No man was better able to control his emotion than Loris Baranoff. On the present occasion, however, he sat perfectly aghast. “_You—made—love—to—her!_” “Why not?” “An Imperial Duchess!” “Pouf! A condescension on my part! Hasn’t an empress welcomed me to her arms?” “Bah! don’t compare the damnable old hag Catharine with the young and beautiful duchess. So—you made love to her! And her answer?” As if he would give it!—give it, that is, word for word. No, not even to his brother. He would have braved the rigours of Siberia first. His cheek, seldom touched by the colour of shame, coloured now as he recalled the Duchess’s flaming words of scorn. “She took my offer of love as a deadly affront.” Loris did not wonder at it, though regard for his brother kept him from saying so. “That day,” continued Arcadius, “I made an enemy, and a dangerous one. It is her aim to expel me from office, and to see that I do not return to it. Either I must destroy her, or she will destroy me. Now you see my reason for throwing this Englishman in her way. Why do you smile?” “At the amount of unnecessary trouble you have been taking.” “Unnecessary?” “Entirely so. Now we stand too high in Paul’s regard for her to prejudice him against us?” “Granted.” “It is through the medium of Alexander that she hopes to do us hurt?” “Through none other.” “Ah, well; if her power is dependent only upon Alexander, you will see, after hearing my news, that you need no longer fear either him or her.” “Let me hear the news,” said Arcadius, doubtfully, as he settled himself in his chair to listen, “and I shall be the better able to judge.” Loris put up his pocket-book and began his story with commendable directness. “This morning as I was at the Michaelhof on business the Czar chanced to see me, called me to his side, and began a conversation, while walking, in that restless fashion of his, from room to room, I keeping pace with him. Entering a certain cabinet we came suddenly upon Pahlen standing by a window engaged in the study of some document. Before the Count was aware of our presence, Paul, with that _brusquerie_ so characteristic of him, had snatched the document from his hand, demanding to know what it was. The sudden fall in Pahlen’s countenance told me that it was a paper whose contents he would fain hide; as a matter of fact, though I did not know it at the time, his life was hanging upon a thread, for if Paul had once begun the reading of that paper it would have been all over with the mighty Chancellor of the Empire. However, as you know, it takes a good deal to disconcert Pahlen. He was equal to the occasion. “‘One moment, Sire,’ said he, venturing to take the paper from the Czar’s hand, ‘the document is odorous of tobacco, whose scent I know you dislike. Permit me.’ And taking out a perfume-bottle he began to besprinkle the document, and while casually directing the Czar’s attention to something happening outside the palace-window he——”