Sidekick s survival guide cozy mystery box set 2 books 4 6 christy barritt 2024 scribd download
Sidekick s Survival Guide Cozy Mystery Box Set 2 Books 4 6 Christy Barritt
Visit to download the full and correct content document: https://textbookfull.com/product/sidekick-s-survival-guide-cozy-mystery-box-set-2-boo ks-4-6-christy-barritt/
More products digital (pdf, epub, mobi) instant download maybe you interests ...
Sidekick s Survival Guide Mystery Box Set 01 03 Christy
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Complete Book List
The Practice of Prying
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
CONTENTS
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
The Skill of Snooping
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
The Craft of Being Covert
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
About the Author
COMPLETE BOOK LIST
Squeaky Clean Mysteries:
#1 Hazardous Duty
#2 Suspicious Minds
#2.5 It Came Upon a Midnight Crime (novella)
#3 Organized Grime
#4 Dirty Deeds
#5 The Scum of All Fears
#6 To Love, Honor and Perish
#7 Mucky Streak
#8 Foul Play
#9 Broom & Gloom
#10 Dust and Obey
#11 Thrill Squeaker
#11.5 Swept Away (novella)
#12 Cunning Attractions
#13 Cold Case: Clean Getaway
#14 Cold Case: Clean Sweep
#15 Cold Case: Clean Break
#16 Cleans to an End (coming soon)
While You Were Sweeping, A Riley Thomas Spinoff
The Sierra Files:
#1 Pounced
#2 Hunted
#3 Pranced
#4 Rattled
The Gabby St. Claire Diaries (a Tween Mystery series): The Curtain Call Caper
The Disappearing Dog Dilemma
The Bungled Bike Burglaries
The Worst Detective Ever
#1 Ready to Fumble
#2 Reign of Error
#3 Safety in Blunders
#4 Join the Flub
#5 Blooper Freak
#6 Flaw Abiding Citizen
#7 Gaffe Out Loud
#8 Joke and Dagger
#9 Wreck the Halls
#10 Glitch and Famous (coming soon)
Raven Remington
Relentless 1
Relentless 2 (coming soon)
Holly Anna Paladin Mysteries:
#1 Random Acts of Murder
#2 Random Acts of Deceit
#2.5 Random Acts of Scrooge
#3 Random Acts of Malice
#4 Random Acts of Greed
#5 Random Acts of Fraud
#6 Random Acts of Outrage
#7 Random Acts of Iniquity
Lantern Beach Mysteries
#1 Hidden Currents
#2 Flood Watch
#3 Storm Surge
#4 Dangerous Waters
#5 Perilous Riptide
#6 Deadly Undertow
Lantern Beach Romantic Suspense
Tides of Deception
Shadow of Intrigue
Storm of Doubt
Winds of Danger
Rains of Remorse
Torrents of Fear
Lantern Beach P.D.
On the Lookout
Attempt to Locate
First Degree Murder
Dead on Arrival
Plan of Action
Lantern Beach Escape
Afterglow (a novelette)
Lantern Beach Blackout
Dark Water
Safe Harbor
Ripple Effect
Rising Tide
Crime á la Mode
Deadman’s Float
Milkshake Up
Bomb Pop Threat
Banana Split Personalities
The Sidekick’s Survival Guide
The Art of Eavesdropping
The Perks of Meddling
The Exercise of Interfering
The Practice of Prying
The Skill of Snooping
The Craft of Being Covert
Saltwater Cowboys
Saltwater Cowboy
Breakwater Protector (coming soon)
Carolina Moon Series
Home Before Dark
Gone By Dark
Wait Until Dark
Light the Dark
Taken By Dark
Suburban Sleuth Mysteries:
Death of the Couch Potato’s Wife
Fog Lake Suspense:
Edge of Peril
Margin of Error
Brink of Danger
Line of Duty
Cape Thomas Series:
Dubiosity
Disillusioned
Distorted
Standalone Romantic Mystery: The Good Girl
Suspense: Imperfect The Wrecking
Sweet Christmas Novella: Home to Chestnut Grove
Standalone Romantic-Suspense: Keeping Guard
The Last Target Race Against Time
Ricochet
Key Witness
Lifeline
High-Stakes Holiday Reunion
Desperate Measures
Hidden Agenda
Mountain Hideaway
Dark Harbor
Shadow of Suspicion
The Baby Assignment
The Cradle Conspiracy
Trained to Defend
Mountain Survival (coming soon)
Nonfiction:
Characters in the Kitchen
Changed: True Stories of Finding God through Christian Music (out of print) The Novel in Me: The Beginner’s Guide to Writing and Publishing a Novel (out of print)
CHAPTER ONE
“DID YOU HEAR?”
As soon as I walked into the Driscoll and Associates office, Velma Wells, our administrative assistant, stood from her desk near the front door and hurried toward me.
I stopped in my tracks when I heard the ominous tone in her voice. Had something happened to my boss, Oscar, over the weekend? Or maybe to my coworker, Michael?
Concern pulsed through me. “No, what’s going on?”
“The Beltway Killer struck again.” Velma’s voice sounded low and gravelly as she leaned toward me, the curly blonde hair piled up high on her head falling into her eyes. “The victim’s body was found this morning about three miles from Storm River.”
The breath left my lungs. I didn’t know much about the infamous serial killer, but I knew enough. The monster had been hunting women in this area for the past three years, and four victims had been found so far. His name came from the fact that he always targeted areas near the Capital Beltway around Washington, DC.
Residents had been struck with terror ever since the killings began. Citizens double-checked their locks every night. People, especially single women, didn’t go out by themselves after dark. A general sense of tension and foreboding filled the air.
“That’s terrible.” I gripped the travel coffee mug I’d brought from home. “Do you know anything else?”
“Only what I heard on the news.” Velma’s hand went to her slender hip as her eyes widened. “The victim was in her early twenties and was from Storm River. I’m so upset.”
As she should be. The tragic loss of life should always be mourned.
“Thanks for letting me know,” I said. “Does this have anything to do with our next case?”
Velma’s animated face changed from sad to flabbergasted. “This? No. Of course not. Oscar is waiting for you in his office.”
Of course he was. I hadn’t really thought anything would change, and maybe it shouldn’t.
I worked for a private investigator. Actually, I hesitated to even call him a private investigator most of the time. Oscar Driscoll was simply the man who sat in an office, called the shots, and paid the bills. Meanwhile, my coworker, Michael Straley, and I were the ones who did all the footwork.
Oscar was fine with that as long as he got all of the credit and glory.
On the other hand, Michael had been a great teacher to me, showing me the ropes of investigating. But I still had a lot to learn. With a touch of hesitation, I stepped toward Oscar’s office. When I walked in, I saw Oscar and Michael chatting like old friends. But the conversation stopped as soon as they saw me.
