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Title: By Neva's waters
        Being an episode in the secret history of Alexander the First, Czar of all the Russias

Author: John R. Carling

Release date: November 13, 2024 [eBook #74736]

Language: English

Original publication: Boston: Little, Brown, and Company, 1907

Credits: Tim Lindell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BY NEVA'S WATERS ***






BY NEVA’S WATERS

[Illustration: “REMAIN HERE,” SAID THE DUCHESS, ADDRESSING HER TWO
ATTENDANTS.

“_By Neva’s Waters._”

_(Page 146) Frontispiece._]




                                    BY
                              NEVA’S WATERS

                Being an Episode in the Secret History of
               Alexander the First, Czar of All the Russias

                                    BY
                             JOHN R. CARLING
                                AUTHOR OF
              “THE SHADOW OF THE CZAR,” “THE VIKING’S SKULL”
                        “THE WEIRD PICTURE,” ETC.

                                  BOSTON
                        LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
                                   1907

                            _Copyright, 1907_,
                      BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.

                          _All rights reserved_

                         Published October, 1907

                   ALFRED MUDGE & SON, INC., PRINTERS,
                         BOSTON. MASS., U. S. A.




TO MY DAUGHTER, WINIFRED




CONTENTS


    CHAPTER                                   PAGE

       I. A MODERN FREE-LANCE                    1

      II. BARANOFF’S PROPOSAL                   10

     III. THE INN OF THE SILVER BIRCH           22

      IV. IN THE PRINCESS’S BED-CHAMBER         33

       V. DISCOVERED, OR NOT DISCOVERED?        45

      VI. HEIRESS TO THE THRONE!                54

     VII. WILFRID DEFIES THE CZAR               63

    VIII. A CHARMING TÊTE-À-TÊTE                76

      IX. A DOCUMENT MISSING                    88

       X. THE DOCUMENT FOUND                    98

      XI. “THOU SHALT BRUISE HIS HEEL”         108

     XII. A GRIM BEGINNING OF A REIGN          117

    XIII. THE TRIUMPH OF BARANOFF              129

     XIV. IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT                 137

      XV. HOW PAUL DIED                        149

     XVI. THE FALL OF THE REGICIDES            160

    XVII. A VOW TO SLAY!                       172

   XVIII. THE MASQUERADE                       180

     XIX. THE PRINCESS’S KISS                  190

      XX. WILFRID RECEIVES A CHALLENGE         201

     XXI. “YOUR OPPONENT IS AN EMPEROR!”       210

    XXII. “THIS DUEL MUST NOT BE”              221

   XXIII. WILFRID’S ABDUCTION                  230

    XXIV. THE FIGURE IN THE GREY DOMINO        241

     XXV. THE DOCTOR’S PLOT                    246

    XXVI. WITHOUT A MEMORY!                    254

   XXVII. THE CZAR’S PORTRAIT                  263

  XXVIII. PAULINE REPENTS                      271

    XXIX. WOOING A CZARINA                     280

     XXX. BEHIND THE CURTAIN                   287

    XXXI. “I BELONG TO WILFRID, NOT TO YOU!”   295

   XXXII. FLIGHT                               300

  XXXIII. RECONCILIATION                       309




ILLUSTRATIONS


                                                                      PAGE

  “REMAIN HERE,” SAID THE DUCHESS, ADDRESSING HER TWO
    ATTENDANTS                                               _Frontispiece_

  RISING TO HIS FEET AND HOLDING THE LAMP ON HIGH, WILFRID LOOKED
    ABOUT HIM                                                           34

  WILFRID DREW HIS OWN BLADE AND ASSUMED AN ATTITUDE OF DEFENCE        299




BY NEVA’S WATERS




CHAPTER I

A MODERN FREE-LANCE


On a cold January night in the first year of the nineteenth century, a
state ball, given by command of the fair young queen, Louisa, was held in
the Royal Palace at Berlin.

Of those who attended this fête, many, chiefly of the masculine sex,
were indifferent to polonaise or waltz, finding their entertainment in
the galleries where, somewhat after the fashion of a modern restaurant,
stood little tables, at which parties of two or more, while glancing
at the dancers, could at the same time regale themselves with a supper
and converse upon the topics of the day. This was a feature recently
introduced by the Russian Count Wengersky, and though Court fossils stood
aghast at the innovation, it had met with the approval of Queen Louisa
and had brought immense popularity to the Count.

In one of these balconies sat round a table some officers, who, though
of youthful aspect, were more interested in politics than in the charms
of the ladies. Their talk, which was extremely animated, turned chiefly
upon the question whether their sovereign lord, Frederick William III.,
would permit himself to be drawn into the confederacy formed by the
four Powers, France, Russia, Sweden, and Denmark—a confederacy whose
object was to resist by armed force the right claimed by Great Britain of
searching on the high seas all vessels suspected of carrying contraband
of war.

As these fire-eaters talked, they cast cautious glances in the direction
of Viscount Courtenay, an Englishman, who sat alone at a table sipping
his wine. A member of a famous historic house and patriotic to the
backbone, the quick-spirited viscount was not the man to allow any
disparagement of his country to pass unchallenged, and as his reputation
for swordsmanship was such as not to be disputed even by “Fighting
Fitzgerald,” then in the height of his glory, the Prussian officers took
good care that any remark uncomplimentary to his native land should be
spoken in a low tone.

Wilfrid Courtenay’s life should have been cast in the Middle Ages. He
was a romantic freelance, whose ideas were more akin to the age of
chivalry than to the nineteenth century. The spirit that finds a zest in
danger, the spirit that made the vikings the terror of all coasts from
the North Cape to Sicily, the spirit that sent the Crusaders forth to
do battle with the Paynim beneath the blazing sun of Syria, the spirit
that has caused Englishmen to plant colonies in the very teeth of hostile
savages—that spirit still ran strong in the blood of the Courtenays.
Accordingly, on the attainment of his majority, Wilfrid, leaving to his
widowed mother the care of his patrimonial acres, had set out like a
knight-errant to wander over Europe in search of adventure, in which
quest he had fleshed his sword in more than one campaign, earning thereby
from no less a personage than the Count d’Artois, himself a pattern of
chivalry, the proud title of _Le Bayard de l’Angleterre_.

To this taste for fighting was added another, in singular contrast with
it. Just as Frederick the Great, in the intervals of campaigning, found a
strange pleasure in writing what his admirers called poetry, so Wilfrid
was wont to devote some of his leisure to the study of painting, but
whereas Frederick in his art never rose above mediocrity, Wilfrid, in
his, succeeded in attaining a high degree of excellence.

For the rest he was tall, with fair hair, blue eyes, and that
indefinable air that is always the accompaniment of aristocratic birth:
shapely and muscular in limb; a giant in strength; a stranger to fear;
chivalrous in his dealings. Among his faults was that of acting upon
impulse rather than upon the cooler dictates of reason. But where would
be the great deeds of history if their authors had always paused to weigh
consequences?

Now as Viscount Courtenay sat alone toying with his wine glass, a
familiar voice suddenly broke in upon his reverie.

“Wilfrid, that our respective countries, or shall we say our stupid
cabinets, are at war with each other, is surely no ground for breaking
off our personal friendship?”

“Prince Ouvaroff! You in Berlin!” exclaimed Wilfrid, his face
brightening; and, somewhat apprehensive lest the other should salute
him, continental-fashion, with a hearty kiss, he quickly extended his
hand, and was relieved to find Ouvaroff content with the English mode of
greeting.

“‘Prince’ do you say?” returned Ouvaroff in a tone of quasi-reproach. “It
was ‘Serge’ in the old days.”

“Then let it be Serge still. I am glad to see a familiar face.”

The new-comer was of Russian nationality, with a countenance decidedly
unhandsome, a genuine Kalmuck physiognomy, though its ugliness
was redeemed by the mild expression of the dark eyes. But however
unprepossessing in face, his figure was tall and well proportioned, and
arrayed in the blue uniform of the Preobrejanski Guards, who formed, in
1801 at least, the _corps d’élite_ of the Czar’s army.

During his term of service as _attaché_ to the Russian Embassy in London,
the Prince had become well-known in West End salons, where he had met
Wilfrid, who, in spite of an unreasoning prejudice against Muscovites,
made an exception in favour of Prince Ouvaroff, appreciating his sterling
qualities. The two had, therefore, become fast friends.

There was a mystery attending Ouvaroff. He had been brought up by a boyar
of high rank, who would never, even on his deathbed, reveal to his
adopted son the secret of his parentage.

“Your father lives and knows of your existence. ’Tis for him to speak—not
me,” were almost the last words of his guardian.

The matter troubled Ouvaroff a good deal. He had often talked it over
with his English friend, and now, their first greetings over, that friend
reverted to the old theme.

“Any nearer to—to the discovery?”

The Prince’s face assumed a somewhat sombre look.

“No nearer, and, truth to tell, I hope I may never be any nearer than I
am at present.”

Wilfrid lifted his eyebrows in genuine surprise.

“Do you remember,” continued the Prince, “that old gipsy fortune-teller,
whom you and I once met near your place in Surrey? She predicted that my
father would become known to me in the very moment of my killing him.”

“My dear Serge, surely you don’t attach any importance to her words?”

“I do, and—fear. Her prophecies were three—first, that on my return
to Russia I should be created a prince; second, that I should become
_aide-de-camp_ to the Czarovitch Alexander. Both these have come to pass.
Why should I refuse to believe the third?”

“Why? Because the old sibyl assured me that within a year I should save
the life of the fairest princess in Europe, gaining her love by that act.
Eight years have passed since then, and so far I haven’t saved the life
of any woman, whether princess or peasant. Since she can prophesy falsely
as well as truthfully, dismiss your gloomy forebodings.”

Ouvaroff changed the conversation.

“What’s this I hear you’ve been doing at Paris?” he observed. “I am told
that a picture of yours exhibited there last Christmas almost created a
riot.”

“A riot? Nonsense!”

“I see you do not like to—what do you say in England?—blow your own
trumpet. But for once lay aside your modesty, and let me have this
story.”

“Well, since you insist on being bored. You are referring, I suppose, to
my picture, ‘The Last Moments of Marie Antoinette?’ Despite what French
newspapers may say, I had no political motive. The work was done merely
to please my own fancy. When finished my poor old drawing master saw it,
and begged for the loan of it, to place it among a small exhibition of
his own pictures. I consented. The result was marvellous. Thousands came
to view the picture. Republicans who had once yelled for the head of ‘The
Austrian,’ and had gleefully seen her perish on the scaffold, now melted
to tears at sight of her image on the canvas. Bonaparte got wind of the
affair, and, on the ground that it was creating a sentiment in favour of
Royalism, ordered the picture to be destroyed. The _gendarmerie_ were
stoutly opposed. Shouts of _A bas Napoleon_ were raised, a struggle
ensued, and the gallery had to be cleared with fixed bayonets.”

“And is it true that you challenged Napoleon to a duel?”

“I demanded compensation for the loss of my picture or—satisfaction at
the sword’s point.”

Ouvaroff could not help smiling at his friend’s colossal audacity.

“And General Bonaparte’s answer——?”

“Was a police order to cross the frontier within forty-eight hours.”

“You went?”

“I stayed. You see, the First Consul’s sister, the dark-eyed Pauline,
with whom I had had some love passages—platonic, of course—had invited
me to a ball a fortnight later. My dear Serge, how could I refuse? On
the evening of the dance I presented myself, greatly to the dismay of
my friends, who were aware that the First Consul was expected. I had
purposely arranged to take my departure at the moment of his arrival.”

“He saw you?”

“Certainly. Figure his rage as he saw me raising Pauline’s hand to my
lips as I took my leave! The music, the dancing, the conversation—all
stopped. The stillness was painful. ‘Did you not receive an order to
quit France a fortnight ago?’ he thundered. ‘Why have you not gone?’ ‘And
did you not receive a challenge to fight a fortnight ago?’ I answered.
‘Why have you not fought?’

“He couldn’t speak for passion.

“‘As to quitting France, Citoyen Bonaparte,’ I continued, ‘in such
matters as coming and going, we Courtenays are accustomed to please
ourselves. I had fixed upon to-night as the time of my departure, and, as
you now perceive, I—er—depart. Adieu, citoyen.’

“With that I passed, by preconcerted arrangement, through a circle
of friends, and before he had time to order my arrest I had reached
a private gateway, where a carriage was awaiting me. As I had taken
the precaution to have relays of horses in readiness, I succeeded in
crossing the Eastern frontier a few hundred yards ahead of the pursuing
carabineers.”

“And so General Bonaparte declined to measure swords with you?”

“Bonaparte is a Corsican—that is to say an Italian bravo, who prefers
darker methods. Listen to the sequel. A few days later, as I was sitting
at the card table in the _kursaal_ at Homburg, a man suddenly rose,
accused me of cheating, and ended his remarks by flinging the contents of
his wine glass in my face. Of course, a meeting was inevitable. It was to
be a duel to the death. Later that night my second came to me in great
distress, advising me to cry off. He had discovered that my adversary was
a secret agent of the First Consul—none other, in fact, than the famous,
or infamous, Abbé Spada.”

