting, though she could still afford to lose and win again, four millions--in one night--at basset.

There also was M. le Vicomte d’Argenson, taken by his evil star--a deadly evil one it proved--to Paris and to me. He was cousin to Mme. de Montespan, and as black-hearted a knave as ever wore a velvet coat and clean ruffles at court, and that, as I would have you know, is saying much. Ah, well! monsieur and I were in Paris, and ’twas Easter week, and Mme. de Montbazon gave a ball at the Hôtel de Montbazon. It was one of the most magnificent fêtes in Paris; wine flowed in the kennel of the Rue de Bethisi, so they said, and madame gave a silver lily to each of her guests, while Vatel himself was superintending in the kitchen. The lily for the young Duchess of Burgundy was of gold set with pearls and diamonds. The world was there, great and small, and one little maid from Provence, a dependent of the Princess de Condé, country-bred and honest, as I chanced to know, although she had an old hag of a mother who would have sold her soul to make a fine match for her daughter, and had even been to that great man, Bontemps, the king’s chief valet, to inquire about the possibilities of securing a rich husband. But that is neither here nor there.

It all happened at the very height of the ball, and it was thus I lost my silver lily. I was on the grand staircase, and at the landing was M. d’Argenson, with a throng of rufflers, waiting for the king. And, at the moment, as ill luck would have it, the little maid from Provence, Mlle. Lamoignon, came up the stairs, her face aglow with pleasure and looking, as I thought, not unlike a Provençal rose herself. Satan being in the heart of M. le Vicomte, doubtless it was his prompting that made the man go out, before us all, to meet the child and try to kiss her; at which she cried out, resisting with all her might, and the beaux on the landing laughed. M. d’Argenson, being in liquor and angered, I take it, by the titter behind him, turned on the girl and grossly insulted her before us all. I was but two steps above them and, quick as a flash, I caught monsieur by the shoulders, and flinging him back against the wall with one hand, with the other I slapped my glove in his face. D’Argenson was a mixture of bully and coward, and had his sword out in a trice, and was at me, the others crying to us that the king was coming. But I caught his rapier and, breaking it across my knee, flung the fragments over the balustrade with a gibe, and he, with the face of a fury, cursed me, standing on the same step, while little mademoiselle cowered under my arm like a frightened pigeon.

“Monsieur will pay for it--with blood!” screamed M. le Vicomte, growing purple above his cravat.

“Pish!” I retorted, laughing in his face. “Jéhan de Cernay cares not for vermin.”

“Coward!” he said, and struck me on the side where mademoiselle cowered, so that I could not ward off the blow, and it slanted on my cheek.

Then the devil rose in me; I thrust her away, and catching him about the waist, flung him headlong on the stairs, just as the ushers in the lower hall began to shout, “The king, the king!”

M. de Mazarin and M. de Besanvel, my friends, hustled me off out of sight, and there was pandemonium on the staircase! Mme. de Montbazon furious and in tears because of the fracas, Mlle. Lamoignon hysterical, and M. le Vicomte, with a bruised head and a black eye, shrieking for vengeance. To make a long story short, the next morning I received monsieur’s cartel at my lodgings, and being privately warned by M. de Mazarin that the king was angry and I might look for the provost-marshal, I lost no time in choosing the hour and the weapons. We fought that day in the Place Royale with swords. What would you? I was accounted one of the best swordsmen in France, and I had the advantage of being indifferent. M. de Besanvel was with me and M. de Palisot with him. So far my evil star shone propitious and sparkled, for monsieur’s nerves were unstrung and his head sore.

I remember the scene quite well. The spring was forward; it was Thursday in Easter week, and the trees were feathery with green and the violets bloomed. ’Twas afternoon, and long shadows fell aslant the green turf and the sun was warm. Monsieur, stripped of coat and waistcoat, confronted me in a white ruffled shirt and trousers of blue satin, with ruffles of point de Venise, and silk stockings and red-heeled slippers. I saw his bloodshot eyes and his purple lips, and we crossed swords, while M. de Besanvel engaged M. de Palisot. It was not long; I spitted him at the second round--my famous thrust over the guard--and I saw him die without regret--vermin!

That was the end of it. We left him in the arms of the surgeon and M. de Palisot, who got but a scratch from Besanvel, and I rode post-haste from Paris with his majesty’s provost-marshal at my heels--and all for a girl I did not know. Saint Denis, such is life!

It seemed that Mme. de Montespan, the handsome she-devil, was hot for my ruin, and would give the king no rest; so Paris would not hold me, nor Normandy, nor France. In this dilemma I bethought me of Maître le Bastien, the goldsmith, then on his way to Moscow, summoned thither by Prince Basil Galitsyn. Maître le Bastien was my father’s friend and mine, and one whom I had benefited in more ways than one; to him therefore I went. Was not a journey to Russia and, mayhap, an adventure or two, better than a dull exile over seas? To protect Maître le Bastien from trouble, I travelled under an assumed name; I had the passports of his apprentice, Raoul,--who fell ill of the small-pox, the week before we left Paris,--and no one suspected my disguise unless it was the little varlet, Michaud, who hated me from the first. Thus out of Paris, and its envy and favour, I dropped into the northern capital, and found it less interesting than I had hoped--which shows that a man sees but an inch beyond his own nose.