I wasn’t sure how Michael had wormed his way into Oscar’s good graces so easily. Me, on the other hand? I’d only worked here a month, and I’d already been fired twice and threatened with more. I fully expected to be fired again before too long. The question was: Would Oscar take me back next time or not?
Oscar had been a police detective before he’d left the force for some unknown reason—unknown to me, at least. He was in his
fifties and on the larger side, with a thick light brown mustache and an overall lazy work ethic.
Michael, conversely, was almost thirty. He had a squarish face, framed by a shadowy beard and mustache, and a thick muscular build. He liked to wear his baseball caps backward, paired with quirky T-shirts and loafers.
“Elliot!” Oscar’s voice sounded perkier than usual. “Have a seat.”
I glanced at Michael, feeling a tad suspicious. Despite that, I lowered myself into the seat beside Michael and waited to hear what my task would be for the day.
“What do you know about softball, Elliot?” Oscar asked.
My eyebrows shot up. “Softball?”
Was I supposed to know something about it?
I wasn’t exactly a sporty kind of girl. No, give me a book and a cup of tea any day, and I’d be content.
“That’s right,” Oscar said. “Every year, Storm River hosts a big softball game that pits local business leaders against local politicians. It’s called the Bigwigs vs. the Baby Kissers.”
“Bigwigs? Baby kissers?” What in the world was he talking about?
“Bosses are sometimes called bigwigs because men of importance in times past used to wear wigs,” Michael explained. “And politicians used to be known as baby kissers because it was a campaigning technique.”
I suppose that made sense. But I still wasn’t sure what this had to do with me or with investigating anything.
“Practices have been well underway,” Oscar continued. “The game is this Saturday, after all, so there’s only a week of practice left. All the money raised at the game goes to a local food bank. People in this town take the competition very seriously.”
Apparently, people in this town took any type of contest seriously. Just last week, I’d participated in a lip-synching competition, and I was surprised at how people were fully invested— and determined—to win.
“So what’s the problem?” I finally asked, tired of dancing around the fire as if I didn’t have a guinea pig to roast. That was a Yerbian expression.
“The coach for the Bigwigs, a man named James Cruz, mysteriously died over the weekend,” Oscar said. “On the outside, his death may not look suspicious—he was in a car crash—but some people are convinced that it was no accident. We’ve been hired to investigate.”
“Okay . . .” I felt like there was something I was missing here.
“Michael is going to take over as the coach for the team, and you, Dora—”
“Don’t call me that,” I warned. Just because I liked the jungle didn’t mean I liked to be compared to a cartoon character.
“You, Elliot, are going to be his girlfriend.”
My eyebrows wedged together as those words sank in. “I don’t understand. Why would that help solve this case?”
“Michael is a shoo-in as the team coach,” Oscar said.
“True fact,” Michael said.
I understood that part. Michael had played professional baseball, so it made sense. It was the girlfriend part and the fact that we had to go undercover that confused me.
“The person who hired us, game coordinator Wally Winders, firmly believes somebody on the team is responsible for Cruz’s death.” Oscar stared at me, as if waiting for my thoughts to catch up.
“Go on,” I said.
“Cruz was forty-two and divorced,” Oscar said. “He was a former high school baseball coach who, just four years ago, began working as a consultant for a national chain of gyms. He’s led the Bigwigs to victory the past three years.”
“Why does this Wally guy think he was murdered?” I asked.
“Some weird things have been happening lately. Random acts of vandalism. Cruz wasn’t acting like himself. Plus, the car accident
raised some red flags.”
“How does someone murder someone else via a car accident?” I had to ask the question. I couldn’t wrap my mind around that idea.
“Maybe the brake line was cut,” Michael suggested. “I have a copy of the accident report. I’m going to take it to my friend later so he can look at it. Another possibility is that someone ran him off the road and then drove off. There were no skid marks, which seems suspicious.”
“Drugs or alcohol in his system?” I asked.
“Tox screen says no,” Michael said.
“Why would someone on the team be responsible?” I asked, still trying to figure out what exactly we were going to be investigating.
“The vandalisms seem to be centered on the team,” Oscar said. “Plus, Coach Cruz died after leaving practice. We’re being paid to find out if his death was malicious or not. I need you two to get to the heart of the matter.”
“Why do I have to pretend to be Michael’s girlfriend?” Yeah, I was still stuck on that.
“Because nobody is going to believe that you are qualified to be an assistant coach,” Oscar said with a snort. “I haven’t even seen you play, and I know that.”
I might have been offended if his words weren’t true. “But if people around town are participating, aren’t they going to know Michael and I aren’t actually dating?”
“As much as the two of you are seen together, I don’t really think that’s going to be a problem.” Oscar shrugged, as if it was a foregone conclusion.
I felt my cheeks heat for a moment.
I couldn’t argue with that either. Michael and I hadbeen hanging out a lot. Not only on the job, but we’d done some activities outside of work. I’d also been spending time with his daughter, Chloe, including going to a Muffins with Mom event recently.
Maybe the idea wouldn’t be so much of a stretch—to anyone looking in from the outside, at least.
“I’ll do whatever I need to,” I finally said.
“Good. I was hoping you were going to say that. Now, here’s everything you need to know to get started.” Oscar handed me a file before glancing at his watch. “The team’s next practice is tonight. Michael will have to show you the rest.”
I glanced at Michael, who held a vague amusement in his eyes. He had no idea what he was getting into, did he? Because my first instinct when I saw a ball coming at me was to duck.
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s go score a touchdown.”
Michael groaned. “A home run, Elliot. Touchdowns are for football.”
“Of course. Let’s go get a home run.”
I had a lot to learn about this game. Like alota lot.
A FEW HOURS LATER, Michael and I finished reviewing the basics of the case.
When we were done, Oscar told us to take a few hours for ourselves since Michael and I would be on the clock this evening. It worked out perfectly because I’d told Police Detective Dylan Hunter I’d meet him for lunch.
Given everything that had happened with the Beltway Killer, I double-checked to make sure he could still meet. He told me he could.
A few minutes later, I pulled up to my favorite restaurant, a place called The Boardroom. It featured charcuterie boards and board games, which was the perfect combination, if you asked me.
Hunter was already there when I walked in. I supposed I could call him by his first name, but he’d simply become “Hunter” to me. A
smile stretched across my face when I saw him. The man was handsome. Lean and trim, with classic good looks and a reserved manner.
There was something about him that reminded me of Captain America. I didn’t watch much TV, but my sister, Ruth, had forced me to watch that movie, and I’d quickly learned who Chris Evans was. I gave him two thumbs up—and the same for Hunter.
He stood and gave me a quick hug before we sat across from each other.
We weren’t exactly dating. Instead, we were getting to know each other.
Both of us had dramatic—or should I say traumatic?—romantic histories. Hunter’s included his fiancée being killed at the hands of the Beltway Killer.