“I have heard of him. The first swordsman of France?”

“So-called. Well, we met, and considering the many men whom Spada has
killed in his day, I felt justified in giving him his passport to
Gehenna.”

“You killed him!”

“Within three minutes.”

Ouvaroff regarded the speaker with admiration.

“That’s Bonaparte’s way of dealing with the objects of his displeasure,”
concluded Wilfrid. “But I’ll be even yet with the Little Corsican for
destroying my picture.”

Now, as Wilfrid gazed down upon the dancers swaying rhythmically to
the sound of the music, his eye was caught by a lofty figure standing,
solitary and contemplative, within an arched entrance that opened upon
the ballroom. It was a middle-aged man with silvering hair, whose cold,
handsome face wore a somewhat sombre expression. He was clad in Court
costume, carried his hat under his arm, and sparkled all over with
diamonds from his powdered _queue_ to his shoe buckles. It was the
diamonds that attracted Wilfrid’s attention; he did not like to see a man
so bedizened.

“Do you know that gentleman, Serge?” asked Wilfrid, indicating the
magnate in question. “His face seems familiar to me.”

“Count Arcadius Baranoff, one of the Czar’s ministers. You must have
seen him in London, for he was formerly ambassador at the Court of St.
James’s. As rich as Crœsus. One of the men,” the Prince went on in tones
of contempt, “who in the last reign climbed to power through the bedroom
of the Empress Catharine. He is a proof of the power of the personal
equation in international politics.”

“How so?”

“He is a rank barbarian, whose polish is but skin deep. When he was in
London his _brusquerie_ offended the men, his coarseness the women, and
he left England burning with a desire to do her hurt, and now the time
has come, he thinks.”

“Thinks!”

“You are aware that, after fighting each other for a year or more, the
Czar Paul and Consul Bonaparte are now fast friends. This is mainly due
to the diplomacy of Count Baranoff, who was sent to Paris as the Czar’s
envoy: it was his hand that signed the Franco-Russian treaty. While in
the French capital he tickled the Parisian fancy with a pamphlet, ‘Is it
possible for an Englishman to possess sense?’”

“Oh, indeed!” muttered Wilfrid, with a glance at the distant pamphleteer.

“And now, on his way back to St. Petersburg, he tarries at Berlin in the
hope of persuading the Prussian King to join the league against England.”

“Humph! Is he likely to succeed?”

“There’s no telling. He has had two interviews with the King. Frederick
William is an amiable, weak-minded man. Were it not that Queen Louisa
insists upon being present at these interviews, Baranoff might have
carried his point. He is to have a final interview on the fourth day from
this, and—mark this significant point—the Queen knows nothing of this
intended meeting.”

“And Prince Ouvaroff as a Muscovite patriot,” smiled Wilfrid, “hopes that
Baranoff will gain his ends?”

“By no means,” responded the other quickly. “Personally, I am opposed
to the war, and—but let this be kept secret—so is the Czarovitch. Why
should we give an opportunity to your Nelson to earn fresh laurels at
Russia’s expense? But a truce to politics—I shall be letting out more
than I ought,” he continued with a laugh, and then, by way of changing
the subject, he added—

“You are not married yet?”

“No, nor likely to be. Waiting for the promised princess,” said Wilfrid
mockingly. “But you—? What of the lady you loved five years ago?”

“I love her still,” replied the Prince moodily.

“She remains unwed?”

“So far. But she is ice to me.”

“Take heart. The Neva is not always frozen. That she does not marry
should encourage you to continue your suit.”

“Give me your face and figure and I might succeed. Is it likely that she,
confessedly the most beautiful woman in Moscow, will marry an ugly fellow
like me?”

“What have looks to do with love? What says your own Russian proverb: ‘I
do not love thee because thou art pretty, but thou art pretty because I
love thee.’”

These words failed to arouse Ouvaroff.

“I have discovered of late that I have a rival, and a successful one.
There is peril in aspiring to her hand.”

Before Wilfrid had time to ask the meaning of these mysterious words a
liveried attendant approached, carrying a silver salver, upon which lay
a sealed envelope. This with a bow he presented to the Prince, who, upon
opening it, found therein a card inscribed with the words:—

    “_He who now speaks with you is the man._

                                                 ARCADIUS BARANOFF.”




CHAPTER II

BARANOFF’S PROPOSAL


For a moment Ouvaroff fastened his gaze upon the card which he so held
as to be seen by none but himself; then, raising his eyes, he looked
at Wilfrid. There was a sudden coldness in the Prince’s demeanour, and
Wilfrid intuitively felt that the writing on the card had something to do
with it.

“The next dance is a Hungarian waltz, I perceive,” said Ouvaroff in a
changed voice. “I am reminded by this card that a lady is waiting for me.
Excuse my absence for a few minutes. I am so ugly, you see,” he added
with an uneasy smile, “that when I _do_ obtain the favour of a dance I
cannot afford to miss it.”

As honest a fellow as ever lived was Ouvaroff, but the words he had just
spoken were a “white lie,” as Wilfrid quickly proved; for, upon looking
down during the whole course of the waltz, he did not see the Prince
among the dancers.

While Wilfrid was puzzling himself to account for Ouvaroff’s conduct, he
saw Count Baranoff coming along the gallery, smilingly exchanging a word
here and there with those to whom he was known.

Wilfrid watched him and took the measure of the man. His eyes, more oval
in shape than those seen in Western Europe, had the deceitful, furtive
glance of the Asiatic.

“Were I a Czar, that is not the sort of man I should choose for my
minister,” was Wilfrid’s comment.

“Do I address Viscount Courtenay?” said the Count with a bow as he drew
near to Wilfrid.

Yes, he did address Viscount Courtenay. This somewhat bluntly. Wilfrid
had not asked for the diplomatist’s acquaintance, nor was he disposed to
be over polite to an enemy of England.

But the envoy was not to be rebuffed by Wilfrid’s frigid manner. He
sat down in the chair lately occupied by Ouvaroff. The little group of
Prussian officers stared at the pair, wondering what there could be
in common between the Czar’s representative and the eccentric young
Englishman.

As Baranoff seated himself a diamond dropped from his coat. Wilfrid
picked it up and presented it to its owner, who gracefully waved it off.

“It is beneath the dignity of a Baranoff to resume what he has once let
fall.”

“And beneath that of a Courtenay to accept it,” replied Wilfrid, placing
the gem in the exact spot where it had fallen.

This diamond-dropping was an old trick of Baranoff’s whenever he
wished to gain the good graces of a stranger. He had always found the
method very successful—with Russians. It didn’t seem to answer with an
Englishman.

The Count called for a bottle of Chartreuse and helped himself to a
glass, first pouring in from a phial that he produced a few drops of
a liquid that Wilfrid knew to be “diavolino,” one of those Italian
nostrums much in vogue a century ago, as warranted to keep in tone the
constitutions of those given to dissipation.

Wilfrid’s dislike of the man increased.

“You have business with me, sir?”

“Ah, how delightfully English! You come to the point at once. Business?
Yes, we may call it that. At any rate I have an offer—a magnificent offer
to make.”

He eyed Wilfrid curiously, dubious as to how his words would be received.
And indeed it was on Wilfrid’s tongue to tell the envoy to take himself
and his offer to Samarcand, or further, but he refrained for the moment,
thinking that he might as well hear what the offer was.

“I wish,” continued the Count, “to give you the opportunity of earning
three hundred thousand roubles. Such is the price I am willing to pay
for a service to be done by you.”

Three hundred thousand roubles, or, roughly speaking, £50,000 in English
money, would be a welcome gift to Wilfrid, whose family estate had a
heavy mortgage upon it. But, mindful of the character of the speaker,
he determined to learn first whether the proposal could be honourably
entertained by an English gentleman and a patriot.

“Three hundred thousand roubles! It must be a very substantial service to
be worth so much.”

“You speak truth. It _is_ a substantial service.”

“There are thousands of suitable men in Europe. Why select me for the
purpose?”

“Thousands of men—true. But only one Courtenay.”

Wilfrid did not controvert a remark so obviously just.

“The work,” continued the Count, “is one requiring a spirit that will
dare great things.”

“Then, who more qualified for the task than Count Baranoff?”

“You are very good,” smiled the envoy. “But I was not at Saxony in the
summer of 1792—you were.”

“So, too, were many other men in the year you mention.”

“True, but you were the central figure in a certain affair, forgotten by
you, perhaps, but remembered by others. I will explain anon.”

The summer of 1792 was about eight and a half years back. Wilfrid
hurriedly reviewing his brief sojourn in the kingdom of Saxony, could
recall nothing to explain Baranoff’s words.

“What I require for my three hundred thousand roubles is that you shall
make love—successful love, mark you—to a certain lady.”

Wilfrid gave a scornful laugh.

“I thought the enterprise was one demanding a high degree of courage!”

“And so it does. There’s great danger in it.”

“That makes it interesting. Where is this Lady Perilous to be found?”

“In the city of St. Petersburg.”

“Is the lady young or old?”

“She is in her twenty-third year.”

“Seven years my junior. Ill-favoured, perhaps, and therefore unable to
obtain a suitor?”

“She has the loveliest face in St. Petersburg.”

“Not ill-favoured? The daughter of a vulgar merchant, or of some wealthy
serf desirous of obtaining a nobleman for his son-in-law?”

“On the contrary, her father is a prince.”

Wilfrid started. He thought of the gipsy’s prophecy.

“Is the lady of fallen fortunes?”

“She can command millions of roubles.”

“A prisoner immured within a fortress from which you would have me rescue
her?”

“Nothing of the sort.”

“A cloistered nun, repentant of her vows?”

“Not at all. She moves freely in Court circles.”

“Demented, or that way inclined?”

“As sane as women in general.”

“Subject to some hereditary taint? Epileptic or the like?”

“As sound in physique as yourself.”

“Then by all that’s holy!” cried Wilfrid, in a paroxysm of perplexity,
“explain why a lady of princely birth, beautiful, and rich, can lack
suitors among her own nation? Why must a foreigner from distant England
play the lover?”

“Because there is no one in St. Petersburg bold enough to take upon
himself that _rôle_, since discovery means certain death to the lover,
death perhaps to her.”

“Death!” queried Wilfrid, somewhat startled at the word.

“At the hands of the State.”

“Ah!” said Wilfrid, beginning to receive a glimmer of light. “She is a
lady important politically?”

“Very much so,” replied the diplomatist with a look that confirmed his
statement.

“What prospect have I of winning this lady’s affections?”

“I have discovered, no matter how, that you are the only man in Europe
who can succeed.”

“Really! That’s very flattering to my vanity,” laughed Wilfrid. “The lady
did not send you on this mission, I trust?”

“She is modesty itself, and would die rather than commission any one on
such an errand.”

“I ask her pardon for wronging her in thought. Have you got her portrait?”

The Count hesitated for a moment, and then drew forth an ivory miniature.

“Painted three months ago. It scarcely does her justice.”

As Wilfrid’s eyes fell on the miniature he fairly held his breath. It was
a face more beautiful than any he had ever seen. The soft violet eyes
and the lovely delicate features, with their sweet grave expression that
spoke of a nature, pensive and _spirituelle_, might well inspire love
in the heart even of the coldest; much more then in that of a romantic
character like Wilfrid.

“Well, what do you think of it?” asked Baranoff.

“It is the face of an angel,” replied Wilfrid as he returned the
miniature. “What is her name?” he added.

“You do not recognise her?”

“No.”

“I thought perhaps you _might_ have recognised the face. Her name?
Pardon me, I will give it if you are prepared to undertake the _rôle_ of
lover—if not, ’twere best, in the lady’s interests, to keep it secret.”

Wilfrid reflected. A lady of political consequence, Baranoff had called
her, threatened by the State with death if she listened to love-vows!
Wilfrid was sufficiently versed in Russian history to know that the
reigning dynasty was a younger branch of the House of Romanoff, and that
a return to the rights of primogeniture would deprive the present Czar
of his crown. Was the lady with the angel-face a descendant of the elder
line, and thus so nearly related to the throne that, in the Court of
the gloomy and suspicious Paul the First, it would be perilous for any
man, even the highest among Russia’s nobility, to aspire to her hand?
Imbued with this idea Wilfrid began to weave a whole political romance
around the person of the beautiful unknown. Was she, though nominally at
liberty, a virtual prisoner at the Czar’s Court, watched by a hundred
suspicious eyes—pining for affection, yet forbidden to marry?

To try to set her free from such gloomy environment was no more than his
duty.

And Wilfrid, if Baranoff had spoken truly, was certain of gaining her
love! To woo and carry off a fair princess from the power of a jealous
Czar was just the sort of enterprise that appealed to his knightly and
romantic character. He could no longer hesitate.

“Do you assent?”

