CHAPTER XXX.

A FUTURE EMPRESS.

THE few weeks that followed were eventful. I received the long-expected summons from France to return, for as yet the hour for a Russian alliance was not ripe, and Peter was not held in high esteem until after the victory of Poltava, which was yet to come. At this time Charles XII. was in Poland intriguing with the Primate Radziejowski, and intimidating the Diet at Warsaw. Augustus of Saxony had been deposed, and Charles was engaged in selecting a sovereign for Poland who would be his creature. It was already apparent that his choice would be Stanislas Leczynski; and in the following July, in the field of Wola near Warsaw, a few electors, surrounded by Swedish troops, proclaimed Stanislas King of Poland. It was one of the comedies of the King of Sweden, and the two dupes, Augustus and Stanislas, continued their rôles, quarrelling for the Polish crown and being, in fact, mere puppets, while Russia and Sweden wrestled for supremacy. Meanwhile the Neva, precious to the heart of the czar, had been threatened by land and sea, and there was the promise of sufficient occupation to keep the northern princes out of the War of the Spanish Succession.

I was anxious to depart, for my own position at court was embarrassing. Prince Dolgoruky and the faction opposed to Mentchikof were intensely angry at my successful manœuvre, and M. Zotof and madame his wife were feeding the flames. They had returned from their fruitless pursuit, frantic with rage and disappointment, and both desired to wreak some vengeance upon my devoted head. Indeed, madame lost no opportunity of assailing me with her sharp tongue,--an annoyance which, while failing of great harm, was yet offensive; however, I could endure it with serenity since I had received the tidings of M. de Lambert’s safe arrival in France with his bride. I did not lose the opportunity to inform madame of her niece’s safety, and she replied that Najine would doubtless soon be as glad to run away from France and her French husband as she had been eager to leave her guardians. To which sally I replied that it was a fair land, full of brave men and gentle women; and madame, finding that the shaft was intended for her, darted a glance of withering scorn at me, and swept on. In my heart, I was sorry for the “prince pope,” for his wife cast all the blame upon him, making him the scapegoat of the faction. Her protégé Apraxin was in exile,--a miserable tale-bearer and spy, not worth the angry contempt that Peter felt for him.

The Swedish spy was not a little troublesome to me; the day after my interview with the czar, it was bruited about that there was a Swede in Moscow on some secret errand. Doubtless the knave who had quarrelled with him spread the report, and I found it difficult enough to keep suspicion from my quarters, and more so to despatch the man in safety, for he had found it impossible to get away at once. I owed him much, and both Zénaïde and I felt a keen interest in him, so that we managed to send him away at last under cover of darkness and with a full purse, which had been increased by a contribution from M. de Lambert. I had no desire to meddle with a Swedish spy, but the man Lenk had my pity, and I gave him help with a free hand, although if he had been taken with my money upon him it would have been a serious matter. The world is a hard school, and the young man in a shabby doublet has the harder battle because of its shabbiness. When we march up the road to the Eternal City, will the gay coat of the cavalier precede the ragged shirt of the beggar? Sometimes, methinks, I see the Angel with the flaming sword, who keeps the Gate of Paradise, look strangely on the bedizened gallant of the court, as upon one whose face he knows not. I am an old man now, and I have stood on many a stricken field,--with Turenne, with the Prince de Condé, with Luxembourg, Villars, Villeroi, Catinat, and many more. I have seen thousands die, and, truly, the poor camp follower makes as brave an end as the gallant gentleman. Nothing do we bring into the world, neither take we anything from it; and the naked soul before its Maker can give small account of the estates of earth. An emperor and a slave are equal at the bar of Heaven; yet men still contend for the kingdoms of this world, and the greatness thereof! And what is the end but the grave and corruption?

In a few weeks it was manifest that there was a change at the Russian Court. Mentchikof loomed up once more triumphant; the Austrian emperor had lately made him a Count of Hungary, and two years later he created him a prince of the Holy Roman Empire, and from that time honors and emoluments were showered upon him. Almost immediately after Najine’s marriage, Catherine Shavronsky was made conspicuous by the czar’s notice, and there were rumors that she would be even more powerful at court than Anna Mons; as yet no man dreamed that this Livonian peasant who was to become Peter’s mistress would wear the crown of Russia, that she would be untiring in her efforts, and never swerve until she reached the goal of her ambition. I have often thought that those years must have had their bitter humiliation for her; that she must have hated that forlorn figure, the “nun Helen,” as the Czarina Eudoxia was named, who stood like a shadow between her and the crown, even when the czar acknowledged her children,--as bitter to Catherine in her triumph as humiliation and exile must have been bitter to the unfortunate Eudoxia behind her convent walls.