Mine included being ghosted by my fiancé before I fled a country halfway across the world.
His was far worse. And I knew that today was going to be a difficult day for him, which was another reason I was glad he was still meeting with me.
“I already ordered a pretzel board for us,” he said. “I hope that’s okay. It sounded like the perfect comfort food for today.”
I reached across the table and squeezed his hand. I tried to put myself in his shoes. I could only imagine how he felt. “How are you?”
A shadow fell over his gaze, and tension stretched across his face. “I don’t know, to be honest.”
“I imagine that every time you hear about a new victim it has to be difficult.” I didn’t know if he wanted to talk about this or not, but I didn’t want to miss the opportunity in case he needed to.
“It is.”
My throat tightened at the confirmation. The reality of the situation was absolutely terrifying. “Are you working the case?”
He rubbed his jaw, as if trying to hide how hard this was on him. “No, the chief won’t let me. Says I’m too close to it. Logically, I know he’s correct. But emotionally . . . I really want to jump in. It’s probably a good thing that you and I are meeting for lunch today. Otherwise, I might find myself right in the middle of things when I’m not supposed to be.”
I could relate. I did that a lot. “Is it true the victim was from Storm River?”
He shrugged. “I can’t tell you. Not yet. But as soon as that information is able to be shared, the media will announce it.”
“Of course.” I hadn’t expected him to be able to give me details. I was probably asking too many questions anyway.
As his phone rang, he stood and paced away from the table. I could hear only part of the conversation, but what I did pick up on had me curious.
He muttered something about a rose and a nautical knot. What did that mean? I knew I couldn’t ask. I’d already posed too many questions.
“Thanks for the update,” Hunter said before putting his phone away and coming to sit across from me again. He smiled, as if the conversation hadn’t been a big deal.
But I couldn’t help but wonder what he’d been talking about, and if it had something to do with the Beltway Killer.
CHAPTER TWO
“SORRY ABOUT THAT,” Hunter said, just as our pretzel board was delivered.
I picked up a hot dog wrapped in a pretzel and dipped it into some cheese sauce. “No problem.”
“Enough about me and my work. How is everything with you? How’s your sister?”
I frowned at the mention of Ruth. “Her coughing fits have been getting worse just over the past few days. She did move up on the transplant list, but it’s always a little frightening to see her going downhill so fast like this. She doesn’t want to admit it, but I know she’s struggling right now.”
Ruth had cystic fibrosis, a lung disease. The condition was lifethreatening, as the body produced a sticky, thick mucus that coated her lungs.
“As anyone would be in her shoes.” Empathy filled Hunter’s gaze. “Your mom holding on okay?”
I shrugged. “She’s my mom. She worries about everything. Especially my sister and me. But sometimes, when you’re going through something like this, the best thing you can do is to keep marching forward.”
Hunter’s eyes met mine, and I knew he understood. He’d been through hard times too. Those times, if we let them, allowed us to
grow stronger and deepened our character.
“It’s true.” He shifted. “How about work? You staying busy?”
My stomach twisted into a knot. This was where things got tricky. Since Hunter was a detective and I was an apprentice for a local PI, I never knew exactly what I could tell him. I didn’t want to cross any boundaries or say anything I wasn’t supposed to.
It might get me fired. Then again, what was new?
But I wasn’t sure what harm it could do to share a little bit about this case. Maybe it would help keep Hunter’s mind off of the Beltway Killer for a few minutes.
“Michael and I are working with the Bigwigs vs. the Baby Kissers,” I said.
“What’s so mysterious about that show of arrogance?”
I smiled. Hunter shared my viewpoint on some of the attitudes of people here in town. Most of the people were not only wealthy, but they thought highly of themselves. Too highly.
“Wally Winders thinks that the coach was murdered.”
One of his eyebrows rose. “James Cruz died in a car accident. It was a tragedy, yes. But the investigation was open and closed. The road was slick, he texted someone, and he hit a tree. There were no signs of foul play.”
He’d texted someone? Why hadn’t that come up in my earlier conversation with Oscar? Interesting.
And it made it seem like more of an accident, for sure.
I shrugged, trying to play it off like I’d known that fact. “I know the authorities say it was an accident. But some people think he was intentionally killed.”
“Why in the world would someone think that he was murdered?” Hunter sounded truly stumped.
“I guess some mysterious incidents happened before he died. Michael and I are meeting with someone tomorrow to hear exactly what they were.”
Hunter looked unconvinced as he lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “I hope you’ll be able to find some of the answers you’re looking for.”
“Me too.”
For the rest of lunch, Hunter and I kept our conversation simple. It had been fun talking and getting to know the man a little better. He was on the quiet side, someone who liked to think before he spoke, and he had a great smile.
But now it was time for Michael and me to meet. We had a lot to talk about.
Like alota lot.
Not only had the Beltway Killer struck again and had this coach possibly died by homicide. Michael and I also had another case on the side: the possible murder of my father.
I MET Michael back at the office, and we hopped into his minivan. We were going to pay a visit to his friend Grayson, who lived closer to the DC area.
A rumble of nerves rushed through me as I thought about the quickly approaching meeting. Michael had gone to college with Grayson Whittier, a man who now worked as a computer expert for the CIA. He was helping us overcome an . . . obstacle, for lack of a better word . . . we’d encountered in our quest to find answers about my father’s death.
“You sure you’re ready for this?” Michael glanced at me with concern.
I stared out the window at the city streets as they blurred past. “As ready as I will ever be, I guess. Grayson didn’t tell you what he found?”
“No, he didn’t say what it was. Just that he needed to talk to us in person.”
Michael and I had dropped off a jump drive I’d found in my father’s possessions. I didn’t know what was on the device, but I had a feeling the contents were worth killing over, and that was precisely why a man affiliated with my father had recently been murdered.
My life was a twisted, winding mess right now. To summarize it all, my family and I had moved here from the South American country of Yerba about four months ago. Only a month after we moved, my father had died from a heart attack. About four weeks ago, I had discovered a secret journal he’d kept, where I’d learned he’d been a spy for our home country. The journal also indicated that his death may not have been natural or accidental.
That fact had confirmed to me that the people I’d sensed were watching me were, indeed, actually watching me. But then, just last week, someone who’d been a colleague of my father had been murdered while trying to get in touch with me. It turned out there were multiple people here in the US who were operatives for the new regime that had taken over in Yerba. They’d had a special focus on my father. Now that he was dead, they apparently had a special focus on me.
Confusing, right? I could hardly keep it all straight myself.
That was why Michael’s IT friend was trying to help us decrypt the jump drive. He’d apparently found something intriguing on it and wanted to talk to us face-to-face.
Excitement, curiosity, and a bit of fear washed through me. I had no idea what Grayson might tell us.
