Golden Paradise

Chapter Fourteen

But Nikki was waiting in the corridor, seated on a bargello-upholstered Venetian chair directly facing the drawing room doors.

"Chaperoning, are you?" Stefan mildly inquired, his tone benign, holding Lisaveta in his arms as though he always casually held her while conversing.

"I thought I'd read for a time," Nikki pleasantly replied, his book unopened beside him on the console table.

"And that was the only chair in this block-long palace?"

"The only convenient one," Nikki answered with a grin. "I see all is reconciled." He could see Lisaveta was happy-it was apparent in her beaming face-and Stefan had the look of a triumphant man.

"And if it hadn't been?" Stefan said in a quiet voice.

"I brought my revolver. One never knows when one might need it-reading." He had not of course, but a measure of coercion existed beneath his amused words.

"Before you two do something adolescent and ruin all this unalloyed bliss," Lisaveta interjected with a smile, "may I point out that all this masculine pride is rather irrelevant since Stefan proposed and I accepted."

"Congratulations." Benevolence and cordiality infused the single word, for beyond the fact that Lisaveta's future was secure, Nikki was genuinely fond of them both. "Should I talk to my priest?" he inquired, rising from his chair.

"So subtle, mon ami," Stefan replied with a grin, "but I'll speak to mine instead." And in afterthought for a man used to command, he looked down at Lisaveta. "If that's all right with you, darling," he added with deference.

Lisaveta was currently feeling an over-the-moon happiness and was capable of complacently viewing the yawning jaws of hell with equanimity. "Whatever you think," she said, her voice compliant.

Stefan's eyes widened in mock surprise. "No argument, no contention, no combative response? Had I realized," he went on with teasing brightness, "how simple it was to curtail your temper, I'd have proposed long ago."

"There, you see, the feminine mystique transparent at last," Lisaveta facetiously replied. "I'll teach you everything I know," she promised in a whispered aside.

Her remark immediately refocused Stefan's attention on his original mission. "I'd really like to stay and chat," he said to Nikki, who was beaming visibly at the success of his cousinly pressure, "but I've only a day and half before I have to leave."

"I'll call at your home later, then," Nikki said, "to hear your plans. Do you want me to inform anyone?"

Stefan's answer was staccato swift. "Not just yet," he said, his glance over Lisaveta's head significant with meaning. He had first to face Nadejda and her family. "I'll get back to you."

"Say goodbye," Lisaveta murmured into the sweep of black hair near Stefan's ear, and he promptly did, as anxious as she to be alone, the problem of Nadejda's family instantly discarded in lieu of more gratifying thoughts.

"Have a pleasant day," Nikki volunteered, his doting grin that of an extremely pleased man.

"Thank you," Stefan replied, his face creasing into a broad smile as his eyes met with Lisaveta's. "We will."

The weeks of their separation past, their ruinous jealousy resolved, neither chose to dwell on the unreliable future; they were feeling only intemperate joy. And when Stefan had Lisaveta at last where he'd so often fantasized of late, in his home and bed, softly warm beneath him, he told her how much he loved her with a rare and garlanded poetry she found captivating. She answered him with her own simple words, words she'd contemplated in the long days of their absence and the bitter nights of their separation, words she'd once considered forever denied her. "I love you," she said, "with all my heart."

"I'll never let you go," he quietly replied, the nature of his love less benevolent. It matched the strength he'd fashioned into his destiny, it matched the fear he'd lived with when he thought her indifferent. It spoke, too, of his confidence. The Commander of the Tsar's Cavalry had never suffered defeat. She was his. He was content, and more, he was whole again.

If he'd been asked he wouldn't have been able to answer why he'd abandoned his long-held beliefs so readily. He'd fought against loving her, against acknowledging he cared; he'd told himself his feelings were some aberrant temporary fascination. But he'd discovered his emotions wouldn't so obediently comply to his rationalization or yield to any objectivity.

"I have estimated the influence of Reason upon Love and found that it is like that of a raindrop upon the ocean," Hafiz had written.

And Stefan's own heart understood at last.

They played with teasing silliness that afternoon in his bed made of chased gold. It was large enough-having been cast originally for his Orbeliani great-great-grandfather, who had kept a harem of eight hundred concubines-for facetious games of pursuit. It was soft enough to engulf one in gossamer down and ostentatious enough, Lisaveta bantered, to support Stefan's reputation for exhibitionist play. Rumor had it he'd entertained multiple women in his splendid bed. He didn't deny or confirm the rumor; he only said, "You're my only love… you're my world."