“Assent!” echoed Wilfrid. “Is it possible to dissent? You say that
provided I succeed in marrying this lady you will add to the pleasure
by paying me the sum of three hundred thousand roubles! Really, your
proposal is so extraordinary, so captivating, that I am almost inclined
to think that you are trifling with me. And,” he added in a graver tone,
“it is not wise, sir, to trifle with a Courtenay.”

“No trifling is intended. But, pardon me, I have not, it seems, made my
meaning quite clear. You are labouring under a slight misapprehension. I
spoke of _love_: I did not speak of _marriage_.”

Wilfrid stared hard at the speaker, upon whose lips there now appeared a
sinister smile. Then, vivid as fire upon a dark night, the full meaning
of the proposal flashed upon him. He was deliberately to set to work to
corrupt a woman’s innocence! The lady in question had given some offence
to the powerful diplomatist, who chose this diabolical method of revenge.
The fall from purity, the shame that is worse than death, would destroy
whatever influence she possessed in Court circles, and probably at the
same time remove a political obstacle from Baranoff’s path.

Now whatever sins might be imputed to Wilfrid, he had not yet played
the rake. In an age when gallantry was considered one of the marks of
a gentleman, and even the clergy were not conspicuous for purity of
morals, he had kept his name stainless, thanks to the influence of a good
mother, who had bidden him see in every woman a saint.

His anger, then, can be imagined. He blamed himself for holding converse
with so cold-blooded a barbarian.

“I deserve this insult,” he muttered. “What else could I expect? Can one
meddle with pitch and not be defiled?”

“You must not talk of marriage,” resumed Baranoff. “What I require is
that the lady shall be induced to compromise herself.”

“So that all the world shall hear of her fall?” said Wilfrid, smiling
dangerously.

“Why, truth to tell, ’twill not avail me much if the _amour_ remain
secret.”

The candour with which Baranoff spoke showed that he was quite convinced
that Wilfrid had consented to his scheme.

“But you have said,” commented Wilfrid, “that the affair, if discovered,
may bring upon her the penalty of death.”

“So it may, if it be discovered while she is on Russian ground. But I
will so arrange matters that both you and she shall have every facility
for escape. Once over the frontier you are safe. As I have said, the
danger is great. But so, too, is the reward. Think! Three hundred
thousand roubles!”

“Your Excellency,” said Wilfrid with the air of one who has formed an
irrevocable decision, “I will at once depart for St. Petersburg.”

“Good!”

“I will seek out the lady.”

“Excellent!”

“And I will warn her of your damnable designs.”

“Ha!” muttered Baranoff, looking thunderstruck.

As he caught the angry sparkle of Wilfrid’s eye, it suddenly dawned upon
him that he had mistaken his man. Reared in the atmosphere of Catharine’s
Court, in its day the most licentious in Europe, Baranoff had become dead
to all sense of honour, and failed to understand how a man could resist
the twin temptation of a pleasant _amour_ and a rich bribe.

“Do I take it that you refuse my offer?”

“To the devil with your offer!”

Baranoff elevated his eyebrows and affected the extreme of amazement.

“I hold out to you the prospect of an _amour_ with a beautiful and
charming woman, to be followed by a free gift of three hundred thousand
roubles, and you refuse!”

“Repeat your infamous offer, and I’ll—yes, by heaven! I’ll fling you over
the rails of this balcony!”

Unconsciously Baranoff backed a little from the table, for Wilfrid looked
quite capable of putting his threat into execution.

There was a brief silence. Then Baranoff spoke.

“So you will visit St. Petersburg and put the lady on her guard,” sneered
he, mightily pleased that he had withheld her name. “I fear that if you
seek to enter Russia at this present juncture you will be taken for a
spy of Pitt’s. As minister of the Czar it would be my duty to order your
arrest.”

“Oh, indeed! Do you really entertain the hope of returning to Russia?”

“What is to prevent me?”

“Myself.”

“You!” exclaimed Baranoff disdainfully.

Wilfrid laughed pleasantly.

“I shall certainly do my best to provide you with a grave in
Brandenburg’s sand. In seeking to make me the agent of an infamous deed
you have offered an insult not to be passed over by an English gentleman.
You will have to defend your conduct with the sword.”

There was a very palpable start on the part of Baranoff, and his face
paled. Though well versed in the art of fencing he durst not measure
swords with the man who, inside of three minutes, had transfixed the Abbé
Spada, the champion duellist of France.

He sought to shield himself behind the privileges of his high offices.

“It would be contrary to etiquette,” he remarked loftily, “for a _chargé
d’affaires_ to accept a challenge. My imperial master would never
forgive me for putting my life to the hazard of a duel while engaged in
conducting a diplomatic mission, otherwise——”

“Now you are talking nonsense,” interrupted Wilfrid, bluntly. “The Czar
loves a duel, for only a few weeks ago he invited all the sovereigns of
Europe to his Court to settle their international disputes by single
combat.”

And Baranoff, well knowing that the eccentric Czar _had_ so acted, felt
himself deprived of his argument.

“Fight me you must! I will force you.”

“Force me? indeed!” said the Count. “In what way?”

“By publicly branding you as a coward; by putting affronts upon you in
every assembly you frequent. For example, if you are among men I shall
walk up to you with a pair of scissors, and after asking, ‘Why do these
Muscovites wear their beards so long?’ I shall proceed to clip yours. If
you are sitting with ladies I shall relate in their hearing and in yours
the story of how you propose to deal with one of their sex. It may be
that through fear of me you will keep within your hotel, in which case I
shall have to affix a notice at the chief entrance, stating the reason of
your enforced seclusion! In short, sir, I shall make your life at Berlin
so abominably unpleasant that for very shame you will have to fight.
There must be a meeting unless you wish to see the name of Baranoff
turned into a byword for a coward.”

The Count listened with secret consternation, feeling certain that this
obstinate pig of an Englishman would keep his word. A man who had not
shrunk from defying the First Consul to his face was not likely to pay
much respect to the status of a diplomatic envoy.

And to whom could he look for protection? Not to Frederick William. So
long as Queen Louisa was by his side that monarch would avow, rightly
or wrongly, that he was powerless to control the actions of one who was
not a native-born subject. Not to the British Ambassador at Berlin. That
magnate, in view of the hostile relations between Great Britain and
Russia, would be highly amused at the mortification of the Muscovite
envoy.

While he was thinking of all this Wilfrid, too, was thinking, and it
suddenly occurred to him that there was another and better way of
punishing Baranoff—one that would likewise strike a blow at Bonaparte.

“As your Excellency seems to have no liking for the duel, I give you the
alternative of quitting Berlin within twenty-four hours.”

An instant feeling of relief swept over Baranoff. Here was a way of
escape. Then he began to reflect that if he should depart within the time
prescribed he must sacrifice the promised interview with King Frederick,
and go back to St. Petersburg without gaining the adhesion of Prussia to
the Northern Confederacy—a sad blow to his hopes!

Disposed to take a favourable view of matters, he had that very day sent
off a despatch to the Czar stating that King Frederick seemed slowly
coming over to Russian views. He must now return to report the failure of
his mission, and, if he should speak the whole truth, to confess that he
had been frightened from Berlin by a single Englishman! The neutrality
of Prussia meant the loss of so many war vessels to the Confederacy, and
was practically equivalent to a bloodless naval victory on the part of
Wilfrid.

Some such thought as this caused Wilfrid to smile. Baranoff, quick to
read his thoughts, was consumed with secret rage.

No, he would not withdraw from Berlin at Wilfrid’s bidding, and he said
as much.

“Go you shall,” retorted Wilfrid. “As General Bonaparte, your dear ally,
banished me from France, so I in turn do banish you from Prussia. ‘Tit
for tat,’ as our English children say.”

Baranoff gave a scowl of baffled hatred.

“How much has Louisa paid you for this business?” he sneered.

With disdain on his face Wilfrid rose.

“When next you take to pamphleteering let the theme be, ‘Is it possible
for a Russian to be a gentleman?’ My present address is the Hôtel du
Nord. If by to-morrow evening at six of the clock you have neither left
Berlin nor sent me your second, you may prepare for humiliation. I take
my leave. _Adieu_, or _Au revoir_, whichever you please.”

And so saying Wilfrid withdrew to the quietude of his room in the hotel
to think over matters.

It was a fascinating thought that during a brief stay in Saxony he had
been seen by a girlish and beautiful princess, upon whose imagination he
had made an impression so powerful that after the lapse of eight years
she still retained him in mind. True, Baranoff was a person upon whose
statements little reliance could be placed, but in the present instance
Wilfrid was convinced that he had not spoken falsely.

“The lady has a real existence,” he muttered. “Now how ought I to act in
this affair?”

It was hard that a princess who cherished his memory with affection
should meet with no return. Yet, on the other hand, it would be
embarrassing for both if he should be unable to requite her love.

If he went it was doubtful whether he would find her, so slight were the
clues he held.

Would his friend Ouvaroff be able to identify her? The thought had no
sooner entered Wilfrid’s mind than he recalled the Prince’s strange
saying in connection with his own love suit. “There is deadly peril in
aspiring to her hand.” This could scarcely be a coincidence—Ouvaroff’s
lady must be Baranoff’s princess.

“Humph! if Serge were first in the field,” thought Wilfrid, “it seems
unfair to cut him out. But, if the princess _won’t_ have him——”

Early on the following morning he called at Ouvaroff’s quarters. To his
extreme disappointment he found that the Prince had taken his departure,
leaving a note to the effect that he had been hastily summoned to St.
Petersburg by command of the Czarovitch. “Pardon my running off without a
farewell,” he wrote, “but Alexander’s service brooks no delay.”

Ouvaroff was not the only Muscovite to leave Berlin that day, for in the
evening the political circles were surprised, and probably relieved, by
the news that Count Baranoff had suddenly departed for St. Petersburg,
thus relinquishing his attempt to make Prussia a member of the Armed
Neutrality.

And now was Wilfrid continually haunted by the lovely face in the
miniature. It filled his mind by day; by night it mingled with his
dreams. Sometimes he saw the face, its lips curved into a witching smile
as if inviting a kiss; sometimes the eyes would assume a sad, wistful
look, as if appealing to him for aid.

To visit St. Petersburg, or not to visit it? was the question to which
for a long time he could discover no answer. Still in doubt he looked
one night from his hotel window, and saw the face of the sky as one dark
cloud. But while he gazed, there presently came a rift, and through the
rift one planet sparkling bright.

Hesperus, the star of Love!

It seemed like an answer to his thoughts. Love in the shape of a fair
princess was beckoning to him. His mind was made up—he would go to her!




CHAPTER III

THE INN OF THE SILVER BIRCH


A winter night, frosty and still. The northern stars, set in a sky of
steely blue, twinkled over a plain of frozen snow—a plain so vast that
its visible border touched the horizon. In all the wide landscape no
town, no hamlet, not even a solitary dwelling was to be seen; the view,
a monotonous blank, relieved here and there by clumps of dark firs, the
darker by contrast with the surrounding white.

Lofty posts, painted with alternate bands of black and white, and
situated a verst distant from one another, indicated the ordinary line
of route over the wintry waste, and along this route a hooded sledge was
moving with all the speed that three gallant mares could supply, the
bells upon the duga, or wooden arch, ringing out musically over the crisp
snow.

Two persons occupied this sledge, one, the _yamchik_ or driver, Izak by
name, an active little Russian, who sat partly upon the shaft, in order
when necessary to steady the vehicle by thrusting out a leg upon the
snow; the other, Wilfrid Courtenay, who, voluminous in fur wrappings,
sat, or rather reclined at the rear under cover of the hood.

It was over Russian ground that the car was speeding, its goal being St.
Petersburg, distant now about one hundred miles.

Wilfrid had met with considerable difficulty in entering the Czar’s
dominions. Twenty days had he been detained at the frontier-town of
Kowno for no reason whatever as far as he could see, save the caprice of
petty officials, whose insolence and greed had so galled the spirit of
the Englishman that several times he was on the point of turning back.
However, he thought better of it, and when at last leave _was_ granted
him to go forward, forward he went. Having learned by experience that
travelling in one’s own equipage is more convenient, and, in the end more
economical, than the ordinary method of posting, Wilfrid had purchased at
Kowno a covered car, together with three steeds to draw it, accepting at
the same time the proffered services of a yamchik, who boasted that he
knew every verst of the way from Kowno to St. Petersburg.

And here he was speeding along at the rate of twelve miles an hour. The
keen cold air, combined with the rapid swaying of the car, caused him to
fall into a semi-slumber, from which he was roused by the voice of Izak.

“If the little father will condescend to look, he will see the village of
Gora,” he cried, pointing with his whip to a light shining far off like a
star.

Welcome news to the cold and hungry Wilfrid. Gora should be his
stopping-place for the night.

Fifteen minutes more and they reached the silent, sleeping village,
which, like most of its kind in Russia, consisted merely of a line of
wooden cabins on each side of the post-road with a row of trees in front.

At one end of the village stood its only house of entertainment, the Inn
of the Silver Birch—an inn very different externally from the generality
of its class. As a matter of fact, it had originally been the seat of a
rich boyar, the lord of the village and of the surrounding land. It was a
large and handsome structure of timber, pillared and balconied, and with
much carving about its eaves and gables. On three sides grew lofty birch
trees with silvery bark; the fourth side lay open to the gaze of the
travellers.

