Adventure Magazine Cover — page 14: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

12 The ensign, whose name was Borol, asked her if she was not Anna Mikhalovna, and she assented eagerly. Then he frowned and turned to Edwards, explaining how complaint had been made that morning at the quarters of the Guard by this girl’s mother. An order had been issued that he should follow the American, find the girl and request John Paul to return to Petersburg. When Borol pointed at the American, John Paul spoke one word to Edwards who turned to the ensign— “Salute the rear-admiral.”’ Borol chewed his mustache and clicked his lips; then drew his heels together and saluted sullenly. It was plainly to be seen that John Paul was not in such high favor now. He took Edwards arm and the two paced up and down while the aide-de-camp explained about the accusation and the order to return. Meanwhile Borol made a great show of warming Anna Mikhalovna at the fire and ordering brandy for her to drink, and I went closer to stare at her. She was the girl who had called at John Paul’s door the evening before with the old crone. Ekh, the whole thing was clear in my mind, all at once. The girl had not been in the tarantass when it was first driven up from the palace. Some time before dawn she had been placed in it, bound, most likely. Then his enemies in Petersburg had spread a story that the American had carried off the girl, and now he would be recalled to explain the matter to a court of men who hated him. It meant that he would be kept waiting at the Muscovite palace in- stead of joining his command, even if nothing worse happened. In my mind was the picture of the foreign prince with the Hessian boots, and I won- dered how much the English had to do with the plot. They had no love for John Paul, and made no secret of it. The story of Anna Mikhalovna could not be true. Why had she kept quiet in the wagon all day, only to cry out likea bugle when the troopers came up? And as for John Paul’s servants carrying her off— he had no servants. Besides, she had tried to enter his house last evening, and when she had been turned away this new plot had been made against him. Probably his enemies had counted on a scene in his courtyard when we started off; but he had chosen a horse instead of the Adventure carriage and the girl had not been seen, because no one had looked inside when the packs were thrust through the door. It was a plot that men who spend their lives at court would hatch—a small and skilful plot, the kind that ties up a man as with silk cords. What could John Paul do but go back? He belonged to the world of the court, and according. to his code it would be necessary to clear his name before he could accept his new mission. I:dwards looked like a man who has come to a fork in the road, puzzled, yet a little pleased. But John Paul had grown pale and his eyes were dark as coals. Just a few words he said to the ensign, Borol—Edwards_ interpreting—but they were like sword pricks. The American had seen through the plot, and the wish of his enemies to disgrace him. “IT came to Russia in an open shallop, through ice on the sea, because the Empress summoned me, and when I offered my sword to her, Count Besborodko, the minister of state, was instructed to do everything possible to make the situation of the Cheva- -lier Paul Jones pleasant and to furnish him with all possible occasions on which he might display his skill and valor. Besbo- rodko—’’the American handed back the order which was signed by the minister— “has misunderstood his instructions. He has taken pains to afford me the chance of displaying the talents of a lawyer, not a soldier.”’ Edwards smiled as he translated, and I thought that John Paul was a man who would not be led by others. But his pride was hurt and his muscular face was drawn. He had a hard path to follow in Russia, because he did not know the ways of the great Russian lords who looked on all soldiers as slaves. Borol shrugged and said it was none of his affair—such a disgraceful matter it was, carrying off a young girl. He was a graf of Hessia—whatever that might be— and the mission touched upon his honor— whatever that was. And he pushed up the ends of his mustache, clanking his scabbard as he did so. (ge\ NOW I had been seeking for some @ MCA word to say, because I would rather have lost my scalp lock than return to Petersburg. Something about the graf reminded me of the prince in the silver MICLOOOK C@ in