He was gentle when he entered her sweet and heated body after the teasing play and romp; he was so gentle he scarcely breathed for fear of hurting her if she carried his child; he was so gentle she felt as though his body drifted over her, weightless. And the sensations built for both of them with an intensity so extravagant and extreme they were inebriated with combustible vaulting passion. He lay above her afterward and shuddered, eyes shut and breath held; Lisaveta trembled in sweat-sheened excess, every nerve ending wantonly exposed.

Their afternoon was heated and self-indulgent; it was the stuff dreams were made of, it was the enchantment troubadours embroidered in song.

And so unlike, Stefan said with a smile, his previous notions of prenuptial events.

Meanwhile, on the Palace Square where the Taneievs' princely abode faced the vista of Peter the Great's equestrian statue and the gilded domes of the Admiralty, Nadejda was saying, narrow-eyed and livid with anger, "He cannot be allowed to humiliate me here in Saint Petersburg. Don't make any excuses for him, Mama." She swung around in her pacing before the windows to face her mother, the bustle of her pink taffeta gown quivering at her sudden halt. "I won't have it! In Tiflis it didn't matter. Good God, that backwater scarcely has sufficient nobility to play two rubbers of bridge-but here!" Her face was contorted with indignation, her blond curls trembling, her jeweled fingers clenched into unladylike fists. "I will not be the laughingstock for his scandalous behavior!"

Her mother, seated calmly behind the tea service, opened her mouth to speak.

"And don't you dare mention his fortune," Nadejda irately exclaimed. "I don't care about his fortune!" One could see how violent were her feelings, for Nadejda had spent the better part of her engagement composing shopping lists against the time she would be Princess Bariatinsky.

While Irina wished her daughter satisfaction or perhaps revenge, she wished her a wealthy husband more… and a little better grasp on her temper. She was a practical woman who was also actively involved in her husband's financial speculations. "I was going to say," she patiently said, "your father is interested in his fortune. And also in Bariatinsky's considerable influence in the progress of the war. Papa is directly engaged, as you know, in the cannon contracts."

Irina couldn't go into any detail about those contracts because Nadejda wasn't completely capable of understanding their complexity, the several levels of corruption that had to be coordinated, nor would she have been trustworthy in keeping silent, had she known.

Vladimir Taneiev and Melikoff, along with several officials from the highest levels of government, were involved in the awarding of cannon contracts. Stefan's name as a future son-in-law added credibility to their consortium, as did General Bariatinsky's reputation for honesty.

In addition to the usual bribes required to secure contracts, Vladimir had a personal ancillary scheme to extort further sums of money from the manufacturers. He was soliciting sizable donations for General Bariatinsky's cavalry, as well. Stefan was known for spending his personal funds in outfitting his regiments and no one begrudged the extra sums requested. So Vladimir's very lucrative scheme required General Bariatinsky's presence in his family, at least until the war was over.

"I also don't care about cannons," Nadejda petulantly retorted, shredding a potted fern frond between her fingers.

Her mother winced inwardly at her daughter's heresy and at the litter falling on the carpet. The plant stand would have to be turned to hide the mutilation, so she rang for a servant with an unobtrusive tug on the bellpull near her chair. Irina was a compulsively neat person who viewed life with an eye to advantage rather than subscribing to what she considered the fiction of emotion. Emotion was all very well and good for poetry or opera perhaps, but it interfered with sensible plans and practical goals. Nadejda was still very young so she couldn't be expected to understand the realities, and Irina's restraint was gentle. "You must, my dear, at least until the war is over."

Nadejda ripped one entire frond from the plant and tossed it to the floor. "Are you telling me," she said, bridling, "I must suffer his indignities?"

"Papa will explain to you, darling." She hoped the servant would come soon.

"I won't marry him unless he is brought to heel. I mean it, Mama! Find me some other rich man to marry." Nadejda's debutante season had been gratifying-ten proposals of marriage and a deluge of suitors. Her pale beauty was all the rage, a superficial although substantial consideration for Stefan along with her other suitors. He'd always favored blond females.