“This is the twentieth inn I’ve seen painted red,” remarked Wilfrid.

“’Tis the will of the Czar,” answered the yamchik. “Some weeks ago he
gave a ball, and to it came a lady wearing a red dress. ‘What a pretty
colour!’ said Paul. And lo! at once a law that all post-houses and
bridges shall be painted red. Great is the word of the Czar! He wills,
and—pouf! ’tis done.”

“A pity he doesn’t will a spell of warm weather, then,” growled Wilfrid,
as he set his half-frozen feet upon the hard ground.

As was the village, so was the inn, still and silent as the tomb.
Wilfrid’s summons, however, soon brought to the door the landlord, a
somewhat melancholy-looking man. He was accompanied by a tall and pretty
girl of about eighteen, sufficiently like him to be recognizable as his
daughter.

Though wrapped in sheepskins they shivered as the keen, icy air from
without, chilling the warmer air within, produced an instant fall of
sleet, a phenomenon which, familiar enough to the four, was witnessed
without surprise.

Now as the girl caught sight of Wilfrid there came into her eyes a
sudden light. It was not the light of recognition, for she could never
previously have seen Wilfrid, but it was a look that seemed to say she
had been expecting him, and was glad he had come. Such at least was the
impression that Wilfrid derived from her odd manner.

Turning from her to the landlord Wilfrid requested accommodation for the
night, but at this the landlord put on a lugubrious look of refusal,
explaining that it was neither for lack of room nor of victuals that he
was compelled to turn the little father away, but the fact was the whole
inn had been hired for the night by a small party, now fast asleep,
whose grandeur was such that they had insisted that no other traveller
should be received, lest the noise, however light, which must necessarily
accompany his presence, should disturb their slumbers.

“Did they look under their pillow for a rose-leaf?” asked Wilfrid.

But this classical allusion was lost upon the landlord. It grieved him,
he continued, to refuse a traveller at so late an hour of the night,
but what could he do? He had given his word. There was another inn some
twenty _versts_ farther on; would not his Excellency——?

No, his Excellency wouldn’t, especially when he noticed on the face of
the pretty girl a look of disappointment, evidently occasioned by her
father’s words.

“Your name?” asked Wilfrid, addressing the landlord.

“Boris, son of Peter.”

“Good Boris, your guests’ command applies only to noisy and drunken
roysterers, not to a gentleman so orderly and quiet as myself. Lead
on—I’ll not disturb their slumbers.”

Boris hesitated, but a whisper from the girl seemed to decide him.

“His Excellency may enter,” said he.

The girl’s eyes danced; she could not have looked more glad had she
herself, and not Wilfrid, been the traveller. While Boris conducted
the yamchik with the car and horses across a courtyard to the stables,
Wilfrid followed the girl—whose name she told him was Nadia—to a
large room on the ground floor, a room not warmed by the ugly-looking
closed-up stove, the usual accompaniment of a Russian room, but by a
fire of pine-logs blazing upon the stone hearth, the ruddy glow forming
a cheerful contrast to the snowy prospect without, which could be dimly
discerned through the panes of the double lattice.

In one corner of the apartment hung a small painting of the Madonna,
before which a taper was burning.

Wilfrid was passing this negligently by when Nadia gave a little scream.

“Ah! you are a heretic!” she cried. “Come, you must bow before the
picture—so.” She showed him how to do it, and, to please her, Wilfrid
bowed. “Now you make the sign of the cross, with your fingers bent thus.”
Wilfrid imitated her action. “That’s right. Now you are a member of the
True Church.”

She smiled so prettily that Wilfrid could not help smiling too.

Throwing a huge bearskin over the back and seat of a chair, Nadia drew it
to the fire, and bidding her guest be seated, she began to bustle about,
saying that all the servants were asleep and that it would be a pity to
awaken them, so she herself would prepare his supper.

As Wilfrid seated himself, the innkeeper entered from the kitchen, where
he had left the yamchik, who, when his meal was over, would curl himself
up and sleep, peasant-fashion, upon the stove.

“Your Excellency has travelled far to-day?” asked Boris. His manner was
in striking contrast with Nadia’s free and lively style. He stood in
humble fashion, as if not liking, even in his own house, to sit down in
the presence of his guest; but, invited by Wilfrid to a seat near the
fire, he sat down, mentally contrasting the Englishman’s affability with
the hauteur of the Russian grandees sleeping above.

“You have come far to-day?” he repeated.

“From,” replied Wilfrid, as he set to work with knife and fork, “from a
place called—let me think—Via—Via—”

“Viaznika?” interjected Nadia.

“Ah! that’s the name—Viaznika.”

“You set off late in the day?” pursued the innkeeper.

“About noon.”

Boris looked as if Wilfrid had made a very puzzling statement.

“Your horses seem fleet enough,” he murmured.

“Have you any reason to doubt their fleetness?” smiled Wilfrid.

“Why, see here, gospodin. It is now midnight, and since you say you set
off at noon, you have taken twelve hours to come thirty-six versts.”

Reckon a verst at about two-thirds of the English mile, and it will thus
be seen that Wilfrid had been travelling at the magnificent rate of about
two miles an hour! But how could this be when the horses had been kept
going at a fair trot the whole of the time? Nadia sat silent, her eyes
fixed upon the ground. Odd, but Wilfrid somehow derived the impression
that the talk had taken a turn distasteful to her. Why should this be?

“Have you mistaken the distance between Viaznika and here?” said Wilfrid
to the innkeeper.

Now whatever faults English travellers may have to find with Russia and
her ways, all will bear witness to the excellence of her posting-maps.
One of these, placed before Wilfrid, quickly convinced him that Boris
was right. The distance by the post-road between Viaznika and Gora was
a little more than twenty-four miles. The three-horse car had occupied
twelve hours over a journey that a pedestrian could have performed
in half the time. It was clear that the yamchik had not followed the
ordinary route; in fact, Wilfrid had known thus much at the time, for
on pretext of taking a short cut, Izak had frequently deviated, now to
the right and now to the left. Wilfrid’s suspicions being thus aroused
he began to study the map, and found that the preceding day’s journey
could have been accomplished in a considerably less space of time than
that actually taken by the yamchik. That worthy’s conduct was certainly
puzzling. His motive could hardly be a pecuniary one since Wilfrid, alive
to the disadvantages of paying by the day, had by mutual arrangement
fixed upon a definite sum for the whole journey, so that manifestly
it was to Izak’s interest not to retard, but to accelerate, Wilfrid’s
progress.

“Where did you pick up the man?” asked Boris.

“At Kowno. He came to me of his own accord, saying that as he had heard
I was about to make the journey to St. Petersburg would I accept his
services? According to his own account he has performed the journey from
Kowno to St Petersburg more than a hundred times during the past ten
years.”

“His face is strange to me. He has never stopped at the Silver Birch.”

“Nay, father,” interposed Nadia. “I remember him on two or three
occasions.”

She caught Wilfrid’s eye as she spoke, and coloured. Wilfrid wondered why.

“Let’s have the fellow in here, and we’ll question him,” said he.

“He’ll be asleep by this time,” said Nadia gently. “’Twill be a pity to
disturb him.”

Thus advised, Wilfrid put off his cross-examination of the yamchik till
the morning, and the conversation flowed into other channels.

“Are you a _vitch_ or an _off_?” asked Nadia, suddenly.

“I am not quite sure that I understand.”

“Why, look you, my father being the son of one Peter, is Boris Petroff.
Now if he were a boyar he would be Boris Petrovitch.”

“I see. Well, I suppose I must put myself down among the _vitches_, for I
am a nobleman in my own country.”

Nadia’s face fell when she heard this. In a voice that seemed to savour
of resentment, she asked:—

“How many souls have you?”

“We in England are limited to one. Is it different in Russia?”

“One!” echoed Nadia. “Some of our great boyars have ten thousand souls.”

“They must take an unconscionable time in dying! And how many has Nadia?”

“None,” replied the girl with a flash of her eyes as if detecting some
hidden insult in the question. “We are souls ourselves, my father and I.”

“It is the fashion of our boyars,” explained Boris, “to call their serfs
‘souls.’”

“A good name,” added Nadia in a bitter tone, “for they have us, body as
well as soul.”

“And there are twenty million like us,” said Boris.

It came upon Wilfrid as a painful shock to learn that this dignified
innkeeper and his pretty daughter were serfs. That serfage existed in
Russia was, of course, no news to him, but it had existed as something
remote, and therefore as shadowy as the helotry of ancient Sparta. It
was a very different thing to be brought vividly face to face with the
system, to know that Boris, head man of the village, the lessee of a
government post-house, and therefore himself a master of servants and the
owner of many roubles, was of no account in the eye of the law. He and
Nadia could be summoned back at any time to their lord’s estate, clothed
in peasant attire, put to degrading tasks, and, like domestic animals,
could be whipped or sold at the pleasure of their owner.

No wonder, with such fears as these always present to their mind, that
Boris should wear an habitual look of melancholy, and that Nadia’s
flashes of liveliness should alternate with moods of gloom!

Now if Wilfrid had been some blockhead of a Russian boyar he would have
disdained all further conversation with the innkeeper and his daughter,
but being an English gentleman it never occurred to him that he was
losing caste by conversing with a serf, and so he continued to talk on,
and under his sympathetic words Nadia seemed to brighten again.

“Do you know,” she remarked, looking up with a half-smile, “that you have
been talking treason? You have used the word ‘free’ several times. It’s a
prohibited word.”

“Prohibited?”

“I do not jest, gospodin. The Czar Paul would regulate the language of
his people, so he has issued a ukase forbidding the utterance of certain
words. Among such come ‘freedom’ and ‘liberty.’”

“The devil!” muttered Wilfrid.

“You may say that. That’s not a prohibited word.”

“’Twere well, Nadia, to give me a list of these forbidden vocables.”

“I don’t know them all. However, you mustn’t use the word ‘revolution.’”

Wilfrid began now to understand why the officials of Kowno had
confiscated from his small travelling library a book bearing the title of
“The Revolution of the Heavenly Bodies.” Evidently it was regarded as a
dangerous political work!

“Anything more?”

“Well, ‘snub’ is forbidden.”

“Heavens! what treason lurks in that simple word?”

“It will be taken as a reflection on the Czar, whose nose has a skyward
tendency.”

“Anything more?”

“Beware of the word ‘bald.’”

“Ah!”

“Because if the Czar were to swear by the hair of his head the oath would
not be binding. Do you know he once had a soldier knouted to death for
speaking of him as the ‘baldhead?’”

To the truth of Nadia’s remarks history can bear witness. The last of
them was not very encouraging to Wilfrid, for if the Czar could put a
man to death far an offence so slight, he would surely do the like with
one who had defeated his envoy at Berlin. And Wilfrid’s coming to St
Petersburg would quickly become known to Baranoff’s underlings, since
it was required of every stranger that he should report himself at the
Police Bureau. Was it likely, then, that Count Baranoff would neglect
the opportunity of exposing him to the vengeance of the Czar? But though
Wilfrid began to realize more vividly than before the dangerous character
of his enterprise, he was still resolute to go on with it, trusting that
as he had emerged triumphantly from previous perils, so, too, he would
from this.

He sought to turn the conversation from politics by making inquiries as
to the other guests in the house.

The innkeeper, with a shake of his head, gave it as his opinion that
there was something mysterious about them, since one and all had declined
to disclose their names, a statement that did but serve to stimulate
Wilfrid’s curiosity.

“To-day about noon,” said Boris, proceeding to tell all he knew, “there
drove up to the inn door a troika containing four persons, two equerries
attired in blue and silver livery, and two women, who——”

“Who,” interposed Nadia, “from their dress might have been taken for
grand-duchesses, but who proved in the end to be only ladies’ maids.”

“The four had been sent on to prepare for the coming of their mistress,
a boyarine, so they said, of the highest rank. They wished to engage the
whole inn for the night. They insisted that the time of their lady’s
sleep must be free from the slightest noise, to ensure which they
stipulated that I must exclude all other visitors, and to this I agreed,
as they promised to pay well. They then went the round of the inn,
selecting such rooms as they deemed suitable.”

“And the airs and graces of the maids!” said Nadia. “They strutted about
with their noses held high. Nothing was good enough for them.”

“They selected the Tapestried Chamber as the bedroom of their lady,”
continued Boris.

“Yes, and grumbled because there was no room communicating directly with
it. They wished to be near their lady, and actually wanted us to connect
the Tapestried Chamber with the adjoining room by there and then cutting
a doorway through the wall.”

“And when I refused,” pursued Boris, “on the ground that I could not
make any alteration in government property without the consent of the
government, I thought they would never cease laughing, though for my part
I could see nothing to laugh at. In the evening about seven of the clock
the boyarine and her party arrived.”