I had been in Moscow now nearly a year, and the Czar Feodor was just dead and the two factions--the Naryshkins and the Miloslavskys--were quarrelling to the knife over the succession to the throne, and the quarrel was all the more bitter because it was a family one. It came about in this way. The Czar Alexis the Débonair married first a Miloslavsky, by whom he had several children, among them the Czar Feodor, his successor, but just dead; then Alexis had married a second wife, the young and beautiful Natalia Naryshkin, who became the mother of a boy and a girl. At the death of Feodor his natural successor would have been his own brother, Ivan, but Ivan was weak-minded and blind, and the Patriarch and the Naryshkins stirred up the populace to elect Natalia’s boy, Peter, a lad of nine. But the victory, though apparently easy, was destined to bear black fruit, for behind Ivan, the idiot, was his clever and daring sister, the Czarevna Sophia, who wanted the throne herself, and supporting her was her clever cousin, Ivan Miloslavsky, and Prince Basil Galitsyn, one of the most enlightened of the young Russian statesmen. And the balance of power seemed to be for the time with the Streltsi, or national guard, the only military organization of Russia, and both parties were intriguing with the soldiers, who, dissatisfied with their officers, their pay in arrears, and some of their hereditary privileges threatened by political changes, were ripe for mischief. Trouble growled deep and loud in the lanes and alleys of Moscow; in the palaces and the hovels of its three towns were whisperings, and terror, and intrigue.

But little I cared for all this, and time hung heavy on my hands, for I had many dull hours, and it was in one of these that I watched the dwarf torment the steward, and found the scene amusing.

I was still pacing the workshop in an idle mood when Michaud, the apprentice, found me.

“Monsieur,” he said, with his air of knowing more than he chose to tell, “two ladies are below, determined to see the master.”

“Of what sort, Michaud?” I asked; “old or young, fair or fat?”

“How can I tell, monsieur,” he replied, with a shrug, “they are hooded as close as an ugly nun.”

I laughed.

“Maître le Bastien shall not have all the fun,” I said; “let them come up, Michaud, and not a word to tell them I am not the master goldsmith.”

He gave me an odd look and went out, and presently I heard his step again on the stairs, and with it the rustle of skirts and the sound of soft laughter.

“So!” I said to myself, “the jest is not all on one side.”

_II: THE MINIATURE_

MICHAUD opened the door and stood back to admit my visitors, casting another look of intelligence at me. But the two did not enter at once; instead, there was much ado, whispers and suppressed laughter in the hall, one hanging back and one pushing forward, until my curiosity was alive, and I stood waiting with my eyes on the door. At last, with another ripple of laughter, they came in; two slight figures, muffled in the long, straight Russian cloaks, fur-edged, with conical hoods over their heads, their features as completely concealed as any nun’s of Port Royal. Determined to play my rôle of goldsmith to the life, I had hastily picked up a mallet and a bit of beaten gold, and, with these in my hands, I made a becoming obeisance. Both the cloaked figures responded, and here at once I noted a difference between them which no similarity of dress could disguise: the taller of the two inclined her hooded head with the air of a queen, the smaller one nodded at me with a suggestion of infinite good humour. They remained silent,--struck dumb, no doubt, at their own daring,--and we three stood confronting each other without a word. It was evident that the pause might be eternal, and I heard Michaud shuffling his feet outside the door; the rogue was listening. I had learned to speak Russian fairly well and I called it to my aid.

“How can I serve you, madame?” I said, awkwardly enough, I suspect, for the shorter girl tittered, while the taller one silenced her with a gesture, and addressed me in excellent French.

“You are a goldsmith, monsieur,” she said, in a clear voice, her accent sweet rather than harsh. “I would have this locket opened.”

As she spoke she held out a gold locket and chain which she had been hiding under her cloak. A glance told me that it was of great value, and a rare piece of workmanship, encrusted with precious jewels, and shaped like a pear. I took it gingerly, knowing no more of a goldsmith’s trade than an unborn babe, and fairly caught in my own trap. Whether she saw my awkwardness or not, I could not tell, but she drew back a little, seeming to examine me with curious eyes. I suddenly remembered my hands, when I became aware that both girls were looking at them; my signet was on my right hand, and their sharp eyes had discovered it, beyond a doubt; but what of it? They knew nothing of French heraldry--or as little as I knew of them, and I was more anxious than ever to peep under those hoods. Meanwhile, in spite of my busy thoughts, I was trying in vain to find an opening in the trinket. It showed not a crevice, but lay in my hand, a marvellous golden pear, gleaming with rubies and diamonds and sapphires, and with a crest that I could not decipher on its lower end.

“It baffles you, monsieur,” remarked the taller maiden, a trifle coldly.

The perspiration gathered on my brow; what, in the name of the saints, could I do with it? And I was figuring as a master goldsmith with the abominable thing lying sealed in my hand. The smaller nymph began to shake with laughter again under her cloak.

“’Tis magic, Daria,” she said, with the merriest laugh in the world, her hood slipping back enough to disclose the rosy, roguish face of a girl of sixteen or seventeen, with a pair of eyes as blue as the sky.

“I will have it open for all that,” retorted her companion imperiously. “Monsieur, there is a secret spring.”

“Precisely, mademoiselle,” I replied, with a bow, “so secret that ’twill not confide in a stranger.”