"Certainly, dear, but you must wait until after the war. Now come sit down and calm yourself-Papa will be home directly. I sent Peotr out to fetch him, and when he explains the need to endure Bariatinsky's scandalous behavior for a limited time yet, you'll do your part, I'm sure. And then after we talk to Papa, why don't we go shopping?" Irina's voice was soothing, the tone one would use with a child throwing a tantrum. "Brabant's has a new jeweler who's a magician. Wouldn't you like a necklace like Sophie's with strawberry blossoms, or perhaps some earrings for your new tangerine gown?"

Predictably, the lure of jewels was effective. Nadejda cast a thoughtful glance at her mother, who was patting the sofa cushion beside her, and after a small theatrical sigh crossed the Aubusson carpet.

"What do I get out of this, Mama, besides some new jewelry, since I must put on a good face in the storm of gossip you know will be horrendous?" She obediently seated herself beside her mother, but her expression was stormy.

"Let Papa tell you," her mother said, handing Nadejda a cup of tea with a composed smile. "I believe there's also a rather large sum of money involved should your engagement be broken…"

Her daughter smiled for the first time that day. "How large?"

" I'm not exactly certain.''

"Enough for a new sable cape?"

It was her mother's turn to smile. How naive one was at eighteen. "For several dozen I'd say," she replied. "The particulars in the marriage contract are quite specific."

They were more so than he recalled, Stefan discovered late that afternoon when he presented himself at the Taneiev palace; Vladimir had written in addenda to every exigency-all very expensive. And he only had himself to blame, for against his legal counsel he'd waved away every warning for protection. At the time of his betrothal, intent on the practical issue of marriage, Stefan had been unconcerned with defenses against a change of mind. His purpose, after having finally selected a bride, was to marry her… not renege.

Now today, although he hadn't anticipated ready compliance to his request for a dissolution of the engagement, he was appalled at the Byzantine complexities in the contract.

Vladimir's obduracy he'd expected.

And the unsubtle threats.

All of which he'd felt could be suitably managed with offers of money.

But his proposals to negotiate a settlement seemed to fall on deaf ears, and after the tenth refusal, he said in exasperation, "Why don't you tell me what it will take, Vladimir?" He was past diplomacy and restrained courtesy, he was beyond concerns for his poignant past or his uncertain future. He only wanted it finished and concluded at any cost. He was an extremely wealthy man. He wanted it over.

He wanted to marry Lisaveta because she had stolen his heart and he loved her.

Without her, the rose was not fair nor merry the Spring, he thought with rueful regard for the significance of Hafiz's words. At last he had come to understand his heart was in her hands.

And… he wanted his child to have his name. There was no time for a wedding later, not when he was returning to Kars… not when he didn't know-if he'd be coming back.

"What it will take is your honoring your engagement to my daughter," Vladimir flatly declared.

"You'll force me to go to the Tsar," Stefan countered, "if you persist in your obstinacy." Since he'd already tried money, the Tsar was his last threat, and he was not as confident as he sounded. While the Tsar was a close personal friend, his father had thought the same thing once. But Stefan knew he wasn't bluffing. He was in truth willing to put his career on the line for Lisaveta, something that even a month ago he would have found unthinkable.

Having had several hours previously to contemplate countermoves to Stefan's expected responses, Vladimir said blandly, his smooth and scented hands steepled near his chin, "If you go to the Tsar, I'll implicate you in the Sesta fodder scandal."

Half a division had been wiped out at Sesta when reinforcements had been unable to come to their aid because of foundering mounts. Five thousand cavalry horses had died from tainted feed that week and the Tsar had vowed to hang the perpetrators regardless of their rank or position. Alexander had taken a personal interest in the case, and three investigating teams had been sent out from Saint Petersburg to unearth the culprits."

"I have reports," Vladimir added, "I can release to the Tsar. Your name could very easily be inserted."

"He won't believe you."