“And how sweet and gracious she was!” commented Nadia. “Different
altogether from her retinue. Do you mind that ugly haughty man in
uniform, with the long spurs and the fierce moustaches. He’s a
fire-eater, if you like! He spent an hour after dinner in fencing
with another officer, as lordly as himself. One of the maids so far
condescended to me as to say that he practised this sword-play every day
in order to be able to kill a certain Englishman.”

“He must take care that the Englishman doesn’t kill him,” smiled
Wilfrid.—“They have all gone to bed, I suppose?”

“All,” replied Boris. “The boyarine in the Tapestried Chamber; in the
room on her right the two maids, in that on the left the—the——”

“The Ugly One,” interjected Nadia.

“And the rest here and there in different rooms.”

“And they are staying for the night only?” asked Wilfrid.

“For the night only. They set off at ten in the morning for St
Petersburg.”

“You didn’t hear the boyarine’s name?”

“We didn’t hear the names of any of them. They wish to remain unknown.
‘The name,’ said the officer with the spurs, who seems to be the
boyarine’s right-hand man, ‘the name by which we choose to be known is
Pay-well. Ask questions and it shall be Pay-not.’”

“It is the fashion,” remarked Nadia, “with some of our noble ladies to
spend a week or two of religious seclusion in some convent. From a few
words let fall by one of the party I believe the boyarine is returning
from some such a visit.”

“It may be,” responded Wilfrid. “Is she young or old?”

“Not much past twenty,” replied Nadia.

“And her appearance?”

“Her appearance!” repeated Nadia with enthusiastic warmth. “Her
appearance! Ah! gospodin, how can one describe what is indescribable? I
am told that there lives a German duchess so beautiful that once, when
passing through a certain village of Italy, the simple-minded peasants
knelt, believing her to be the Madonna. I think our boyarine must be that
duchess, so sweet and beautiful is she.”

“Dark or fair?”

“As fair as the day, with golden hair and blue eyes.”

“Then she resembles you.”

Nadia gave a scornful little laugh.

“My eyes are light blue; hers are of a lovely, dark azure and shine like
stars. At a distance our hair may seem alike, but look closer. Mine is
straw-coloured tow; hers woven sunbeams and as soft as silk. But the way
she arranges it! She must be very much afraid of the Czar.”

“Why so?”

“Her _coiffure_ shows it.”

“What! has that old autocrat been dictating in what way ladies shall wear
their hair?”

“That is so, gospodin.” And here Nadia, twisting her long hair into a
number of thick plaits, disposed them in ludicrous fashion around her
head, saying with a smile, “This is Paul’s ideal _coiffure_, and this is
how ladies must appear at Court. But we, who do not go to Court, may wear
it as we please.” And with that she let her hair fall around her like a
shower of golden threads, and pushing some aside, looked smilingly at
Wilfrid.




CHAPTER IV

IN THE PRINCESS’S BED-CHAMBER


A few more words passed and then Wilfrid, with a glance at his watch,
opined that it was high time for him to go to bed.

“Will you show the gospodin to his room, Nadia?” said the innkeeper.

“He had better pull off those heavy boots first,” suggested the girl.

And Wilfrid, knowing her reason, good-humouredly complied.

“And you’ll not get up till after ten?” pleaded Boris. “The boyarine must
not know that I have broken my word. And I must keep your yamchik out of
the way till she has taken her departure.”

“Very good. To please you I’ll prolong my slumbers,” assented Wilfrid,
“though I confess I should like to have a peep at the fair boyarine.” And
bidding the innkeeper “good-night,” Wilfrid followed Nadia, who led the
way with lighted lamp.

“Tread softly,” she said with a subdued laugh. “Don’t disturb the repose
of the Ugly One, whatever you do. So savage-looking is he that he’ll
think nothing of running you through the body with his long sword if he
should be waked before his time.”

Mindful more of the boyarine than of the Ugly One, Wilfrid stepped with
noiseless tread.

“Your room,” said Nadia, as they ascended a staircase, “is exactly over
the boyarine’s bed-chamber, so you must move about as silently as a
ghost.”

Conversing thus in whispers she turned down the corridor that led from
the second landing.

“This is your room,” she said, pausing before a closed door.

Wilfrid, taking the lamp from her hand, wished her “good night.”

“The last Englishman parted from me very differently.” There was no
mistaking the saucy invitation of her eye and lip. Pretty faces were
made to be kissed, and Wilfrid did what any other sensible fellow would
have done similarly situated, in which pleasing business the lamp became
accidentally extinguished.

“There now! You yourself must re-light it,” she said, thrusting a
tinder-box into his hand. “I cannot stay longer,” and pushing him into
the room, she closed the door upon him and hurried away.

Wilfrid’s first act on finding himself alone was to lock the door, his
practice always at a strange inn; his next, the room being in total
darkness, was to obtain a light, a somewhat difficult feat, owing to the
dampness of the rag in the tinder-box. Not till after the lapse of ten
minutes did he succeed in producing a flame sufficient for the rekindling
of the lamp.

While kneeling on the floor at this task he more than once fancied that
he caught a sound like a sigh, and at the moment of obtaining the light
he became convinced of the reality of the sounds.

A regular succession of light breathings gave audible proof that he was
not the only person in the room. Rising to his feet and holding the lamp
on high, Wilfrid looked about him, and discovered that the breathings
came from a bed a little distance off. Curtains hanging around the bed
prevented him from seeing the sleeper. It was clear that through some
strange blunder Nadia had shown him to the wrong room.

Then——

“By Jove!” muttered Wilfrid.

His eyes had fallen upon a startling sight—startling, that is, in the
sense of being unexpected.

There, orderly disposed upon a chair by the dressing-table was a pile of
fair undergarments, while beneath the same chair there peeped forth a
pair of satin shoes formed only for the smallest of feet.

[Illustration: RISING TO HIS FEET AND HOLDING THE LAMP ON HIGH, WILFRID
LOOKED ABOUT HIM.

“_By Neva’s Waters._”

_Page 34._]

The person behind the curtains was not a man!

Fortunately Wilfrid’s movements had been so noiseless as not to disturb
the occupant. His obvious course, then, was immediate retirement.

He was on the point of stealing off when his eye was caught by sparkles
of light coming from a jewel-case that lay upon the dressing-table. It
did not require the knowledge of a lapidary to pronounce that the rich
gems and the wrought gold represented a very large amount of money. The
owner was, obviously a lady of wealth, and—Shrine of Venus!—there could
not be a doubt about it; he was standing in the very bed-chamber of the
fair boyarine!

Nadia, paying too much attention, perhaps, to Wilfrid’s talking, had not
noticed that instead of ascending to the _third_ landing and taking the
corridor that led from that, she had mistakenly stopped and turned when
upon the _second_ landing, with the result that Wilfrid, instead of being
in the room immediately above that of the boyarine, was in the boyarine’s
room itself!

“What would the Ugly One with the spurs and moustaches think,” muttered
Wilfrid grimly, “if he knew of my presence here?”

The sooner he withdrew the better. He had already been in the room more
than ten minutes. If Nadia should recall her error, and should come
flying back with clamour, the issue might be awkward, both for the lady
and himself.

Just as he was about to make for the door his ear detected a movement in
the bed.

His heart almost leaped to his throat. Some instinct told him that the
movement was not an unconscious stirring in slumber; the lady was wide
awake, and remembering that she had gone to sleep in the dark, was
doubtless puzzling herself to account for the light now shining through
her bed-curtains.

His first impulse, to extinguish the light, was checked by the thought
that the fear occasioned by the sudden darkness might elicit a scream
from her. Better to stand still and be openly seen than to glide, a
terrifying black shape, from the room.

A glance toward the bed showed him a hand coming forth from between the
curtains—a hand as white as the sleeve of the nightdress that clothed the
arm of the wearer.

The drapery parted, revealing a beautiful face and figure—the living
original of the miniature!

Overwhelmed with surprise Wilfrid stood, as breathless and as still as if
he had suddenly fallen under a spell of enchantment.

He had loved her from the first moment of setting eyes upon her portrait,
but now the actual sight of the living princess increased that love
tenfold. Could it be true that he, and he only, held a place in her
heart, and that for a space of more than eight years? If eight years
previously in Saxony he had exercised so powerful an impression upon her
girlish imagination, she should surely know him again? But though he
hoped and looked for it, she betrayed no sign of recognition. Indeed, the
only emotion expressed in her widening eyes was wonder.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

Her voice—and one more soft and musical had never fallen upon Wilfrid’s
ear—seemed to have the effect of breaking the spell that had held him.

He bowed with all the grace he was capable of.

“I am an English traveller, a midnight arrival, who has been erroneously
led to believe that this was his bedroom. I cannot sufficiently express
my regret at having disturbed you in this unceremonious fashion.”

There was about Wilfrid that air of good breeding that marked him as a
gentleman, and gave to his words the stamp of truth.

Her suspicions, if she had had any, were gone in a moment.

“Then, sir, please to withdraw,” she said, in a tone of gentle dignity.

“At once,” replied Wilfrid, turning to the door, “trusting I may be
permitted to pay my respects to you in the morning, and to apologise more
at length.”

Just the faintest shade of fear passed over her face.

“No, no, you must not do that! As you love your life keep this meeting a
secret! I speak with good reason. Go! But stay—one moment. Your name?”

“Wilfrid, Lord Courtenay.”

A faint cry escaped the Princess as Wilfrid so held the lamp that its
light fell clearly upon his face.

She knew at least his name, if she did not recognise him; that much was
certain. Equally certain was it that his name or his presence filled her
with some deep emotion. She caught her breath; her colour came and went.
If these symptoms were due to love it was a love mingled with dismay, and
the dismay seemed to predominate.

Though prudence told Wilfrid that it was high time to go, he could not
resist the temptation of lingering to ask,

“Have we met before?”

“Once,” answered the Princess in a softened voice, “and once only, when
you saved me from death!”

It must have been in his sleep, then, for he had no recollection of it!
Adventures he had known in plenty, but to save the life of either woman
or girl was a pleasure that had never yet fallen to his lot, and he said
so.

The Princess gave a half-smile.

“It was an event so strange that I do not wonder at your failing to
connect me with it.”

A more puzzling statement, this, since the very strangeness of the affair
should surely be an additional reason for stamping it upon his memory.

As Wilfrid looked intently at her in the vain attempt to discover her
meaning, he saw an awful change pass over her face. Dilated eyes, lips
drawn apart, and cheeks perfectly bloodless—all showed her to be seized
by a sudden sense of fear.

A moment more and Wilfrid, too, felt fear, not on his own account, but on
hers.

A murmuring of voices and the sound of footsteps were audible on the
other side of the bedroom door. A little crowd was congregating in the
corridor without. What was the cause of the gathering? His striking
of the flint had been accompanied by very little noise. The voices
of both the Princess and himself had been scarcely loud enough to
penetrate beyond the room. Why, then, was attention becoming drawn to
the Princess’s bed-chamber? Had Nadia become aware of her error? Was
she outside, testifying to others that she had mistakenly conducted an
English traveller to this chamber? Had the Princess’s retinue gone to
the bedroom intended as his and found it empty? Had they then decided to
search the Princess’s bed-chamber? The discovery of a man at the dead
of night in the bedroom of a lady, who had let fifteen minutes elapse
without raising an alarm, would certainly place her in a compromising
situation.

The confused murmur outside ceased. Then came a gentle tapping upon the
panels of the door.

Now if Wilfrid had followed his own impulse he would at once have opened
the door, and explained the matter precisely as it had happened, being of
opinion that the truthful way is always the best way, but on glancing at
the Princess he saw her with her finger upon her lips, which action he
took as a sign that he was not to speak.

In the silence of that trying moment he could almost hear the beating of
her heart.

The knocking was renewed, being followed this time by a turning of the
handle and a pressure against the door, which did not yield since, as
previously stated, Wilfrid upon entering had locked it.

“What is it?” cried the Princess, striving to subdue the tremors of her
voice.

“Did not your highness call us?” was the reply, delivered in a deep
bass voice, which Wilfrid immediately recognised to be that of Prince
Ouvaroff, or, as Nadia had impolitely called him, the Ugly One.

The voice came both as a surprise and a pleasure to Wilfrid—a pleasure,
because his present position would now admit an explanation, certain
to be received by the Prince, who would not be likely to impute
dishonourable motives to his old friend. Indeed, Wilfrid was almost on
the point of answering, but thought it more prudent to await the pleasure
of the Princess.

“I did not call, Prince. I would have rung had I wanted anything.”

Wilfrid groaned in spirit. The deed was done. If the Princess were not
compromised before she certainly was now, and by her own action. Her
words were tantamount to saying that nothing unusual was occurring—in
effect, a tacit denial of his presence.

“But had you rung we could not have come to you,” said a feminine voice,
belonging evidently to one of the Princess’s maids, “since your Highness
has locked the door against us.”

“A wise precaution in a strange house. I did not call, nor do I want
anything. Return to bed, silly ones. You—you are interrupting my rest.”

There was a brief whispering, followed by the sound of receding
footsteps, and though all became silent in the corridor again, Wilfrid
was troubled with the horrible suspicion that the speakers had merely
moved off to some distant place of observation, there to wait for his
appearing. If so, how was it possible for him to escape discovery?

