“Your Majesty, he _insists_,” stammered Volkoff. The Empress turned to me--terror and pathos in her eyes. “He has come to arrest me, Lili,” she exclaimed. “Telephone to the Grand Duke Paul, and ask him to come at once.” Regaining her composure, the Empress rearranged the Red Cross head-dress which she had taken off, and stood waiting in silence for the Grand Duke. Neither Marie nor myself dared speak. At length, after what seemed an interminable agony of suspense, the Grand Duke entered, and the Empress told him in a few words about her ominous summons. The next moment, loud voices in the corridor, and the banging of a door, announced Goutchkoff’s arrival in the adjoining room. Goutchkoff, the Minister of War during the Revolution, was an openly avowed personal enemy of the Emperor, whom he had never forgiven for not having accepted him at his own valuation as the uncrowned king of Moscow. He had compelled the Emperor to abdicate through revenge; spiteful curiosity now urged him to gloat over the sufferings of a defenceless woman! He was a hideous creature, who wore big spectacles with yellow glasses, which partially disguised the fact that he was unable to look anyone straight in the face. Marie and I clung desperately to the Empress; we were certain that all was now finished. She kissed us both tenderly, and passed out with the Grand Duke Paul, an infinitely tragic figure, recalling to my mind a vision of Marie Antoinette, whose troubles possessed so many similarities with those of the Empress. Volkoff, that loyal servant, true to the traditions of Imperial regime, informed us that Goutchkoff had brought two A.D.C.’s with him, and that one of these men had accosted him with the words: “Ha, ha! Here we are. You didn’t expect us to-night, eh? But _we_ are masters of the Palace _now_!” Marie and I sat side by side on the sofa, the young girl shook with fear, but her terror was not for herself--Marie, like all the children, thought only of her beloved mother. In this crisis of their fortunes, the Imperial Family manifested no sorrow at the loss of their rank and prestige. The only anxiety shown by them was the fear of parting one from the other. Theirs might have been the words inscribed upon the wall of a certain old prison in Italy: “Better death than life without you.” And, if the report of their death be true, they most mercifully never knew the pain of separation. At last footsteps sounded in the corridor--the door of the boudoir opened--and, to our unspeakable relief, we saw the Empress! Marie ran towards her mother, half crying, and half laughing, and the Empress quickly reassured us.