"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."