“So how was your date with Hunter?” Michael asked as we cruised along the interstate.
“It wasn’t really a date,” I said. “Like I said before, we’re just getting to know each other. No pressure.”
“So how was your noncommittaldate? Did he apologize again for kissing you?”
I shot him a dirty look. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that. It was good. We had good conversation and good food. I can’t complain.”
“Did he tell you anything about this Beltway Killer?”
“He said he couldn’t. I’ll have to learn the details from the media reports.”
“All of this getting to know each other, and he can’t even pull any strings for you?” Michael shook his head in mock disappointment.
I jolted my arm out and punched his tattooed bicep. “You don’t really think I would try that, do you?”
Michael glanced at me and smiled. “No, I don’t. You nearly have an anxiety attack every time we have to make up a cover story.”
We pulled into the parking garage of Grayson’s apartment complex. The place was on the swankier side, but not so expensive that it was gated. Still, all the finishings were high-end and modern.
We took the stairs to the second floor, where Grayson’s place was located.
But as we reached his door, I noticed it wasn’t latched.
Michael pushed his arm back, stopping me from going any farther. His lightheartedness turned into concern faster than a trapjaw ant springing on a victim. “You should stay here.”
Apprehension ricocheted through me.
All the scenarios rushing through my mind weren’t just paranoia. Michael was obviously concerned also.
I lingered near the doorway as Michael pushed the door open. As he did, I caught a glance of what was inside. Chaos.
Someone had been here. Furnishings were turned over. Shelves emptied. Pictures smashed.
I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment, trying to prepare myself for the implications of what had happened. There was only one thing I knew to do. Rhyme.
It’s what I always did when I needed to keep my thoughts occupied.
Why can’t things just be easy? Today’s events are making me queasy. Somethingismajorlywrong.Myquestfor answers istaking toolong. Toomanyhavealreadybeenhurt.Thatfactmakesmefeel likedirt.
I wished the dirt part was just because I couldn’t think of another rhyming word.
But it wasn’t.
If Grayson had been injured—or worse—it was all my fault.
Another random document with no related content on Scribd:
CHAPTER II. THE GOLDEN HALL.
T morning after M. de Lambert’s disclosure the czar held an audience at the Kremlin. All ambassadors and special envoys were expected to be present, and though I laid no claim to either title I was privileged to appear. I saw that M. de Lambert was anxious to shirk the duty of attending me, but I was determined that he should not remain behind, for I foresaw future trouble from his excited mood, and was convinced that it would be necessary to keep him under my own eye. Therefore, a little before nine o’clock, we left our quarters and proceeded to the Kremlin. It was a frosty morning, and we felt the need of our heavy cloaks. The sky was gray,—that cold, even gray that makes the Russian winter so gloomy. The snow was deep, and the domes and turrets of the Kremlin and its fanglike battlements were sheeted in ice. M. de Lambert was still in an angry humor, and muttered some curses on Russian weather which made me smile, for a few days before he had been delighted with Moscow: a lover’s mood is as variable as the favor of his mistress. I could not forbear tormenting him a little with an occasional taunt that made the blood rise to his hair and his brown eyes kindle with a dangerous light. His was one of those sensitive, fiery spirits that flash out in quick resentment, and Madame de Brousson accused me of playing with his mood as a cat would worry a mouse, and yet the young fellow stood high in my esteem. However, he took my pleasantry so ill that morning that I let him have his way at last, and we accomplished the rest of our walk in silence. When we arrived at the Granovïtaïa Palata, the entrance to the Golden Hall was crowded, for the guards still stood before the door. However, we came at the appointed hour, and in a moment the doors were opened and the throng admitted. It was a splendid spectacle, the vast golden hall with its arches supported by a central pillar, and upon the arches were inscribed ancient legends in Slavonic characters, and here and there was a
darkly rich painting in the golden vaults; it made a magnificent background for the brilliant scene. All the men of note in Moscow were there, foreign residents, ambassadors, gallant soldiers, gay courtiers. I noticed at once the czar’s especial coterie, the Princes Dolgoruky, Repnin, and Kurakin, Prince Ivan Troubetskoy, Andrew Matveief, the son of the old chancellor, Prince Boris Galitsyn, the cousin of the exile, Count Feodor Apraxin, and the new favorite, Alexander Mentchikof. In the center of the room stood the czar, a conspicuous figure. Peter was now thirty-one years old, and there was something in his appearance that suggested at once his tremendous personality. His stature was immense, nearly seven feet; his deep chest and powerful limbs showing his great strength, while his presence was commanding. His forehead was high, and he wore an unpowdered brown peruke, which was too short for the prevailing fashion. His complexion was of a clear olive tint, and his nose short and thick at the end, and his lips full. His eyes were handsome, large, dark, and brilliant, reminding me of those of his mother, the Czarina Natalia, but unfortunately affected by the tic which occasionally convulsed his features. He had suffered from a nervous affliction, accompanied by a twitching of the face and body, since he had been poisoned in his youth. His dress was usually conspicuous for its simplicity and carelessness, for he seemed to scorn the insignia of rank, and, in the midst of that brilliant assemblage, he wore a close-fitting brown coat with gold buttons, a linen collar, and no cuffs, his waistcoat, breeches, and stockings being as plain as his coat, which was unbuttoned. He wore no jewels, only the blue ribbon of the Order of St. Andrew which he had created, and of which he was the sixth knight, having received it at the first Russian naval victory over the Swedes, off the Vassily Island in the Neva, in 1702. About his neck was suspended an ancient Greek cross of metal, which subsequently became famous as his ornament at the victory of Poltava. A man of coarse and even brutal instincts, who could look with indifference upon torture and execution, yet withal the ruler born. As I looked at him, it seemed to me a question whether the young Frenchman at my side, undistinguished save by personal bravery, could rival this august personage in the fancy of a young and probably ambitious woman. The czar was no contemptible
tyrant, but a suitor who might dazzle the imagination of a girl. He was royal, and his person was conspicuous for those very qualities of manly endurance and strength which usually attract the eye and fancy of the fair sex.
My personal relations with Peter were cordial. His temperament and manner were alike frank and unconventional. He had an indifference to the forms and ceremonies of a court, and his love of freedom had led him into many a mad frolic in the German suburb. Indeed it had been whispered that these frolics, and the intrigues connected with them, were at the root of the trouble between him and the Czarina Eudoxia.
That morning he greeted me with a little constraint, and I noticed his hawklike eye resting for an instant on M. de Lambert, who stood behind me, and who made his salutation with an air of gloomy dignity. At the time Peter was conversing with two or three officials who stood about him, and some moments elapsed before he had an opportunity to speak to me. After a little while, however, the others fell back, and the czar, finding himself for the instant alone, addressed me with some abruptness.