The only other exit from the room lay through the window, but Wilfrid
was well aware that Russian windows are, at the beginning of winter, so
firmly secured against the cold without as to be opened with extreme
difficulty. Moreover, if he should succeed in crawling through the
lattice and in dropping to the ground below—honourable doings for a
Courtenay!—his footprints in the snow would betray him. And how was he to
re-enter the inn without attracting notice? It was impossible for him to
remain all night in the bed-chamber, even if the Princess, yielding to
necessity, should permit it, for in the morning discovery must ensue upon
the entering of the maids. He could leave only by the door, but again
came the disquieting thought that there might be watchers in the corridor
without, determined to see the end of the matter, even though they should
have to wait all night. If this last were the case, then each moment of
his stay would but deepen—nay, confirm—suspicion.

He was still standing in the place where he had first stood after
lighting the lamp, hesitating to stir lest the moving of the light or
the sound of his feet should lead to his betrayal. But now the Princess
beckoned him to approach. She wished to speak, and for obvious reasons
to speak in a whisper. Wilfrid moved forward in silence. The Princess
pointed to a chair by the bedside, and Wilfrid, sitting down, placed the
lamp upon the dressing-table, and bent his head to listen.

What the Princess said was almost inaudible to Wilfrid: it was more by
the motion of her lips than by the actual sound proceeding from them that
he understood her to say:—

“I said what I did”—alluding to her implied denial of his presence,
surely a pardonable evasion considering the circumstances—“to save you
from being cut to pieces before my eyes—your fate if found here. Do not
go—till—till they have had time to fall asleep again.”

With that she sank back upon her pillow.

To be sitting by the bedside of a fair and youthful princess was a very
charming situation, but it had its drawbacks. Should discovery ensue,
then, unless the Princess had the nature of an angel, how could she ever
forgive the man who had made her innocence appear as guilt? From her,
whose love he was so anxious to win, what could he now look for but
resentment? The endearing impression made on her mind by his saving of
her life, though confessedly he had no recollection of the event, would
now be completely effaced by this unfortunate blundering into the wrong
room at night.

As Baranoff’s face, with its sneering smile, rose vividly before him,
Wilfrid turned cold at the thought that he had done the very thing the
minister had wanted him to do! Should this affair come to his ears how he
would triumph in the Princess’s shame! How quick he would be to reveal
it to the world! Wilfrid recalled his words: “Death at the hands of the
State for the Princess as well as for her lover.” That there was truth
in this utterance seemed evidenced by the words of the Princess herself;
that he would be slain before her eyes if found in her bed-chamber. Such
a fear spoke but too plainly of her position, for if she were powerless
to prevent her retinue from butchering him, it was clear that she was not
really their mistress. She was, in fact, a sort of honourable prisoner
of State, free to travel if she chose, but attended by an escort, told
off to watch for any suspicious act. In forecasting his probable doom she
had not touched upon her own. Was it possible that he was really bringing
upon her a like fate?

He ventured to steal a glance at her face. How beautiful it was, with
its soft violet eyes shaded by long dark lashes? Whatever may have been
the arrangement of her hair earlier in the evening, it now lay upon the
pillow like a bright aureole around her face, one golden tress twining
about her white throat like a vine tendril clasping a marble column.

If ever woman had cause to be angry with Wilfrid that woman was this
princess, and yet her face betrayed not the faintest sign of resentment;
on the contrary, there was something in her look assuring him that, come
what might, she would be the last person in the world to reproach him for
an act unwittingly committed, a forgiving tenderness of spirit on her
part that, while it endeared her the more to Wilfrid, at the same time
enhanced, rather than lessened, his despair.

Half an hour passed without a word spoken on either side. Then the
Princess bent forward till her golden hair was so close to his own that
he could feel her warm breath on his cheek.

“Lord Courtenay,” she said in the faintest of whispers, “before you go, a
few words. You have heard me called ‘Highness.’ Do you know my name and
rank?”

“I regret to answer no,” replied Wilfrid, speaking in a tone similarly
subdued.

As she did not seek to enlighten him it was clear that she preferred to
remain unknown.

“You will keep this meeting a secret?”

Wilfrid bowed assent.

“When you have found the right room let me entreat you to remain there
till after ten in the morning.”

Ten o’clock, he remembered, was the time arranged for the resumption of
her journey.

“My meaning is that if a certain one among my suite should learn that
you have passed a night at this inn, the consequences to me may be,” she
hesitated as to the choice of a word, finally selecting “hurtful.”

Wilfrid had no doubt that the person she meant was Ouvaroff, and for the
moment he felt that he would like to do for Ouvaroff what he had done for
the Abbé Spada.

“Your Highness, say no more. I stir not from my room till after the hour
named.”

“What other persons besides myself know that you are here?”

“The innkeeper and his daughter, but for their own sake they will not
speak of me to your suite. There is my yamchik, too, but they will take
good care to keep him out of the way.”

Though the Princess had hinted that it was time for him to go, she did
not seek to hasten his departure.

“Why do you, an Englishman, travel in Russia at a time so perilous as the
present?” An embarrassing question, but before he had time to consider
what answer he should give, the Princess spoke again.

“Lord Courtenay,” she said in a grave earnest tone, “I am glad in one
sense to have met you, for I can give you a warning. It has become known
to me that your life is not safe in Russia. Leave the country with all
speed. Take another name; assume a disguise; forge a fresh passport; go
anywhere rather than to St. Petersburg, where you have an enemy who will
not spare you.”

“You allude to Count Baranoff?”

“To one greater than Baranoff.”

But when Wilfrid asked for the name of this person, the Princess shrank
back with a strange and troubled look, so that Wilfrid refrained from
repeating the question, for he could very well guess who was meant,
though why she should hesitate at naming him was a mystery.

One greater than Baranoff? Who but the Czar could be greater than the
Czar’s minister? And the cause of the Czar’s enmity was doubtless to be
found in the defeat at Berlin of his policy, a defeat due to Wilfrid
alone. And yet it seemed improbable that Baranoff would have the courage
to tell the story of his own cowardice and flight. It might be, however,
that he had related the matter in such a way as to exculpate himself,
representing that his triumph would have been certain but for a secret
emissary of Pitt’s, Lord Courtenay by name, who, insinuating himself into
the confidences of Frederick William, had induced that monarch to side
with Great Britain.

The warning given by the Princess more than ever convinced Wilfrid that
his journey to St. Petersburg was likely to end in his arrest. Yet turn
back he would not, now that he had once met with the Princess, whose
whole manner showed that she moved in an environment of suspicion and
peril, from which, if possible, he would deliver her.

“You will not go to St. Petersburg?” she said in a soft pleading tone
that vibrated to his heart.

Wilfrid felt that to say he was bent on going would but increase the look
of sadness on her fair face. He therefore temporised.

“I will think over the matter.”

“I have warned you. If you will not take my warning you are lost. I have
no more to say,” she added—words that Wilfrid interpreted as a hint to go.

“Your Highness,” he said, rising, “you know my name. Will you not favour
me with yours ere I go?”

She shook her bright flowing hair in tantalising fashion.

“What good will it do you?” she said with a sad smile. “Let me remain
unknown. Now go, and Heaven watch over you!”

“And over you, too, Princess!”

Wilfrid bowed, took up the lamp, and walked to the door. Arrived there,
he cast one last lingering glance at the Princess. She was sitting up
in bed watching him, her hand pressed to her side as if to repress the
accelerated beating of her heart. Was its quickening due to fear, or to
love, or to a mingling of both?

He extinguished his lamp, conscious that even in the darkness the
Princess’s eyes were upon him.

He cautiously turned the key of the door, the steel tongue of the lock
moved back almost silently. Wilfrid paused a few moments, fearing lest
the sound, faint though it was, should have attracted attention.

Finding that all remained still, he ventured to open the door and to
look forth. By aid of a faint light shed by a lamp hung from the ceiling,
he saw that the corridor was empty. His trained hearing caught neither
the hasty movement of feet nor the sound of closing doors; nothing
whatever occurred to suggest that any of the Princess’s retinue had been
on the watch.

Thus assured, he stepped out into the passage, quietly closing the door
behind him.

It was a new thing for Wilfrid to be stealing along a corridor at night
like a thief, fearful of being seen or heard—an altogether humiliating
experience, made endurable only by the thought that it was necessary for
the honour, the safety, perhaps even the life, of the Princess. Twenty
paces—he had a reason for taking accurate measurement—brought him to a
landing, whence a short staircase led to the floor above, where was a
corridor, similar in all respects to the one he had just left.

Moving forward twenty paces along this, Wilfrid paused before a certain
door.

“Directly above the Princess’s room, Nadia said. Then this should be it.
Now, pray Heaven, I am not disturbing some other person’s sleep.”

He cautiously opened the door, and quietly exploring his way through the
darkness, reached the bed. It was empty. Re-lighting the lamp he found
himself in a room whose appointments seemed to show that it was intended
for the use of a male visitor.

Whether or not it was the room that Nadia had meant for him mattered
little; he was not going to look for any other; so locking the door he
went to bed, and was soon sound asleep.




CHAPTER V

DISCOVERED, OR NOT DISCOVERED?


“It is past ten o’clock, gospodin.”

The words came from Nadia, who, having tried for some time to arouse
Wilfrid by knocking at his bedroom door, had at last succeeded.

“Past ten o’clock!” echoed Wilfrid, realising what these words meant.
“Then the Prin—I mean the boyarine and her party have gone?”

“Half an hour ago.”

It was with considerable mortification that Wilfrid heard this news. It
had been his intention to secrete himself at some loophole of observation
in order to watch the departure of the Princess and her train. Prolonged
slumber, however, had debarred him from this pleasure.

On coming down to breakfast his mortification soon yielded to a new
feeling, namely, curiosity as to whether Nadia was aware of the blunder
she had made. Had she discovered her error shortly afterwards, but,
overcome with confusion and fear, had left him to extricate himself from
the difficulty as he best might?

If she were not aware of her mistake it would be better to let her
continue in ignorance of it—so much the safer would be the Princess’s
secret. But in what way was he to question Nadia without revealing what
he wanted to hide? A lawyer might be equal to the task, but Wilfrid
wasn’t a lawyer, for he was too impulsive in speech, which is a fault,
and too transparent in motive, which is a virtue.

As he sat down to breakfast he eyed Nadia keenly, who coloured on
observing his gaze as any maiden might, whose last parting from a man had
been marked by a kiss, so that her sudden blush told him nothing of what
he wished to know. She was the sole attendant at table, her father at
that moment being engaged in superintending the delivery of a wagon-load
of fagots.

“The gospodin slept well?” she asked.

“Excellently. Five minutes after leaving you,” said Wilfrid, fixing his
eyes intently upon her face, “five minutes after leaving you I was fast
asleep.”

If she had been among the little gathering outside the Princess’s bedroom
she must have known that he was not keeping to the truth. If she knew it
she did not betray her knowledge by any change in her manner.

“There is nothing like a long drive in the frosty air for making one
sleep,” was her quiet remark.

“By the way,” added Wilfrid with a careless air, “just as I was dropping
off I fancied I heard a disturbance on the floor beneath me—a talking, or
a moving of feet—muffled sounds of some sort. Was I dreaming?”

“The floor directly beneath yours would be the boyarine’s room,” said
Nadia, opening her eyes wide with surprise. “Do you say the noise came
from there?”

“There or near it, so at least it seemed to me. Did you hear the noise?”

“_I!_ I was down in the kitchen getting ready some nice things for the
boyarine’s breakfast.”

“Did any of the boyarine’s party complain of a noise during the night?”

“None.”

“Ah! Then I _must_ have been dreaming.”

During this brief dialogue Wilfrid had kept his eyes on Nadia’s face,
and became convinced by her natural and artless manner that she was
unconscious of her blunder of the previous night.

That she was looking somewhat pale was nothing to the point, seeing that
she had been up all night preparing with her own hand dainty dishes for
the boyarine and her party.

At this point, having finished with his timber, Boris entered to see
what services he could render. Naturally enough Wilfrid was desirous of
learning all he could about the Princess.

“You waited on the boyarine at breakfast, I presume?” he said,
addressing the pair. “How was she looking?”

“Rather pale and anxious,” replied Boris. “She scarcely spoke. In fact,
her lively manner of last night was altogether gone.”

“And Ouva—I mean him whom Nadia calls the Ugly One? He breakfasted too, I
suppose?”

“Sitting opposite to the boyarine,” replied Boris, who seemed to have
kept a keen eye on his visitors. “He, too, looked rather grave. I caught
him more than once watching her curiously. Her eyes would droop when she
became conscious of it.”

“In short,” said Wilfrid with a mirthless laugh, “she might have been
taken for a child that has done wrong, and he for a parent that had been
scolding her.”

The innkeeper with some surprise murmured that Wilfrid’s words exactly
hit off the situation.

