Events now hurried quickly.  The Empress Anna died, and was succeeded on the throne by the infant Ivan, her grand-nephew, who had been Emperor but a few months when, in 1741, a coup d’etat gave the crown to Elizabeth, mistress of the Lemesh peasant.  Alexis was now husband in all but name of the Empress of all the Russias; honours and riches were showered on him; he was General, Grandmaster of the Hounds, Chief Gentleman of the Bedchamber, and lord of large estates yielding regal revenues.

But all his grandeur was powerless to spoil the man, who still remained the simple peasant who, so many years earlier, had left his low-born mother with streaming eyes.  His great ambition now was to share his good-fortune with her.  She must exchange her village inn for the luxuries and splendours of a palace.  And thus it was that one day a splendid carriage, with gay-liveried postillions, dashed up to the door of the Lemesh inn and carried off the simple peasant woman, her youngest son, Cyril, and one of her daughters, to the open-mouthed amazement of the villagers.  At the entrance to the capital she was received by a magnificently attired gentleman, in whom she failed to recognise her son Alexis, until he showed her a birthmark on his body.

Picture now the peasant-woman sumptuously lodged in the Moscow palace, decked in all the finery of silks and laces and jewels, receiving the respectful homage of high Court officials, caressed and petted by an Empress, while her splendid son looks smilingly on, as proud of his cottage-mother as if she were a Princess of the Blood Royal.  That the innkeeper was not happy in her gilded cage, that her thoughts often wandered longingly to her cronies and the simple life of the village, is not to be wondered at.

It was all very well for such a fine gentleman as her son, Alexis; but for a poor, simple-minded woman like herself—­well, she was too old for such a transplanting.  And we can imagine her relief when, on the removal of the Court to St Petersburg, she was allowed to bring her visit to an end and to return to her inn with wonderful stories of all she had seen.  Her son and daughter, however, elected to remain.  As for Cyril, a handsome youth, almost young enough to be his brother’s son, he was quick to win his way into the favour of the Empress.  Before he had been many months at Court he was made a Count and Gentleman of the Bedchamber.  He was given for bride a grand-niece of Elizabeth; and at twenty-two he was Viceroy of the Ukraine, virtual sovereign of a kingdom of his own, with his peasant-mother, who declined to share his palace, comfortably installed in a modest house near his gates.

Cyril, in fact, was to his last day as unspoiled by his unaccustomed grandeur as his brother Alexis.  Each was ready at any moment to turn from the obsequious homage of nobles to hobnob with a peasant friend or relative.  How utterly devoid of false pride Alexis was is proved by the following anecdote.  One day when, in company with the Empress, he was paying a visit to Count Loewenwolde, he rushed from Elizabeth’s side to fling his arms round the neck of one of his host’s footmen.  “Are you mad, Alexis?” exclaimed the Empress, in her astonishment.  “What do you mean by such senseless behaviour?” “I am not mad at all,” answered the favourite.  “He is an old friend of mine.”