Artemon Sergheievitch Matveief was now an old man of commanding presence. He wore the rich, flowing robe of a boyar, and his white hair and full beard added a dignity to a countenance at once astute and benevolent. He had tasted the stinging humiliation of political defeat, and eaten the bitter bread of exile in the province of Archangel; he had been pardoned by the Czar Feodor, and was on his way home at the time of Feodor’s untimely death; but it remained for Natalia to summon him, in an hour of great difficulty and peril, once more to grasp the helm of state. Was it too late? Alas! for him that question was to be too certainly answered in a few short days, on that Red Staircase which he had ascended to-day in the joyful emotion of reunion with his kindred, and the exhilaration of a return of political prestige and power, sweeter than ever to a long banished statesman. At this moment, he was conversing earnestly with the patriarch, and a group of nobles stood at a little distance waiting his convenience. The czarina was speaking to her own brother, Ivan Naryshkin. On the other side of the room, I saw Viatscheslav and Ramodanofsky, and in the group nearest me recognized, to my surprise, one of the opposing faction, Larion Miloslavsky. He greeted me with the same air of raillery affected by Prince Galitsyn, and I observed the smiling glances cast at me by the young noblemen about him. “Have you heard the rare bit of gossip that is afloat this morning, M. le Vicomte?” he inquired gayly. I replied that having just reached the Kremlin, I was ignorant of the news. At this, he glanced archly at his companions, and there was a smile which annoyed me not a little. “I do not understand the drift of your humor, gentlemen,” I said, a trifle sharply. “Is it possible that you do not observe the black looks of Ramodanofsky and Viatscheslav Naryshkin?” Miloslavsky asked, with more gravity. In a moment I caught the reason of their amusement, but was at loss to understand their readiness to apply it to me. I feigned astonishment, and looked inquiringly in the direction of Ramodanofsky and his companion, only to encounter a black look from the former. “What is the story?” I asked carelessly, meeting Miloslavsky’s quizzical glance with one of calm interrogation.