For appearance’s sake Wilfrid went on eating, but his appetite had
gone. He was possessed by a horrible sinking of heart; he suspected,
nay, he felt sure, that his long stay in the Princess’s bed-chamber had
become known, and that Prince Ouvaroff was disposed to put the worst
construction upon the event.

The picture of the fair and innocent Princess, sitting mute and wretched
amid her escort, exposed to coldness and suspicion, and unable to
vindicate herself, filled Wilfrid with almost intolerable anguish.

Upon the woman whose love it was the one desire of his life to gain
he had brought cruel reproach. Already in imagination Wilfrid heard
the mocking laugh and ribald jest directed against the Princess by the
immoral circle at the Court of the Czar. “She is only like the rest of
us.”

Second thoughts, however, induced Wilfrid to believe that perhaps after
all he was disquieting himself without reason.

The apparent lack of cheerfulness on the part both of the Princess and of
Ouvaroff might be due to an entirely different cause. It came suddenly
upon Wilfrid that the Princess was none other than the lady to whom
Ouvaroff himself had once aspired, till a State warning had bidden him
put a check upon his presumption. Perhaps, regardless of the State’s
inderdict, Ouvaroff had once more ventured—it might even have been on
the previous night—to renew his suit with the same result as heretofore.
Hence the meeting between her and him this very morning would necessarily
be quiet and somewhat embarrassing.

There could be no doubt that the Englishman who had so roused the
deadly ire of Ouvaroff was none other than Wilfrid himself, though it
was somewhat difficult to see how the Prince could have learned that
his former friend had become his rival, since if the Princess really
cherished a secret affection for Wilfrid, she would be the last person in
the world to divulge it.

There was one circumstance which disposed Wilfrid to think that his
interview with the Princess had escaped observation, and that was the
peculiar forbearance of Ouvaroff. Surely, if the Prince had suspected
anything he would have sought Wilfrid out and have demanded an
explanation of the nocturnal incident. But the Prince had done nothing
of the kind; on the contrary, he had set off next morning apparently
ignorant that his old friend was beneath the roof of the Silver Birch.

But no sooner did this favourable view present itself than it vanished.
Ouvaroff, aware of Wilfrid’s destination, was perhaps leaving him to the
vengeance of the authorities at St. Petersburg.

The breakfast over, Boris, who took considerable pride in his hostelry,
made the suggestion that perhaps his Excellency would like to be shown
over the building; if so, Nadia would be pleased to take him round.

Wilfrid readily fell in with this offer, moved solely by the wish to
see again the chamber in which the Princess had passed the night. He
accordingly accompanied Nadia through the various rooms, listening, it
must be confessed, with very little interest to her remarks, till at last
they reached the Tapestried Chamber. And a daintily furnished little
chamber it was; but now, void of its fair occupant, how desolate it
seemed!

Wilfrid’s eyes roved reminiscently and mournfully around. Here was the
dressing-table upon which he had set his lamp, and there the chair over
which her fair attire had been cast; here, the seat in which he had sat
by her bedside, and there the pillow still retaining the hollow made by
the nestling of her golden head.

The faint perfume that Wilfrid had noticed on the previous night still
hovered around the pillow. Moved by a sudden impulse, he lifted it, and
with surprise and delight saw beneath a folded handkerchief.

On the principle of “Findings, keepings,” as children say, Wilfrid took
possession of the article, which was of the finest cambric, delicately
perfumed, and edged with beautiful lace.

Now, although the title of princess is sometimes borne—in Russia, at
least—by persons of doubtful station, Wilfrid had felt that this was
not the case with _his_ princess; and on unfolding the handkerchief he
received a startling proof of the correctness of his opinion, for the
centre of the cambric exhibited the figure of a double-headed eagle
wrought in gold thread.

“The Imperial Arms!” muttered Wilfrid.

His look of blank surprise was as nothing compared with that of Nadia’s.
She, indeed, seemed not only amazed, but quite frightened by the
discovery.

“The Czar’s Arms!” she gasped. “Is she a member of the Imperial house—A
Grand Duchess?”

It seemed so, if the handkerchief were to be taken as proof, but how near
to the throne there was no means of telling. She might be a very distant
relative of the Czar; on the other hand, she might be a niece, or even a
daughter! Wilfrid’s head swam at the thought. No wonder he ran the risk
of being slaughtered by her suite if found in her bedroom!

That eagle in gold thread was not only a startling sight, but an
unwelcome one to Wilfrid; it seemed to put a sudden stop to his
love-dream. For him to think of mating with a princess of the Imperial
house of Romanoff would indeed be the height of audacity; and yet, if
the lady herself were willing—and the tender glance of her dark-blue
eyes had given him a lover’s hope—he was quite ready to brave all risks
on her behalf. If she were a Romanoff, was he not a Courtenay, with
imperial blood in his veins, descended from the Byzantine emperors and
permitted by the Garter king-at-arms to bear the proud title of _Æquus
Cæsaribus_—equal to Cæsars?

But soon his thoughts took a lower flight.

“We have jumped to conclusions too hastily,” he said to Nadia. “The
possession of the handkerchief doesn’t necessarily prove that she is a
Grand Duchess. It may have been a gift of the Czar.”

This way of looking at the matter seemed to relieve Nadia’s mind
somewhat, though why she should look so troubled over the discovery was a
puzzle to Wilfrid.

“Besides,” he continued, “if she were an Imperial Duchess, her suite
would select, as her stopping-place for the night, the castle of some
grand boyar, rather than a wayside hostelry.”

But Nadia opined there was no force in this argument, seeing that the
great Catharine herself had on one occasion stopped at the Silver Birch,
and had slept in that very chamber. And Wilfrid was forced to admit to
himself that it was an argument in favour of the Imperial theory that the
chief of her escort was no less a personage than the Czarovitch’s own
aide-de-camp, namely, Prince Ouvaroff. If she were not a Grand Duchess
she must at least be some one of distinguished rank.

Folding the handkerchief, now the most precious of all his belongings,
he placed it carefully within his breast, and descended again to the
breakfast-room.

“And now,” said he, “send me my yamchik, and I’ll ask the scoundrel what
he means by taking twelve hours to drive twenty-four miles.”

Nadia departed, and presently returned, leading in the yamchik, who
stood, cap in hand, smiling and fawning.

Yes, shame to him, he _had_ taken a long time in coming from Viaznika to
Gora. Ah! why did he ever deviate from the post-road, thinking to take a
shorter cut? He didn’t like to tell the gospodin so at the time, but he
knew he had lost his way, and he had wandered, and wandered—oh! how he
had wandered!

“Just as you are doing now,” interrupted Wilfrid. “And yet you say you
have performed this same journey a hundred times?”

Yes, that was the most wonderful part of it—that he, who had travelled
this route one hundred times, should go wrong at the one hundred and
first. But there, man must make a certain number of mistakes in his
life-time; even the mighty Czar sometimes made mistakes, much more, then,
a poor yamchik.

But when it was pointed out by means of the map that he had similarly
lengthened the stages on other days, the yamchik, while venturing to deny
the impeachment, became less glib of tongue; professed that, being unable
to read, he could not understand the condemnatory map, and finally grew
so dense that Wilfrid, despairing of getting any clear ideas into the
fellow’s thick skull, bade him go and harness the horses for the next
stage.

Was the fellow a fool or a knave?

Wilfrid was disposed to rank him among the latter class, having a
suspicion that all these manœuvrings on the part of the yamchik had been
prompted by some interested motive, a motive, however, that Wilfrid was
utterly unable to fathom.

It was hardly worth while now to dismiss the fellow, when only three or
four days’ journey from St. Petersburg; but, while retaining him, Wilfrid
determined not to leave these final stages to his judgment. So, after a
brief study of the map, he selected both the route and the stages; and
since, from motives of prudence, he did not wish either to overtake the
Princess or to appear as if following immediately upon her track, he
chose a somewhat circuitous road to the capital in lieu of the direct one.

And now, from without, came a jingle of bells and neighing of steeds to
tell him that his car was in waiting.

Wilfrid rose, called for his bill, and paid it with a liberal overplus.
Boris and his daughter accompanied him to the inn door, where a little
crowd of servants had assembled to watch the departure of the rich
Englishman.

Wilfrid turned to say “Good-bye” to Nadia. Her manner plainly showed that
she was sorry to part with her guest, who, moved by a generous impulse,
drew the pretty serf-maiden to one side.

“Nadia,” he whispered, “take heart. How long I shall be in St.
Petersburg, I know not; but when I return again this way I will redeem
you and your father from serfdom—yes, if it cost me fifty thousand
roubles.”

He had thought to see her cheek colour with delight, her eyes to sparkle,
and her lips to quiver with thankfulness; it was all the reward he wanted.

But, to his surprise, her emotion took a very different shape. She shrank
back, staring at him, her cheek as white as the dead; in her eyes a look
of wild, haunting horror.

“Isn’t that promise worth a kiss?” smiled Wilfrid.

She did not give him one; instead, she presented her cheek, and on
touching it with his lips he found it as cold as marble.

Somewhat mortified by this strange reception of his offer, an offer made
in all good faith, Wilfrid waved his hand to Boris, sprang into the
sledge, and the next moment was speeding off along the frozen highway.

Nadia staggered, rather than walked, to her own little sitting room.

“What did the Anglisky say to you?” asked Boris, somewhat suspiciously.

“Say?” gasped Nadia, who seemed scarcely able to speak for emotion—“words
that he meant to be words of hope, but to me they are words of despair. I
would rather he had stabbed me. And he looked at me, oh! so pityingly. My
God! if he only knew the truth!”

A shudder shook her from head to foot.

Her wondering father repeated his question.

“He promised to buy us our freedom, yours and mine.”

“Glory to God!” cried Boris, clasping his hands fervently together.
“Glory to God who has put this thought into the heart of the Englishman!
My prayer for you, Nadia, my prayer day and night for years, is answered
at last. He’ll keep his word, this Englishman. An Englishman always
does. And he shall not lose by his goodness. I will work, work night and
day, till I have paid him our ransom twice, yea, three times over. But,
Nadia, Nadia, why do you grieve? Is this a thing to grieve about?”

“The offer comes a day too late, my father.”

“A day too late?”

“We are already free,” she replied, with a laugh dreadful in its want of
mirth. “Free by the grace of the nether fiend, who is now mocking me with
a deed that need not have been done.”




CHAPTER VI

HEIRESS TO THE THRONE!


On the fifth morning after leaving Gora, Wilfrid and his yamchik were
speeding over a landscape that presented to the eye little more than
a vast expanse of virgin white, sparkling beneath the rays of a pale,
northern sun, that gave light, but not warmth.

“St. Petersburg!” cried the yamchik suddenly, pointing with his whip to
the far-off northern horizon, which, presenting hitherto a smooth line,
began now to have its continuity broken by a series of irregularities.

As the horses raced onwards, higher and ever higher out of the
illimitable sea of white, there rose to view a curious and, to an
occidental eye, fantastic mingling of palaces and minarets, of cupolas
and crosses, each gradually becoming more clearly defined against the
pale lilac of the Arctic sky.

Now, more than ever, did Wilfrid realise the madness of his enterprise.

He was hastening to a city that held two at least of his enemies, namely,
Count Baranoff and the recently alienated Ouvaroff; to whom must probably
be added a third, in the shape of the Czar Paul—which was tantamount to
saying that he had a whole empire against him.

Now with the aid of friends, a man has often succeeded, despite police
and spies, in eluding the vigilance of the Government; but no such hope
sustained Wilfrid, seeing that in all the wide city there was not one man
to whom he could look for refuge.

“I am entering St. Petersburg,” he mused. “Shall I ever leave it? ’Tis
doubtful. I feel, for all the world, like a prisoner riding to the
guillotine. No matter! Honour forbids me to go back. That my princess is
to be found here is a sufficient reason for going forward. If her life
is threatened, let them take mine as well.”

And he consoled himself with that aphorism of the desperate, “What is to
be, will be.”

They were now leaving the silence and monotony of the steppe. Wooden
cabins, with blue smoke rising from them, began to appear by the
roadside, few at first, but by-and-by increasing in number, till they
formed a continuous line. Soon the appearance of stone houses and
handsome shops, of vehicles and pedestrians, told Wilfrid that he had
entered upon the suburbs of the city.

“Hôtel d’Angleterre,” was his reply to the yamchik’s question as to
whither the gospodin would be driven.

The hotel in question, a palatial structure, was kept by an Englishman,
who bore the homely name of John Smith, a rosy-cheeked, rotund little
personage, but having at this time a most lugubrious air, due to the
bad state of business. His hotel, he remarked to Wilfrid, was mainly
patronised by English visitors, all of whom had taken to flight on the
declaration of war, leaving the vast building almost empty.

It was doubtless a very fine thing for patriotic Britons at home to read
of their victories by sea and land, but the war fell hard on the English
resident in St. Petersburg.

All this, and much more, was detailed by John Smith, whose gloomy
prospects Wilfrid tried to brighten with the assurance that it was simply
a game of bluff on the part of Paul, who, as soon as he should learn that
the tall sails of Nelson’s fleet were coming up the Gulf of Finland,
would quickly make peace.

