The Daughter of an Empress

"I hope," proudly responded the prince, "Count Munnich will comprehend

that this position, which places the whole power of the empire in

the hands of him who holds it, is suitable only for the father of the

emperor!"

Count Munnich made no answer. Already so near the attainment of his end,

he saw it again elude his grasp. Again had he labored, struggled, in

vain. This was the second revolution which he had brought about, with

this his favorite plan in view: two regents were indebted to him for

their greatness, and both had refused him the one thing for which he had

made them regents; neither had been willing to create him generalissimo!

In this moment Munnich felt unable to conceal his rage under an

assumed tranquillity; pretending a sudden attack of illness, he begged

permission to retire.

Tottering, scarcely in possession of his senses, he hastened through

the hall thronged with petitioners. All bowed before him, all reverently

saluted him; but to him it seemed that he could read nothing but mockery

and malicious joy upon all those smiling faces. Ah, he could

have crushed them all, and trodden them under his feet, in his

inextinguishable rage!

When he finally reached his carriage, and his proud steeds were bearing

him swiftly away--when none could any longer see him--then he gave vent

to furious execrations, and tears of rage flowed from his eyes; he tore

out his hair and smote his breast; he felt himself wandering, frantic

with rage and despair. One thought, one wish had occupied him for many

long years; he had labored and striven for it. He wished to be the

first, the most powerful man in the Russian empire; he would control

the military force, and in his hands should rest the means of giving

the country peace or war! That was what he wanted; that was what he had

labored for--and now. . . .

"Oh, Biron, Biron," he faintly groaned, "why must I overthrow you? You

loved me, and perhaps would one day have accorded me what you at first

refused! Biron, I have betrayed you with a kiss. It is your guardian

angel who is now avenging you!"

Thus he reached his palace, and the servants who opened the door of

his carriage started back with alarm at the fearful expression of their

master's face. It had become of an ashen gray, his blue lips quivered,

and his gloomily-gleaming eyes seemed to threaten those who dared

approach him.

Alighting in silence, he strode on through the rows of his trembling

servants. Suddenly two of his lackeys fell upon their knees before him,

weeping and sobbing; they stretched forth their hands to him, begging

for mercy.

"What have they done?" asked he of his major-domo.

"Feodor has had the misfortune to break your excellency's drinking-cup,

and Ivanovitch bears the blame of suffering your greyhound Artemisia to

escape."