"When I show him the correspondence in your hand, he'll be convinced, I assure you, my dear boy. And I have witnesses. Your disgrace would be complete." Witnesses could be bought, Stefan knew, and documents altered, and Vladimir had the advantage of the Tsar's fervent interest in determining culpability. The newspapers had been following the scandal for weeks; families of the dead soldiers were crying for revenge; the Tsar himself was offering a personal reward for information. It was a cause célèbre without a scapegoat, and Stefan suddenly felt all the nameless fears from the past suffocating him. Disgrace. The word he'd been fighting a lifetime to overcome. Disgrace. He took a steadying breath, grappling with the ungovernable flood of memories. The humiliation of hearing the whispers when one entered a room, and the never-forgotten sidelong glances, assessing and curious. The occasional rudeness and disparagement. The people who always compared him to his father first and seemed surprised when he wasn't an exact duplicate. He'd learned very young to hide any evidence of his feelings, learned to give nothing away in his demeanor or speech or temper.

He felt again at that moment as though those awful years of his father's disgrace were hurtling back, as though all his hard-won triumphs and successes had never occurred or were inconsequential against Vladimir's threat. He felt as if all the doors to the future were closing before him, all means of escape were disappearing from sight.

Vladimir had survived enough years in the bloody battlefield of court intrigue to recognize an expression of discomfiture. His voice was silky with malice when he spoke. "I thought you might reconsider, Prince Bariatinsky."

Stefan hesitated, feeling trapped, a rare, almost unprecedented sensation for a man who'd won all his battles because he'd never considered defeat. But the scars were deep when contemplating a repetition of his father's fall from grace. "I'll have to think about what you've said," Stefan carefully replied, wanting an opportunity to regroup and assess his options.

"When are you planning on returning to Kars?"

"Tomorrow."

"In that case you have till noon tomorrow to reach a decision. I'm sure you'll see the practicality of honoring your engagement to my daughter. Once the war is over, well, then-" Vladimir opened his palms expansively "-Nadejda can have her pick of eligible officers."

Stefan controlled his shock. Why hadn't Vladimir mentioned the time element before? Why not indeed? Stefan thought, surveying the corpulent figure opposite him. Because Vladimir preferred flaying a man alive if possible; he had a reputation for taking pleasure in torturing his victims, and had he mentioned the engagement could be regarded as temporary when their conversation began, he would have been deprived of Stefan's torment.

"The engagement could be broken once the war is over," Stefan mildly inquired, "but not now? Why?" Some pertinent reason existed, but in the few hours remaining to him before his return to Kars, there wasn't sufficient time to uncover the truth. One certainty was blatantly obvious, though. Money wasn't going to buy his way out.

"My concern is for my sweet Nadejda, of course," Vladimir replied, blandly. "In the midst of war, there's such a dearth of eligible parties," he said, his smile one of exaggerated sincerity. "She would repine."

"You surprise me, Taneiev," Stefan drawled softly. "I didn't suspect you harbored feelings."

Vladimir looked pained for a theatrical pause. "Nadejda's my dearest treasure," he said with exactitude.

"I'm sure she is," Stefan sardonically replied as he rose to leave, aware now of the enormous settlements exacted in the marriage contracts.

"One thing more, my dear boy, before you go. I'd like you to apologize to Nadejda for the insult you did her at the Gagarins' last evening. She was in attendance at the ball." He spoke with great casualness as though he were asking for the merest favor.

Stefan stood in shocked arrest for a brief moment. Apologize? To the daughter of the man who was threatening him with annihilation? "And if I decline?" he said after a small silence.

"I'd strongly consider," Vladimir said, his gaze devoid of emotion, "dropping a first small hint to the Tsar-a mention that his cavalry commander's name came up during the interrogation of a suspect in the Sesta case this afternoon. An initial slight wedge, as it were." His smile was chill. "I could convey this new detail at a diplomatic soiree tonight where Alexander is scheduled to appear. The rumor could turn out to be a mistake by noon tomorrow should you decide to continue your engagement to my daughter." He looked at Stefan across the expanse of his polished desktop. "Will you," he gently inquired, the way the axman at a beheading might question whether one cared to be blindfolded or not, "be seeing our illustrious Emperor before you return?"

Stefan's flying trip to Saint Petersburg had been purely personal and he'd intended only a brief courtesy call on the Tsar.

"I haven't decided," he ambiguously replied, disinclined to supply Vladimir with any information.

"Well," Vladimir briskly said, confident in his victory, "you decide, my boy, although with all your, er, experience with women, surely a simple apology shouldn't be too demanding." When he raised his eyes from contemplation of his manicured nails, his glance was indifferent.

