When I passed on to make my obeisance to the czarina, I noticed at once a change in her manner; it was even more marked than on previous occasions, and I felt not a little chagrin at her decided coldness. Natalia’s manner could be haughty in the extreme. She had tasted the vicissitudes of fortune herself, and they had probably left a permanent impression upon her character. She was neither as subtle nor as diplomatic as her great rival, Sophia, and showed her feelings with more openness. She undoubtedly valued the men about her only as she could estimate their devotion to her son, and she resented at once any friendship for the cause of the Miloslavskys. Matveief, on the other hand, was anxious to conciliate; willing, too, to make a favorable impression upon a foreigner, his courtesy to me being as marked as the czarina’s coldness. My chief annoyance, however, was to find myself the center of observation, and there was a continuous murmur of talk, which was suggestive that I was the object of remark. Before finding an opportunity to depart, I came in immediate contact with the group about Ramodanofsky and Viatscheslav, and they watched me in silence as I approached, intending to pass them on my way out. But I was not destined to escape so easily; Viatscheslav, by a sudden movement, placed himself directly in my path. I made an attempt to turn aside to avoid him; but he checked me by a gesture. “You have doubtless heard the tattle of the court to-day, M. le Vicomte,” he said in a loud voice, which drew general attention; “the Boyar Ramodanofsky has suffered an affront; some one has assisted his niece in her flight from his house.” “This is a matter which cannot concern a stranger, monsieur,” I replied coldly, although in a fever of anger and embarrassment, for I saw that we were on the edge of a _dénouement_, and dreaded the consequences of a colloquy before such an audience. Ramodanofsky was listening, but took no part in the conversation; his dark brows bent low over his eyes as he lowered at us. “A servant of yours, M. de Brousson,” Viatscheslav said, with an emphasis on the word servant, “has been seen lurking in the neighborhood of the house; perhaps you can satisfactorily explain his presence there.” My choler was rising fast. My hand was resting on the hilt of my sword, and I looked Naryshkin straight in the eye; I knew him to be an inveterate coward unless liquor inspired him with temporary bravado. “Since when has it become necessary for me to account to you for my servants or my conduct, monsieur?” I exclaimed haughtily, and in a clear voice. “You forget that you address a French subject, the Vicomte de Brousson.” One could have heard a pin drop; even the czarina and Matveief were listening to the dispute; but my blood was up, and it was a matter of indifference to me whether I offended against court etiquette or not.