“I will hear Ouvaroff. I will examine him—by torture if necessary. If you and he are found to be liars, you die. If you speak truth——But I’ll not think _that_, yet. Where is this Lord Courtenay at the present time?” “In St. Petersburg, Sire, at the French Embassy.” “The French Embassy! How comes he to be there?” Baranoff explained the circumstances. “What was the Baroness’ motive for this act?” The Count shrugged his shoulders. “Mischief, pure mischief! Pauline de Vaucluse is sometimes a woman, and sometimes a girl. As a girl she delights in offering defiance to established authority. ’Twas unwise of the Marquis to countenance his daughter’s action, for whatever secret this Englishman happens to pick up at the Embassy will soon be transmitted to his own government.” “How? You think him to be a spy?” “I _know_ him to be such,” replied Baranoff, who, always able to lie like truth, was on this particular morning quite surpassing himself. “This Lord Courtenay, who wanders about Europe, ostensibly in search of adventure, whose rank procures him admission to the highest circles, is in reality a secret agent of the British Government. Young, handsome, accomplished, and of noble birth, he is the very person to take a woman’s fancy. By some means he has got to know of the Duchess Marie’s infatuation for him, and he comes to St. Petersburg with the subtle view of using her as a medium for acquiring State secrets. Be sure, Sire, that whatever matters you communicate to her will soon become his, to be transmitted to his master, Pitt.” “That same Pitt,” said the Czar, darkly, “with whom Pahlen bids me make peace!” “Bids, or—advises?” The Czar compressed his lips significantly. Baranoff smiled to himself. It was clear to him that Pahlen was disposed to play the master over the youthful sovereign, and that the youthful sovereign did not like the yoke. “I have shown you, Sire, the infamous methods to which an English premier resorts. And yet you will make peace with him, merely because Pahlen urges you?—An ill precedent to set at the beginning of a reign! The ministers of a Czar are his servants, not his counsellors. The sovereign who accepts advice is not the ruler, but the ruled.” And then, in defiance of his own words, Baranoff proceeded to give advice. “Will you reverse your father’s policy all in a moment? despatch a courier to the First Consul to break off the alliance, even before your royal sire is laid in his grave? Will this be decent?” Much more to the same point flowed from his lips. His specious pleading, but especially his lies concerning Wilfrid, began to tell upon Alexander, causing his young and plastic mind to waver from its friendly attitude towards Britain. Why not let the war continue—for a time at least, if only to teach his peace-advising ministers that the Czar’s will must be supreme?