“A word with you, M. le Maréchal,” he said; “you have a young gentleman in your suite, M. de —”
“M. de Lambert, your Majesty,” I said, supplying the name, as he hesitated and waited for it.
“Ah, yes, M. de Lambert,” he continued; “is he your nephew or your son-in-law?”
“Neither, your Majesty,” I replied; “he is a distant connection of my family, and an officer of the household troops of the King of France.”
“Of noble blood, then,” the czar remarked, while I marvelled and tried to divine his drift; “a good soldier, I presume?”
“A gallant one,” I replied at once, a little relieved at the turn of his questions.
He paused and turned a searching glance on my face.
“A gallant soldier is always admirable in the eyes of the fair ladies, M. de Brousson,” he continued deliberately; “perhaps it would be well for you to remind M. de Lambert that while he is in Moscow I would prefer to see him in his character of an attendant upon the envoy of the King of France and not as an esquire of dames.”
I felt the blood rising on my cheek under the czar’s keen eyes. I was angry, but I made an obeisance.
“Your Majesty’s wishes shall be respected,” I said calmly.
“You understand me, monsieur,” he went on coolly; “I rely upon your amiable discretion. It is my good fortune to have so astute a representative of the Court of France.”
Dolgoruky had approached while he was speaking; and when the czar turned to address the prince, I took the opportunity to withdraw a little from his immediate vicinity I was angry and at the same time amused. It was apparent that he regarded M. de Lambert as no contemptible rival. It was equally obvious that the autocrat would brook no interference in his dovecote, and my amusement threatened to imperil my gravity. I was making an effort to pass through the crowd unobserved and so effect an escape to some spot where I might consider the situation, but I was not destined to accomplish my purpose. Mentchikof met me on my way to the door, and laid a detaining hand on my arm.
“I would speak with you a moment, M. le Maréchal,” he said pleasantly; and we turned aside into a recess where we were practically alone.
“I have but just spoken to your young friend, M. de Lambert,” he began.
“Ma foi!” I exclaimed impatiently, “M. de Lambert is the only man living to-day. Upon my soul, I did not know that he was so important.”
Mentchikof regarded me gravely, a certain intelligence in his glance.
“He is a very accomplished young gentleman,” he said, smiling, “and I understand that he is betrothed to Najine Zotof.”
Now, I knew that Mentchikof was aware that there was no formal betrothal, and I began to suspect his motive. Bearing in mind the czar’s words, I was cautious.
“It is news to me, monsieur,” I said with assumed surprise; “surely M. de Lambert did not inform you?”
Mentchikof shrugged his shoulders.
“Not in words, M. le Maréchal,” he replied suavely; “but such things cannot be hidden. The little birds about a court carry the news.”
I felt a strong desire to make him drink of his own medicine and replied in kind.
“It is sometimes dangerous, monsieur,” I said, “to listen to the whispers of such little birds. In France I have known it to cost a man his head.”
He flushed a little, and I saw a gleam of anger in his eyes; but he was too astute to allow me to ruffle his serenity.
“An easy way of removing his ears, monsieur,” he replied calmly, “but I regret to hear that there is so little foundation for my information. I regret it, you understand. M. le Vicomte, it seemed to me, and to others, that Najine Zotof’s marriage with M. de Lambert would be a subject for rejoicing. I trust that it may yet be arranged.”
I looked at him keenly. While I thought that I understood his motive, I was far from feeling any confidence in him.
“I am not here to arrange marriages, monsieur,” I said calmly, “but to direct some business matters of my own.”
He smiled. “Twenty years ago, M. le Vicomte, you managed to accomplish both missions with conspicuous success.”
I was accustomed to these references to my romantic marriage, and accepted them in good part.
“I had a greater temptation then,” I said lightly.
“Nevertheless,” he continued persistently, “you cannot be without interest in the welfare of your friend; and I have heard that the young
woman reciprocates his affection, and it is a genuine romance.”
“You are marvellously well informed, monsieur,” I replied serenely; “for my own part, I do not pretend to know so much of such delicate matters.”
“You tax my credulity, M. le Vicomte,” he said. “It is impossible for me to believe that a man of your sagacity can be both blind and deaf. M. de Lambert has made friends here, and we desire to see him happily united to Najine Zotof; but it is well in Russia to accomplish these things speedily and quietly. You doubtless understand me, monsieur. There are many who approve of the marriage; it is not impossible to accomplish now; later it might meet with grave opposition. I speak to you as M. de Lambert’s friend and natural adviser.”
“I thank you, monsieur,” I rejoined with composure; “but why should I counsel a Frenchman to contract a marriage which may meet such serious opposition?”
His face hardened, and he looked at me sternly.
“You know Najine,” he said; “you doubtless feel some interest in her.”
“She is young and lovely,” I replied gallantly “It is unlikely that any man would regard her with entire indifference.”
“There is sometimes a hard fate in store for just such young and lovely maidens, M. le Maréchal,” he said coolly. “You remember the Princess Marie Dolgoruky and Euphemia Vsevolozhsky, and even the late czarina,—the nun Helen. Archangel and Siberia are both not impossible futures for candidates for the throne.”
I started. This was plain speaking, and I was certain now of his motive. He had a candidate of his own, and Najine had been so unfortunate as to rival her in the eyes of the czar. I saw it all in a moment, and a grim picture it was. However, I did not permit my face to betray me.
“You should speak to mademoiselle’s natural guardians, monsieur,” I said quietly; “her interests are dear to them, while I could not even suggest such dangers.”
He measured me with his penetrating glance, but I returned it with amused serenity. Two or three nobles were approaching him, and interruption was inevitable. He leaned a little towards me.
“Nevertheless, M. le Vicomte,” he said in a low voice, “you will inform M. de Lambert that his best friends in Moscow desire to see him speedily and quietly married to Najine Zotof.”
I was saved the necessity of a reply by his friends, who joined him now and gave me my opportunity to withdraw. Near the door stood M. de Lambert, and I signaled to him to follow me. In a few minutes we had passed through the guard-rooms and left the palace. When I found myself alone with him, I was at a loss to decide upon my next move. I knew him well; brave, loyal, passionate, impulsive, and headstrong, how could I trust the complicated situation to his discretion? How could I counsel him? With him there would be but one course of action. He loved Mademoiselle Zotof, and would save her, if he could, both from the czar and from the intrigues of her rivals. But how could he accomplish this? I asked myself that question again and again as we crossed the square. He was singularly silent, as if he divined my perturbation or was possessed with a similar anxiety. I cast a sidelong glance at him, mentally comparing him with the czar, and wondering how the two would contrast in the eyes of mademoiselle. I was forced to admit to myself that he was a goodly man; he carried himself with the proud erectness of a cavalier, and his clean-cut, candid face was good to look upon. What he lacked of the czar’s powerful muscle, he gained in grace. I smiled a little as I looked at him, thinking that he was a dangerous rival even for an emperor. I could not decide upon any course, but determined to try his temper We had passed out of the Gate of the Redeemer, and, his foot slipping on a piece of ice, he stumbled and recovered himself with a muttered exclamation of impatience.
