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good German beer. Suddenly the spectacle of Peter drunk revolted her, so that her poor pretence of gaiety fell to pieces and she turned away, sick with disgust.
    Farther down the room, a thin-lipped, expressionless Russian regarded the German interlopers with cold dislike, and his hostility was not lost upon Augusta, for she knew him to be none other than Count Rjumin Bestujev, Vice-Chancellor of Russia, and bitter opponent of her coming marriage. She might have been afraid indeed, had she known that this was the man whom her foolish mother had undertaken to bring down in disgrace.
    At three o’clock in the morning a blast of trumpets resounded through the great hall, and instantly the hundreds of courtiers rose to their feet as the Empress entered, leaning on the arm of a superbly handsome Russian.
    Elizabeth’s vanity was insatiable and her toilette occupied hours, while she shouted and aimed blows at her luckless waiting women, but the result was dazzling.
    Out of the fifteen thousand dresses that comprised her wardrobe, Elizabeth had chosen a heavily jeweled gown in the French style she copied so slavishly, and she walked slowly down the huge room smiling graciously, or scowling suddenly at some unfortunate who had incurred her displeasure and doubled his offence by catching her eye.
    Augusta smiled eagerly in the Empress’s direction, and Elizabeth presented her to the handsome Rasumovsky, who sat by his royal mistress’s side. He spoke little, this son of poor Ukrainian peasants and former church singer whom the Empress had chosen to solace her lonely hours. His adoration for Elizabeth was open and unfeigned; fortunately for Russia, his passion for the woman left no room for ambition at the ruler’s expense, and so it was to remain to the end of his life; love of the Czarina filled his simple soul to the exclusion of all else. He had many rivals but few enemies at court.
    At that moment the Grand Duke began to laugh; the sound was shrill and grotesque, and Augusta saw the Empress frown with anger. She snapped a few words in Russian to her nephew in a voice of fury, but the wine had done its work too well and the wretched youth rose to his feet, swaying helplessly, his sallow face flushed with belligerence and a courage denied him in sobriety. When he spoke it was in German, and the words came out in a bellow of defiance.
    â€œI’ll not be silent! Why should I not laugh, Madame, as the whole sniveling court does behind your back! Is he not a good joke, that pretty peasant of yours? I’ll bet he leaves lice in your bed, for all the gold braid you may pin on him!”
    Peter leaned farther across the table towards Elizabeth and leered at her.
    â€œPermit me to advise you, my most gracious aunt. If you want a worthy lover, forget your serfs and oafish guardsmen. Take a German!”
    There was complete silence at the imperial table, while Augusta paled with terror; then Peter spoke again. This time his bloodshot eyes paused for a moment on Johanna, before they rested maliciously upon the shrinking figure of his betrothed.
    He flung out an accusing hand that suddenly became a fist and descended with a crash among the table ware.
    â€œSee what has been chosen to wed me,” he shouted. “See that vixen and her daughter! Nobodies, miserable beggars that lick at your hands, Madame, but not fitting for the Prince of Holstein! Not fitting, I say!”
    He ceased on a hiccough, breathing heavily from the violence of his outburst, then a sudden shade of fear passed across his fuddled brain and his arrogance shriveled away visibly as Elizabeth raised herself slowly and stood facing him.
    Augusta watched the Empress’s countenance contort with fury. For one brief second nephew and aunt resembled one another, as the demon of Romanov insanity showed on the faces of both.
    Then the Empress lifted her wine cup and flung the contents directly at Peter’s head. The liquid struck him full in