“Since when has it been the right of French subjects to violate Russian laws, M. le Vicomte?” he retorted angrily. “You will find that the King of France cannot save you from being called to account in Moscow.” “This passes my patience, monsieur!” I replied coldly. “If you have any grievance against me, you should prefer it at the proper time.” “I am at your service at any hour, M. de Brousson,” he said, misunderstanding me. Then, remembering how vile the man was, my anger passed the bounds of prudence. I measured him with my eye, from head to foot, with a glance which made the blood burn under his swarthy skin. “You mistake me,” I said with mocking suavity; “no gentleman of France would consent to meet you on the field of honor. The sword of a Brousson would be forever contaminated!” This goaded him to fury, and before any one could check him, his sword flew from the scabbard, and he made a pass at me, which was thrust aside by the czarina herself. She stood between us with a gesture of indignation which suddenly lent an imperial dignity to her aspect. “You forget in whose presence you stand,” she said haughtily; “if I cannot be an empress even in my own palace, it is time that I laid aside my crown. Viatscheslav, leave the room at once; and you, M. le Vicomte,” she said, turning on me coldly, “have you considered the courtesy due a hostess, if you do not recognize the honor due a queen?” I made a profound obeisance. “I crave your majesty’s pardon and indulgence,” I said; “the quarrel was provoked by the other side, but I recognize my error, and regret it deeply.” She accepted the apology haughtily. “It is well,” she said; “but let it not occur again, or I shall begin to doubt that Natalia is a czarina.” And she turned coldly away, leaving me to make my exit with what grace I could assume, under the curious gaze of fifty pairs of eyes. CHAPTER XVII. THE SECRET STAIRCASE. I HAD almost reached the foot of the Red Staircase, when some one caught my cloak; turning, I was confronted by Peter Lykof’s servant Michael. The man’s face was full of anxiety, and he drew close to me before addressing me in Russian. “You are watched,” he said in a low voice; “your life is in danger. My master bade me warn you.” “Where is your master?” I asked at once, marveling a little at the rapidity with which Lykof had acquired the news. “He will see you presently,” Michael replied, still mysteriously. “He is not far away; but he, too, is threatened with danger.” “I shall be glad to see him,” I said slowly, “and I thank you for the warning. I can imagine that it may be a little difficult for me,” I added, smiling, for I could not easily forget Viatscheslav’s look of baffled fury, or the lowering eyes of Ramodanofsky. “Be warned, your excellency,” the man protested nervously. “The Boyar Vladimir Ramodanofsky never forgets an injury.”