As the Petersburgers caught sight of the carriage, their whisperings ceased, and they eyed the ministers with an air that sent misgiving to the heart of the timid Pahlen; for, if ever hatred was seen in the eyes of men, it was seen in the eyes of the Petersburgers that morning. On the previous day their appearance in public had elicited cheers and other tokens of good-will. Now all was changed; in one night they seemed to have toppled from the height of their popularity. Interpreting this in his own way, Pahlen concluded that in his absence some ill news must have reached the city; that devil of a Nelson—he was known to be in the Baltic—had perhaps been bombarding Revel. When Pahlen turned into the Nevski Prospekt, he met with a fresh shock. As high minister of the Czar, he might surely look for recognition and respect from the fashionable and wealthy crowd, whose daily habit it was to drive to and fro along that grand thoroughfare. But no! A boyar of princely rank, seated in a splendid equipage, drew near. He was well known to Pahlen, who waved his hand in greeting. Looking straight before him, the boyar drove past, altogether ignoring the presence of the chancellor and the general. This disdainful indifference towards men with whom lay the power of banishment to Siberia, kindled the anger of the two ministers, anger that increased as they continued their way. They smiled at this fair lady; they saluted that grandee, but met with no recognition whatever. It was clear that the _élite_ of St. Petersburg had made up its mind to ignore them. Why? Fallen ministers have no friends—in Russia. Was it possible that the Czar had made up his mind to dismiss them, and that his determination had somehow become known to the people? Glancing ahead Benningsen saw coming along the Prospekt a mounted colonel of his own regiment. “Muscovitz,” muttered he, fingering his sabre. “Let the fellow fail to salute, and I’ll run him through.” However, Colonel Muscovitz in passing brought a hand up to his helmet, though in a somewhat perfunctory manner. “Halt!” yelled Benningsen; and the colonel, with a somewhat queer look, reined in his steed. “Are we still ministers of the Czar?” “I have heard of nothing to the contrary, General.” “Then will you tell me what has happened during the past twenty-four hours to cause everybody in St. Petersburg to look as black as the devil?” “Pardon, General; I carry a message from the Czar, and may not tarry in his service. The answer to your question is to be seen at the Orphan Asylum.” So saying, Muscovitz saluted with the same indifferent air as before and rode off quickly, much as if it were a disgrace to be seen talking with the two ministers. The Orphan Asylum? The two looked inquiringly at each other. The edifice in question was a foundation of the ex-Empress Mary, and the ex-Empress Mary, as both well knew, had good reason for hating the existing Ministry.