It was the day before we finally left Moscow that Catherine Shavronsky sent for me, and I responded to her summons. Madame de Brousson and I had taken formal leave of the czar, and our preparations were complete, so that nothing remained but to leave Moscow on the morrow, and in the evening I went to Mentchikof’s palace to hear what Mademoiselle Catherine had to say. There was to be a fête that night, but when I went, no one had yet arrived, and I was ushered into the empty _salon_, and, while I waited, observed idly the splendid decorations of the apartment, its magnificent hangings and long mirrors, which reflected every object in the room. It was the house of a prince, indeed, and I did not marvel that Mentchikof’s debts often overwhelmed him, arousing even the czar’s displeasure. Yet in the years to come, when he was Duke of Ingermannland and Prince of Izhora, with an immense income and almost royal revenues from the many high offices that he held, the favorite still ran into debt. He had few of Peter’s simple tastes, although he had shared the czar’s hardy education; like all the favorites of royalty, he was the victim of over-indulgence; yet he was to owe his continuance in favor, more than once, to the intercession of his own protégée Catherine Shavronsky, long after she had outstripped him on the path to power; but she was generous enough never to forget the debt that she owed him. “The journeyman pastry-cook,” as Mentchikof was sometimes called in malice, and “the servant-maid” were to be the powers behind the throne.

I had waited but a few moments, when the door opened at the farther end of the _salon_, and Catherine came in alone. As she walked up the long apartment toward me, I thought that I had never seen her more queenly in her bearing. She wore a rich robe of some pale blue material that clung to her figure and swept about her feet; her rich complexion contrasted well with her fine dark eyes, and her smile was captivating; in her light hair shone a single jewel, an opal that was radiant in its varying hues, and on her breast was a miniature of the czar surrounded with diamonds,--his gift, and a conspicuous token of his favor. Her disposition was naturally amiable, and she had all the charm of youth, and it was said that her soft voice had a peculiar attraction for Peter. I made my salutation, and she responded with graciousness.

“You are welcome, M. le Maréchal,” she said, smiling. “I sent for you that I might be assured of the safe arrival in France of Madame de Lambert.”

“She is quite safe, mademoiselle,” I responded, “and also her husband.”

Catherine laughed. “Her husband,” she repeated slowly; “it seems strange that we accomplished that marriage in the face of such difficulties. It has been in my mind often, and you, M. l’Ambassadeur, you saw the czar.”

She looked at me questioningly, and in an instant I divined her object. She desired to fathom the matter, and to know just how much the czar had cared for her rival; here, at least, I could be a match for her.

“I had the honor to bid his Majesty farewell but yesterday, mademoiselle,” I replied gravely, “I leave Moscow on the morrow.”

“Ah! but I intended to say that you saw the czar immediately after Najine’s flight and while his Majesty was still angry,” she said simply, searching my face with her dark eyes. “Is it true that he threatened to seize them, declare the marriage illegal, and throw M. de Lambert into prison?”

I raised my brows in feigned surprise. “Mademoiselle astonishes me,” I remarked; “I do not hear all these rumors.”

She cast an indignant glance at me, but smiled at the same moment.

“M. l’Ambassadeur, you never forget to be a diplomat,” she said archly; “do you ever speak with candor?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “Frequently, mademoiselle,” I returned, smiling also; “but an old fellow like me cannot wear his heart upon his sleeve.”

“Alas!” she cried with feigned surprise, “have you a heart? It seems to me that courtiers have none.”

“Nay, mademoiselle,” I said gravely; “but soldiers have, and I am a soldier.”

“So is the czar,” she rejoined at once. “Truly, monsieur, do you think he loved mademoiselle so deeply?”

She had assumed a coaxing manner, laying her white hand upon my arm; but I am accustomed to woman’s wiles, and hardened my heart.

“How should I know, mademoiselle?” I asked her tormentingly, “being but a weather-beaten veteran? Ask some fair dame of the court. Never saw I yet a king who could not love.”

She stamped her foot impatiently upon the floor. “Ah, M. le Vicomte,” she cried, “you mock me. You saw the czar alone--and in a moment of passionate vexation: he showed his feelings to you, doubtless, and why not admit it?”

“Mademoiselle,” I replied gravely, “when you have lived as long as I, you will know that it is a perilous thing to know a king’s heart and far more perilous to betray it. Moreover, you forget that to a soldier his honor is as dear as his life.”

She looked at me a moment in silence, and then a smile broke over her handsome, passionate face.

“Yet you have told me, M. l’Ambassadeur,” she said with a woman’s triumph. “I know that he loved her--but she is gone!”

She paused, and stood there a picture of triumphant beauty; a woman with the tigress in her nature, passionate, bold, ambitious; a peasant, a slave, an empress to be. I have never forgotten her, her haughty head erect, her eyes sparkling with emotion, her full red lips parted and showing her teeth; young and handsome, and marked out by a strange destiny to be the favorite, the mistress, the secretly wedded wife of Peter the Great, and, at last, Empress of all the Russias.

She took a step toward a door near her, and I saw that, failing to draw all the secret from me, she intended to cut short the interview.

“Najine is no longer here,” she said in a tone of exultation, “and I owe much to you. The day of my evil fortune is past, and I will remember always those who were kind to me. No man shall call Catherine ungrateful. M. l’Ambassadeur, I kiss your hands!”

With these words we parted. From that day she continued to ascend the path of ambition that was to lead her up the blood-stained steps of a throne. The Livonian peasant girl died an empress.

THE END.

ON THE RED STAIRCASE.

BY M. IMLAY TAYLOR.

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TALES FROM THE ÆGEAN.

BY DEMETRIOS BIKÉLAS.

_Translated by Leonard Eckstein Opdycke. With an Introduction by Henry Alonzo Huntington._

16mo, 258 pages. Price, $1.00.

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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.