“You are out of temper again, M. de Lambert,” I said tauntingly. “You should have more fortitude; there are worse slips than those upon Russian ice.”
He darted an inquiring glance at me.
“I do not take your meaning, monsieur,” he said dryly, “I am not much of a diplomat.”
I smiled “No, I think not,” I replied, “and you may have need to be one. The path on which an emperor treads is too slippery for other men.”
He understood me, and his face flushed.
“There can be no open path which an honest man can fear to tread,” he said haughtily.
“No,” I acknowledged calmly, “fear is not the word; but royalty gives no elbow-room, monsieur.”
He shut his teeth, and I saw his hand playing with the hilt of his sword.
“No man,” he said slowly, “crowned or uncrowned, shall ever thrust me aside unjustly without a struggle.”
“You are a young man, M. de Lambert,” I said quietly; “be warned. The dangers that would assail you would not be half so serious as those which would encompass one—whom we know.”
He started perceptibly. We took a few steps more and then he stopped me. We had turned aside from the Red Place into a narrow lane; on either hand were the blank walls of the courtyards of two houses. I can see his face to-day as plainly as then, when it stood out in such relief against the background of stone. He was pale, and his brows were bent over his troubled eyes, while a lock of his own light brown hair had escaped from beneath his peruke and was blown across his cheek.
“M. de Vicomte,” he said in a low voice, “have you been warned of any danger threatening Mademoiselle Zotof?”
I felt the warmest sympathy for him. His manner convinced me of the sincerity of his passion. I put my hand on his shoulder as I would have laid it on a son’s.
“I will be frank, monsieur,” I said, carried out of all resolution of reserve. “I have been assured to-day of two things,—the czar has a
serious fancy for mademoiselle, and Mentchikof is determined to induce him to transfer it to Catherine Shavronsky.”
“May the saints speed his efforts!” exclaimed M. de Lambert, devoutly.
“In either case,” I went on, “mademoiselle is in danger. If the czar loves her, you cannot hope to oppose him; and if he vacillates between mademoiselle and the Shavronsky woman, Mentchikof and his faction will find a way to deal with Najine Zotof, as other court factions have dealt with rival candidates for the czar’s heart. Poison, exile, death—the course is easy; and if they fail the czar will win, and you, M. de Lambert—must lose.”
He heard me calmly to the end; then, throwing back his head, he looked me in the eye, and I saw the fire kindling in his own.
“Monsieur,” he said, “no tyrant shall crush the spirit and happiness of the woman I love, were he a thousand times a czar! If she loves me, I will win her yet!”
CHAPTER III. AUNT AND NIECE.
M. L had at least one friend whose sympathy was unfailing. Madame de Brousson took the warmest interest in his trials, encouraging him in his rash suit, and even chiding me because I endeavored to point out all the perils and difficulties. “If you had been thus cautious twenty-one years ago, Philippe,” she said to me, “I should not now be your wife.” Which was like a woman, for women love to apply the same rule to all cases. She understood, as well as I did, all the obstacles, but chose to throw the weight of her influence in the scale with love and knight-errantry. Between the two, Zénaïde and M. de Lambert, I was sore beset. The possibility that Peter might demand our young lover’s return to France was imminent, and in any case I could not discover a way for him to defeat successfully his imperial rival. In spite of Zénaïde’s indignant protest, I had grave doubts that mademoiselle would remain loyal to her French suitor in the face of the czar’s wooing. I had been working industriously to ascertain something of the drift of affairs, and found that an impression existed at court that Peter intended to choose a second wife. He had confirmed this by his own words, spoken in his indignation at the discovery of the infidelity of Anna Mons. In the heat of his passion he told her lover, the Prussian minister Kayserling, that he had educated the girl to marry her himself. If he had contemplated wedding Anna Mons, it was far more probable that he would wed mademoiselle. A passing fancy might end in a futile intrigue; but if the czar was indeed seriously considering the idea of marrying her, she was exposed to the machinations of the rival parties at court, and especially to those of Mentchikof. He was now the favorite, and the center of a web of intrigue. His household was conducted by his sister, Madame Golovin, the wife of Count Alexis Golovin; and with her resided the two Arsenief sisters, one of whom, Daria, was said to be beloved by
Mentchikof,—they had both been “boyar maidens,” as the maids of honor were named. To this group had recently been added Catherine Shavronsky, whom Mentchikof was introducing as a candidate for the czar’s affection. He doubtless desired to establish her in the place of Anna Mons, and through the new toy to rule the court factions. If, on the other hand, Peter’s fancy for Najine Zotof interfered with this scheme, Mentchikof would leave no stone unturned in the effort to defeat and ruin the young girl whose beauty had been so unfortunate as to attract the imperial notice.
