An Imperial Lover by Mary Imlay Taylor

THE 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.