He had little concern for the Tsar or the course of the war, it seemed, if he could so casually contemplate imparting such malevolent lies. Nor did he seem to have any regard for his daughter's sensibilities, either. For she, too, would be touched, however innocently, by Stefan's disgrace. Prince Taneiev's motives were purely selfish, Stefan realized, observing the cool disinterest in Vladimir's eyes. He could consider distressing the Tsar without a qualm.

Checked, Stefan had no recourse, as Vladimir already knew. But his reply came with great difficulty. "Very well," Stefan said.

Vladimir almost looked disappointed, as though the lesser of his humiliations had been chosen, Stefan thought, as though he would have preferred humbling Stefan before the Tsar. A dispassionate impulse surfaced in Stefan's mind, drifting into his consciousness with the placidity of ripples on a pond. How satisfying it would be to put a bullet through Vladimir's chill smile. The cream silk draperies behind his desk would be ruined, Stefan decided with a curious detachment, and on that pleasant thought a small smile curved his mouth upward.

"You find something amusing, Prince Bariatinsky?" Vladimir's voice was smooth as silk.

"Perhaps later I may," Stefan replied.

"Perhaps later we may all find this association amusing."

"I certainly hope so." Stefan glanced at the wall clock. "Now if you'll excuse me. My time is limited."

"Nadejda is expecting you. You'll bring me your decision by noon tomorrow?"

"I'll send a message."

Prince Taneiev didn't reply, but he nodded and the interview was over.

As Stefan followed the footman down the corridor, he debated whether he could call Vladimir's bluff. Should he simply turn around and leave? He could feel the heat of his anger rising, for the thought of the coming act of submission was unnerving and unpalatable.

But he needed time. Time to figure out what to do; time to somehow escape this trap that was closing around him. And for the first time he realized that anything that affected him now would affect Lise, also. His gorge rose at the thought of Taneiev with his talons into Lisaveta. If a few words of pretense to Nadejda would gain him one evening of reprieve, he decided his pride could stand it. Perhaps by tomorrow he would have worked out what to do, although his brain seemed strangely reluctant now.

But it would be the briefest apology in the history of man.

Nadejda was alone in the Grecian drawing room when the servant showed Stefan in. If looks could have killed, her father could have begun counting his settlement money immediately.

She was standing as though she were expecting him, and he decided Vladimir was unquestionably confident. He waited for the servant to close the door before he spoke, and without moving from the vicinity of the entrance, he said, "I've come to apologize. I didn't realize you were at Gagarin's last night." There. It wasn't precisely an apology but a general statement. He took brief pleasure in his evasion.

"Obviously." Her single word was sharp as a knife thrust, her lavender eyes so devoid of warmth his hair rose briefly on the back of his neck. Dressed in a white lace tea gown adorned with red silk roses, she reminded him of blood on a corpse and gave every indication of the same uncompromising coldness. "And in future, I'm sure my father warned you, I will not tolerate such behavior!"

His spine went rigid.

"Nor will I allow that native dress in my presence," she disdainfully added.

Stefan wore the loose trousers and belted shirt of his mother's people, his favored form of dress out of uniform, and far from being the shabby attire Nadejda's tone implied, his garments were luxurious. His black silk blouse was China silk embroidered in gold thread, and his trousers were of wool so fine each yard could be pulled through a woman's ring. The goats that supplied the raw material for the fabric were only found in one small section of the Himalayas and were so fragile they couldn't be sheared; the hair from their coats had to be gathered from the odd residue left on the brambles and bushes of their habitat. And his red kid boots were dyed with precious scarlet madder by his bootmaker in Tabriz.

He could feel the blood begin to throb in his temple; he'd never been spoken to in that tone of voice. He controlled the Tsar's cavalry; he was the wealthiest man in the Trans-Caucasus, perhaps in Russia. "I dress as I please," he said in a low growl. He didn't want to say more; he wished to leave before his temper gave way, and there was no need to speak further with Nadejda.

He'd observed the obligation Vladimir required and he was turning to leave when Nadejda said, "I'm not finished with you yet."

Her father had assured her that afternoon when he'd come home that he would find a means to restrain any further embarrassing incidents by Prince Bariatinsky. He had further assured her that while she must suffer the fiction of their engagement in public, in private she need not. In a vastly simplistic and highly edited fashion he'd explained that Prince Bariatinsky was valuable to their family until the war was over, although, he'd added, he couldn't go into any of the particulars due to the secrecy required in wartime. The visit to Brabant's had further reconciled her to her required role. She was wearing a new and very expensive ruby necklace.