Such was the situation, and Madame de Brousson and M. de Lambert understood it as fully as I did; but I saw that it was only acting as a spur to his headstrong temperament. I spoke to Pierrot, and warned him to aid Touchet in attending the young man, as I anticipated no little trouble for him, knowing only too well that a sword-thrust or a pistol-shot in the dark was not a singular occurrence in Moscow. My wife did not permit my sympathy to cool, and we were both becoming keenly interested in the little drama. Only one point disturbed my appreciation of the romance, and that in spite of Madame de Brousson’s protests: I had yet to feel assured of mademoiselle’s feelings. M. de Lambert was loud in his denunciation of the Councillor Zotof and his wife; they of course had grown cold to his suit at the first advent of the czar, and now he accused them of endeavoring to coerce their niece. Zénaïde continually urged me to go and see mademoiselle, and so be convinced that she possessed a sweet and candid disposition; and this would also give me an opportunity to observe the manner of her guardians. My wife had no desire to go herself, because she detested Madame Zotof, who was counted one of the greatest shrews in Moscow. Moved partly by sympathy for M. de Lambert, and partly by a desire to become better acquainted with the heroine of the romance, I yielded to the domestic pressure and found an opportunity to visit the councillor’s residence. Zotof’s house stood within a spacious courtyard, and was a solid, comfortable-looking building. The main door opened into a great hall, usually full of serfs and retainers, while the living rooms were all above,—a common fashion in Russia. It was towards evening when I arrived, attended by Touchet; and a serf bearing a taper lighted me
up the stairs, ushering me into a spacious apartment furnished with Russian luxuriousness in furs and heavy hangings. The councillor was entertaining several friends, and his wife and niece were both present. He received me courteously, but I fancied that I was less welcome than formerly, and noticed his glance behind me at the door as if he expected to see M. de Lambert enter also. Zotof was a short, stout man, belonging to the old coterie, and a fair type of the conservative nobility, having, I had no doubt, a wholesome abhorrence of the czar’s innovations. Peter, who was fond of nicknaming the older men, called him the “Prince Pope,” because he had assumed that character at a masquerade. Zotof’s face, which was coarse and flushed with high living, was not brutal, and I could imagine that he found his position full of embarrassment. He had encouraged M. de Lambert until he saw that his niece might hope for a crown, and now found it difficult to extricate himself from his entanglement. Madame, on the other hand, was the picture of a domestic tyrant,—a woman of medium stature, but carrying herself with an erectness which increased her appearance of height, her face pale and sharp-featured, her eyes keen and unsympathetic, and her whole manner sharp and sometimes rude, while not even her smile concealed her shrewish temper. I had long since made up my mind about the pair, and was more or less amused at their different attitudes in regard to me. In former days madame had been gracious to the border of flattery in her address; she had welcomed me as the representative of the king and a marshal of France, and M. de Lambert, as my friend, was an honored guest; but now her ambition had caught a glimpse of more splendid possibilities, she had a higher goal in view, and was untroubled by her husband’s scruples about previous engagements and obligations. She allowed me to see at once that while she still respected my rank, she no longer desired my good offices and was independent of my approval of her niece. I saw all this at a glance, even while I was accepting their hospitality and exchanging courtesies with their guests, and I found an opportunity to observe the young girl who was the cause of all the intrigues and of so much anxiety. Mademoiselle Zotof had remained modestly in the background, but I saw that she was watching the little scene with keen attention. I did not marvel at M. de Lambert’s
infatuation, for her face was peculiarly charming and vivacious. She had that clear white complexion which is occasionally seen with intensely black hair, and her straight black brows were strongly marked above dark blue eyes, her mouth having tender curves that were contradicted by the firmness of her chin. She was not tall, and was delicately formed, but she had the dignity of a young princess. My wife declared that the Russian women had singular ideas about the European fashions, and wore the tawdry clothes that might disgrace even poor stage-players; but mademoiselle had certainly evaded these eccentricities, for her robe was of simple white, edged with ermine and girdled at the waist with a heavy silver cord, and it dignified her girlish beauty without encumbering it with too superb a setting. As I looked at the young face with its charm and animation, I became not a little curious about her. She seemed to me to be the very woman to grasp at an ambitious dream. Whatever she felt, she could hide it well behind that inscrutable little smile, and she roused all my interest.
Zotof’s guests had been enjoying an informal talk before my arrival, but at my entrance there was a certain constraint in the conviviality, although the liquor still flowed with Russian freedom, and we stood about the table conversing in formal tones while madame kept mademoiselle beside her in the background. I was determined to obtain a nearer view of the latter, and after a little manœuvring managed to make my way to madame’s side.
“I see you but seldom at court now, madame,” I said, making a direct effort to sound her feeling, and I saw her quick glance at my face.
“I have always lived a retired life,” she replied calmly; “but now my husband desires me to appear upon all state occasions, and I shall make an effort to obey. I have heard with regret, monsieur,” she added, “that you are so soon to return to France.”
It was my turn to glance at her in astonishment, for I thought for a moment that she knew of some move of the czar’s; but the expression of her face satisfied me that it was a haphazard shot and that the wish was father to the thought.
“Madame is misinformed,” I said; “I have been delayed, and do not now expect to leave as soon as I supposed.”
I saw her disappointment, and could scarcely restrain a smile.
“I am so fortunate,” I continued gallantly, “as to be permitted to enjoy the society of my kind friends here for a yet longer period.”
“And Madame de Brousson remains also?” she asked a trifle tartly, for she had doubtless detected my observation of her niece and knew the cause. “Your wife is a Russian, I believe, M. le Vicomte?” she added.
This was my opportunity, and as soon as she gave it, she regretted it and stood biting her lip.
“Yes, madame,” I returned, glancing at mademoiselle, “my wife was a lovely Russian girl about the age of your fair niece when I won her. She preferred the heart and sword of her French lover to the rank and fortune of one of the imperial family, and I am happy in the assurance that she has never regretted her choice.”
I was looking at mademoiselle while I spoke, and she raised her eyes to mine with sudden comprehension, a beautiful blush suffusing her fair face. Madame, following my glance, and seeing mademoiselle’s confusion, gave me a look that would have annihilated a timid man; but I was too old a soldier to shrink under a woman’s disapprobation, and I took the opportunity to address her niece.
“Mademoiselle has never been to France?” I asked, changing my position so as to stand between the two women.
“I have not had that happiness, M. le Vicomte,” she replied in her soft voice, which had none of her aunt’s shrewish tones.
“It is a fair country, mademoiselle,” I said pleasantly, covertly watching madame’s growing anger; “I wish that you might see it and know my daughter, who is, I think, nearly of your age.”
“It would give me much pleasure, monsieur,” she replied softly, her blue eyes glancing at me with a certain penetration which showed
me that she had a character of her own behind that modest and blushing exterior.
“Mademoiselle would love France,” I went on easily, watching both aunt and niece; “it is the country of beautiful women and brave men.”
Madame laughed harshly. “M. le Maréchal has an excellent opinion of his own countrymen,” she said sharply.
“Naturally, madame,” I replied suavely; “although Russia is equally fortunate with us in the beauty of her women, I will not admit that her men are more brave.”
Madame swept me a mocking curtsy.
“The men of mature years are doubtless worthy of every panegyric, M. le Vicomte,” she said tartly; “but the young French gallants whom I meet lack discretion.”
Mademoiselle’s face was crimson, whether from embarrassment at her aunt’s rudeness or at the cut at her lover, I could not divine; but I saw that madame was unwittingly playing into my hands.
“What young Frenchman has been so unfortunate as to meet with madame’s disapproval?” I inquired with assumed anxiety. “There are so few French in Moscow; I trust it is not my own friend, M. de Lambert.”
Madame frowned; she had not anticipated my candor.
“My observation was general and not personal, monsieur,” she replied shortly.
“You relieve my mind of much uneasiness, madame,” I said with feigned earnestness. “I know there is unjust prejudice against my countrymen here, and I should be sorry to have you misjudge M. de Lambert, one of the most gallant and true young soldiers of France. It would interest you, mademoiselle,” I added, turning pleasantly to Najine, who had not yet recovered from her embarrassment, “to hear of his conduct upon the field of Friedlingen. His Majesty the King of France has been pleased to acknowledge personally the conspicuous gallantry of this young fellow.”
And I proceeded to tell her with picturesque detail some stories of M. de Lambert’s courage, and had the pleasure of seeing her eyes kindle with excitement, while madame stood by fuming and tapping the floor with her foot, no doubt wishing me back in my native land. I could not repress a malicious amusement at her expense, she was so little adroit in handling the weapons of intrigue and so honestly illtempered. Her niece, on the other hand, changed visibly, her face flushing and her manner relaxing as she listened to my eulogium, and I knew well how to touch upon those points of courage and devotion that hold the admiration of a young girl. Mademoiselle was convent-bred, and to her mind men were either the bold villains of the ballads or knights of the cross, and she probably comprehended her flesh-and-blood lover as little as she understood the world. It seems to me that there is nothing so sublimely ignorant of life, as it is, as a young girl just looking out from the seclusion of her home; and it occurred to me, as I watched the innocent candor of her emotion, that her marriage to the czar would be a sacrifice for the saints to weep over. Innocence and purity, youth and beauty, how sad the immolation! I thought of my own daughter, and was drawn towards the maiden. Perhaps it was the father in my tones that won her confidence, for she looked at me with growing kindness in her glance, asking more than one question about my country and my home. On one point I was reassured: she was not at all afraid of Madame Zotof. I saw that. She was even a little amused at the older woman’s anger, and I perceived too that she had plenty of spirit, and was not likely to yield herself an easy victim to any of their intrigues; indeed, there was decision in her manner, and she had a proud way of holding her head that rejoiced my heart.
While I was still talking to mademoiselle, I heard madame utter an exclamation, and, following her angry eyes, saw M. de Lambert entering the room. He had never looked so handsome, and he carried himself haughtily as he advanced towards M. Zotof. Madame made a swift movement to intercept his approach to her niece; but I was too quick for her, and stood directly in her path, suave and smiling, ready to converse with her; and she hesitated, her face red and her sharp eyes trying to look over my shoulder at M. de Lambert, who was bending low over mademoiselle’s hand. Madame
and I looked at each other in mutual defiance, and I stood my ground.
“I have always desired to ask you, madame,” I began, saying the first thing that came into my mind, “if you were personally acquainted with the Czarina Natalia? I had the honor to know her Majesty, and always desired to hear something of the last years of her life.”
“Monsieur had better ask one of the court functionaries,” she replied tartly. “I was living in the provinces, and knew little of her imperial Majesty. Have the kindness, M. le Vicomte, to permit me to speak to my niece.”
I stood aside with a profound bow. I had gained my point, and madame knew it, for M. de Lambert had had his opportunity, brief though it was. Madame Zotof swept up to Najine, and, laying a hand upon her arm, spoke a few words in her ear which were not difficult to interpret, for the young girl flushed hotly, and with a formal curtsy to M. de Lambert and to me withdrew, leaving her aunt triumphant and her lover furious. It required all my diplomacy to relieve the situation, for M. de Lambert had a quick temper, and the contempt that a noble nature feels for intrigue. I interposed between them, and, drawing her into conversation, gave him time to recover his equanimity, but was glad of the arrival of more guests, which furnished an excuse for our departure, for I felt that I could not trust the hot-headed gallant in madame’s hands. As mademoiselle had withdrawn, he was willing enough to depart with me, and I breathed more freely after we had made our formal exit and I had him once more in the street.
“You young coxcomb,” I said, addressing him with that freedom which our relative positions and my age permitted me to use, “why must you anger madame at the outset, and so exile yourself from the house which enshrines your divinity? You are indeed a poor diplomat.”
“Sanctus!” he exclaimed, “that woman! If she were a man I could run her through, but she delights in the immunity of her sex. A termagant! A meddlesome vixen!”
“Upon my soul!” I exclaimed “A French gentleman—a soldier, and calling a woman such names!”
His cheek flushed hotly, and he quickened his pace.
“She deserves them all, and more,” he said; and then I saw that he held a scrap of white paper in his hand, and in a moment divined the truth.
“Ah,” I said wickedly, “I see that madame’s vigilance is not unwarranted,—signs and tokens.”
For a moment he was embarrassed, and then threw himself upon my confidence without reserve.
“It is but a line,” he said, with some manly confusion that pleased me, “a line which I begged for—to tell me the reason of the change there of late. It is as I feared; the czar is interfering with my happiness. The Zotofs have announced to her that they have other schemes for her future and that she must not see me again, and she bids me farewell.”
He was deeply moved, and for the moment we walked on in silence.
“Mademoiselle does not strike me as one who would surrender so easily,” I remarked quietly.
“She shall not,” he said passionately; “she shall not be crushed into submission to the dictation of that woman.”
“And how do you propose to avert the impending catastrophe?” I asked, tormenting him at will, for he was wrought up to the height of his temper.
“I mean to marry mademoiselle and carry her off to France,” he exclaimed in so clear a tone that I laid my hand on his sleeve; but at that instant there was a scuffle behind us, and I turned in time to see Touchet, with his sword half bare, staring angrily at a tall stranger who was muttering an apology in Russian, entirely uncomprehended by the angry Frenchman.
“What is it, Touchet?” I called out to him.
“The fellow was so busy listening to you, M. le Vicomte, that he nearly walked over me, and now only stands gibbering,” my equerry answered angrily.
I translated what the Russian had said, and Touchet let him pass, but not before I had obtained a view of his face, and he looked back at me again after getting past my attendant. He appeared to me a poor gentleman who might be of the suite of one of the noblemen.
“A word to you, M. de Lambert,” I said to my companion as we went on; “do not speak your mind so freely in Moscow.”
CHAPTER IV. THE LIVONIAN PEASANT GIRL.
I the next few days matters went from bad to worse. M. de Lambert found it impossible either to see mademoiselle or to communicate with her, and I saw that he was chafing under the restraint and would break out into some act of folly. For my own part, I regarded his case as desperate. The czar was not the man to let his wishes be thwarted; his temper was as violent as his rule was absolute, and it grew more clear every day that his preference for Najine was a fact, and not fancy. That the Zotofs would be complaisant was apparent enough, and mademoiselle’s own feeling was, after all, of little consequence. Watching the affair in its slow development, and being a constant witness of M. Guillaume’s anxiety and disappointment, I found myself becoming almost as interested as my wife. So it was that I promised M. de Lambert to aid him, if I could, knowing that my chances of seeing mademoiselle would be far better than his, even though Madame Zotof regarded me with an eye of suspicion and was openly hostile to Madame de Brousson, having previously discovered her championship of mademoiselle’s lover. Zénaïde was a little chagrined that she had betrayed herself by too much zeal, but was the more urgent for me to embrace the opportunities that she had lost. Having all her friends among the women, she heard the gossip of the hour and was able to aid me with many suggestions. Indeed, it was to her that the King of France owed the greater part of the information about the intrigues with Augustus of Saxony and the negotiations with the Republic of Poland; her quick eye and attentive ear caught the drift of the undercurrent. She was the first to see Catherine Shavronsky, and returned from Mentchikofs house with her mind full of the singular peasant girl.
“You must see her,” she said to me; “she is not so poor a rival for Najine as I supposed.”