"I expect you to conduct yourself," she said, advancing toward him with revenge in her heart for the scene at the Gagarins', "without any further scandal. Should I hear even the merest breath of misconduct, Papa will have your bars and your command. And I will personally take great pleasure in your disgrace."

Nadejda had been too long assured the world was hers. She had no sense of proportion.

Stefan's uncommon prudence disappeared in an explosive rage. He couldn't go through with this farce if they hanged him tomorrow for high treason. Vladimir be damned! He'd stand up to his threats the way he should have from the beginning. His fleeting display of caution gave way to Stefan's more familiar headstrong boldness. "Consider this engagement over," he tersely said, each word a blunt hammer blow, "as of this moment." And he drew a deep breath to steady a killing instinct.

"You can't," Nadejda raged, her pale skin mottled, her lavender eyes narrowed with spleen.

"I can do anything I please, mademoiselle." Stefan was absolutely still, his hands rigid at his sides in an effort to curtail his rash impulse to strike out. "And it pleases me," he softly added, "to terminate this very large mistake."

"Papa will not allow it!" Each of Nadejda's words rang with authority.

Stefan had heard that already in a variety of nuances, but she seemed so very sure he asked, "Why?" in a quiet, menacing voice. She had spoken as though she knew Taneiev's reasons; perhaps she might offer a better reason than the one her father had given.

Nadejda knew immediately she'd misstepped when Stefan's brows came together and his voice softened in query, when his dark eyes seemed to be scrutinizing her with a new attention. "He…Papa wouldn't want me to be embarrassed. Once the war is over, I'll break the engagement."

"Yours and your Papa's timetable is intriguing." Stefan's drawl was low and silken, his mind racing, contemplating the circumstances contributing to this obstinate delay.

"There are no men now," she said, the way a child would say, "The candy store is closed."

That remark at least had the ring of sincerity. Stefan wished he had the time to get to the bottom of this matter, but he didn't.

At least he'd had the courage to end this damnable engagement. He felt a great sense of relief, a tidal wave of deliverance.

"You might like to congratulate me," he said with a grin, thinking how simple it had been after all to cut away the impediment of his engagement. "I'm to be married tonight." He was suddenly well-disposed to the world at large, including Nadejda, who was no more than a silly young woman now- detached from his life with a few simple words.

"Papa will kill you," she said in a neutral voice contrasting starkly with her statement, "if you shame our family so."

"He can try," Stefan quietly replied, "but he may not succeed. And you might want to give him that warning." Stefan's eyes narrowed slightly although his smile was still in place. "My bodyguard," he added, his tone soft as velvet, "reverts at time to some of their barbaric Kurdish customs. Tell your father it takes a man eight hours to die-forgive me, mademoiselle, for my bluntness-with his entrails on the ground."

Nadejda's face was white as her dress when he left the room. Immune to the perils of his future, as though a decision of the spirit had been made distinct from rational deliberation, he thought only of his freedom, of his escape from Nadejda, and he wondered with a curious speculation whether his father's life would have been different if he'd fought against his disgrace. He had thought at first he could deal with Vladimir's demands, submit enough to buy the time he needed, say yes, when he didn't mean it, apologize to Nadejda for something he didn't feel. But his nature wouldn't allow it, and he was wildly exhilarated now, striding down the hallway, his sensations reminiscent of the excitement he felt in battle.

It was the same-when there was no longer time for apprehension or indecision or any of the debilitating hesitation that marked the cognitive man. The irrepressible energy carried you, drove you, brought victory as if by magic, and Stefan felt at that moment the same triumph. He had succeeded at last in putting the past to rest. What had happened to his father would no longer be his burden. In a way totally unplanned and tumultuous, he'd severed that impediment to his life. As he sailed down the bank of steps to the street in two leaping bounds, the driver glanced at his partner beside him on the carriage seat and said, "Things must have gone well."

"Even better than that from the looks of it.''

"Home, Excellency?" the groom holding the door open for Stefan inquired as Stefan reached the blue-lacquered carriage.

"No, to the Winter Palace."

The liveried servant came to attention. "Very good, Excellency." His voice was crisp when he repeated the order to the driver.

The Prince was going to see the Tsar.