Having paid and dismissed the yamchik, Wilfrid asked for a file of daily
newspapers that should cover the period of the previous three weeks. He
had found it impossible to procure a newspaper at any of the post-inns on
the way; and hence he was in a state of ignorance as to how the world had
wagged.

Going out, the landlord soon returned with a file of Russian journals,
and, looking cautiously around, said: “If your lordship cares for news
fourteen days old, I have here a file of the English _Times_, and that’s
what you won’t find in any other hotel in St. Petersburg. I get them
from the English Club, who contrive to have them introduced into Russia
without their being seen and ‘blacked’ by the censor. Say nothing about
this, or I shall be having a domiciliary visit from the police.”

Taking the papers, Wilfrid sat down and began with the file of the
_Times_, skimming the contents with a quick eye, in the course of which
operation he came across a paragraph that caused him for the space of a
full minute to sit dumbfounded with surprise.

The paragraph which the Russian censor would certainly have “blacked”
out, had the journal in question fallen into his hands, purported to
come from the _Times_ correspondent in St. Petersburg, and was worded as
follows:—

    “A strange story, to be received with some caution, is being
    whispered among political circles here, to the effect that the
    unfortunate Czar, Ivan VI., whose life, it will be remembered,
    was spent wholly in a dungeon, contracted a secret marriage
    with his gaoler’s daughter, a girl of exquisite beauty.

    “The sole descendant of this union is a grand-daughter, now
    in her twenty-third year, and said to be of surpassing grace
    and loveliness. Till lately she has been living at Moscow,
    carefully concealing the secret of her romantic origin; but,
    through no act of her own, the story, by some means or other,
    has transpired.

    “The Czar Paul is said to be convinced by documentary evidence
    of her legitimacy and Imperial lineage, a matter to him of
    grave import, since, as there is no Salic law in Russia, if the
    rule of primogeniture be followed, this grand-daughter of Ivan
    VI., as the eldest surviving representative of the House of
    Romanoff, should now be wearing the diadem of the Czars.

    “With a view of keeping a watch over her, Paul some months
    ago removed her from Moscow to his Court at St. Petersburg,
    conferring upon her the title of Grand Duchess, and placing
    her among the ladies in immediate attendance upon the Czarina.
    Assuming that this story is true, he would be a bold prophet
    who, in view of the gloomy and suspicious nature of Paul, would
    venture to predict length of days to a lady so dangerous
    politically to him and his heirs.”

The paper fluttered from Wilfrid’s hands. He had no desire to read
anything more that day. The political and military affairs of the
Continent sank into insignificance beside this startling paragraph. The
English readers of _The Times_ might regard the story as a romantic
fabrication; Wilfrid had reasons for believing otherwise.

The newspaper paragraph had closed with a sinister prediction, a
prediction that had sent a thrill of fear to his mind. The only way of
preventing its fulfilment was the removal of the duchess from Russia; but
how could he, single-handed, effect the escape of a lady watched day and
night as she undoubtedly must be?

“Matters are growing interesting,” he muttered. “A grand-daughter of a
Czar! Lineal heiress to the throne! So that is why the lady must have no
suitors; she must be prevented from transmitting her rights. And Ouvaroff
and I, and all would-be lovers are to be ‘warned off.’ Well, for my part,
I decline to take the warning. Having more than a liking for the lady,
I intend to carry on my suit; for, if her eyes said anything the other
night, they said love.”

A few questions to his host elicited the fact that the Czarina Mary, the
Czarovna Elizavetta, the Grand Duchesses, and the ladies of the Imperial
Household, were accustomed to take a drive every afternoon at two o’clock
along the Nevski Prospekt.

Thinking that _his_ grand duchess—the _Times_ correspondent had,
unfortunately, forgotten to name her—might form one of this party,
Wilfrid resolved to take his stand near the entrance of the Michaelhof,
in the hope of obtaining a fleeting glimpse of her.

Aware that in St. Petersburg a man in civilian attire is deemed of little
account, Wilfrid resolved to don the uniform of a certain Austrian
regiment in which he held the honorary rank of colonel, a reward
conferred upon him by the Viennese Court for his bravery at the battle of
the Devil’s Bridge, where he had fought side by side with Russians, as
well as with Austrians.

The picturesque uniform of dark blue, rich with gold braiding, was
admirably adapted to set off his graceful figure to advantage, and when,
after assuming his cloak and a jewel-hilted sabre, he took a glance in
the mirror, he was satisfied that he had made the best of himself.

Thus attired, he set off on foot to view the Michaelovski Palace, the new
residence of the Czar Paul.

The building, when seen, proved quite a revelation to Wilfrid, whose very
brief acquaintance with the city had hitherto shown him but two main
styles of architecture, the barbaric, semi-oriental style, seen chiefly
in its churches, and the _façades_ copied from the boulevards of Paris,
seen chiefly in its hotels and mansions.

But the Michaelhof differed from both styles. Here, in the very heart of
St. Petersburg, was a feudal castle, with donjon and towers, battlements
and loopholes, portcullises and drawbridges; and, finally, a surrounding
moat, which, however, just then availed little for defensive purposes,
inasmuch as it was frozen over.

Wilfrid had seen numerous fantastic castles in his time, but none to
compare with this bizarre-looking pile. One might have fancied that a
mediæval architect, given to wine, had fallen asleep and dreamed; and
that this palace was the petrifaction of his dream-fortress, although
the bristling cannon and sentinels with their bayoneted rifles comported
somewhat incongruously with this relic of a bygone age.

The building had for Wilfrid a fascination due not so much to its strange
character as to the fact of its being the residence of his princess.
Which of those gloomy towers did she inhabit? Over which drawbridge would
the Czarina and her ladies come forth?

“An Englishman, I perceive,” said a voice close to Wilfrid’s ear. He
turned and saw beside him a cloaked and sworded figure, wearing the
uniform of a general in the Preobrejanski Guards; a man tall and strong,
broad and burly, with somewhat vulgar-looking features, and with a rich,
florid complexion, evidently due to a liking for ardent spirits; as a
matter of fact, his breath exhaled an aroma at that very moment. He had
eyes of a light blue, a snub nose, and a truculent tawny moustache, and
he carried himself with a kind of bluff swagger, probably mistaken by him
for ease.

Wilfrid might well wonder how so commonplace a man should be wearing a
general’s uniform; yet the man was to be a history-maker; in the time to
come he was to surprise Europe, and perhaps himself, by the brilliancy of
his campaigns against the invading French.

“An Englishman, I perceive,” he repeated smilingly.

“What is the evidence?” asked Wilfrid.

“You go on foot. A Russian gentleman never walks when he can ride.”

“By the same rule you are not a Russian—ah—gentleman.”

“You are right. I am a Hanoverian—General Benningsen. At your service,
sir,” replied the other, raising his hand in military salute.

The name might well strike Wilfrid with surprise, for Benningsen was a
man great in his family connections, if in nothing else. As a youth, he
had wandered forth from Hanover to seek his fortune, and entering the
Russian military service, had the good fortune to attract the notice
of the great Catharine, ultimately marrying a natural daughter of that
Empress.

But though a sort of brother-in-law to the Czar, Benningsen was not in
favour at Court. As a matter of fact, he had been exiled for a time, and
though recalled and restored to his rank as general, he was excluded
from the Council of the Empire, the membership of which his Imperial
family connections might naturally entitle him to expect. It was openly
whispered that this exclusion, together with his banishment, had made
Benningsen disposed to favour a change of Government, no matter what, so
long as it was a change. Indeed, it was even asserted that he had been
heard to say he would have his revenge on the “little orang-outang,” his
name for the Czar Paul.

“As an Englishman and a soldier, you are my brother,” exclaimed the
Hanoverian theatrically.

The Czar being at variance with England, it pleased Benningsen to
patronise everything and everybody coming from that country. On learning
the name of his new “brother,” Benningsen was loud in his admiration and
delight at meeting with one who had shown the Russian troops how to pass
the Devil’s Bridge by scaling the rocks above it, leading the way in the
very fire of the enemy.

“Your gallant feat of arms,” he assured Wilfrid, “is remembered with
gratitude and admiration by every officer in St. Petersburg.”

It was characteristic of Wilfrid that he thought, not of the effect that
his deed might have upon the Czar, but upon—some one else. If his feat of
arms had given pleasure to the Princess, it mattered little to him how
Paul and others viewed it.

Benningsen, with a sweep of his arm, directed Wilfrid’s attention to the
Michaelhof.

“‘In my father’s house are many mansions,’” he remarked. “And that’s the
style of them,” he continued pointing to the palace. “Truly the angels
have curious ideas respecting architecture.”

As Wilfrid’s face showed that he was quite in the dark as to the other’s
meaning, the General proceeded to explain.

“Evidently you are not aware that my august brother-in-law received a
visit one night from the Archangel Michael, who, showing him the plans
and elevation of a palace, bade him build one like it. Fact! At least,”
he added with a side glance at Wilfrid, “it’s a fact that Paul says so,
and it is never prudent to doubt the word of a Czar.”

“You speak freely.”

“Why, one may speak freely with an Englishman. With a Grand Duke ’twere
otherwise. To return to Paul. As soon as he had received the Archangel’s
commission he was in a devil of a hurry to carry it out. Five thousand
men were at work daily. To dry the walls more quickly red-hot plates were
affixed to them. All to no purpose. The place is so damp that the dear
Czar, the Empress, and the Grand Duchesses, are in a continual state of
coughing. And the price of all this?—Eighteen million roubles!”

Wilfrid let him rattle on without interruption, perceiving that he was
one of those men who are never better pleased than when hearing the sound
of their own voice.

“You see that window facing us on the third story,” continued Benningsen,
pointing it out. “What sort of room do you suppose lies behind it?”

“A prison, if one must judge by its numerous crossbars.”

“Wrong. Paul’s bedroom. Difficult to enter from the outside, eh?”

“Are you contemplating the feat?” smiled Wilfrid, for Benningsen really
looked as if he had some such idea in his head.

“The window barred,” murmured the General, as if following out some
train of thought rather than addressing Wilfrid, “and the bedroom-door
difficult of access, since to reach it one must traverse a network of
corridors so like a maze that to find one’s way requires the thread of
Ariadne.”

“Are such precautions necessary?”

“The dear Czar thinks so.”

On learning for what purpose Wilfrid had come to the Michaelovski Square,
Benningsen made the disappointing announcement that a distressing cough
on the part of the Empress—“due to the damned palace”—prevented her and
the Imperial ladies from driving forth that afternoon.

Benningsen, who was a member of the English Club situated on the Minerva
Prospekt, suggested that Wilfrid should accompany him thither, to which
proposal Wilfrid assented, moved more by the hope of there getting rid
of the General than by any other reason. So the two set off, on foot,
because, as Benningsen remarked, it was “so English.”

The Minerva Prospekt, when reached, turned out to be a wide and noble
_boulevard_, alive with pedestrians of the lower orders and with the
sleighs of the wealthier classes. The barbaric, yet handsome, costume
of the boyars, the gay dresses and rich furs of the ladies, with their
bright eyes and laughing voices, the furious galloping of steeds and the
jingling of silver bells made a scene of colour, movement, and sound,
that offered a striking contrast to the stillness, the emptiness, the
monotony of the Michaelovski Square.

Then, in a moment, all was changed!

“_Gossudar zdes! Gossudar zdes!_”

Such was the cry—“The Czar is coming!”—that flew from mouth to mouth
along the Prospekt.

Pedestrians stopped short in their walk; vehicles were hastily reined
in, and dismay appeared on the faces of all, as with a crash of military
music there suddenly debouched upon the Minerva Prospekt a regiment of
footguards, in front of whom, and keeping time to the music with the
waving of his cane, strutted an odd little figure, who was evidently
taking a huge delight in the soldiers, in the marching, in the music.




CHAPTER VII

WILFRID DEFIES THE CZAR


“The orang-outang, confound him!” muttered Benningsen savagely, catching
sight of the odd little figure. “Run, before he sees us. Quick! This way!”

“Why should I run?” demanded Wilfrid haughtily. He received no answer.
Benningsen, holding his cloak over his face as if to prevent recognition,
was running down a side street as fast as his legs could carry him.
Wilfrid watched him in amazement.

“Afraid to face the Czar, his brother-in-law! Is the fellow an impostor,
assuming the name of Benningsen for the purpose of fooling me?”

But as Wilfrid turned again he saw in a moment why Benningsen with some
few others had vanished down the side streets; saw, too, why the square
in front of the Michaelovski Palace had been deserted by all but the
sentinels and those officials whose duty took them there.

For the truth was that even loyal Muscovites had come to regard a meeting
with the Czar as little short of a calamity, since it was required by him
that whenever he passed through a street all traffic must be suspended,
pedestrians must cease their promenading, the occupants of vehicles
must dismount, and everybody, from the serf to the boyar, must kneel
bareheaded, be the wind never so cutting or the snow never so deep, till
the “Little Father”—the expression is not meant to be ironic—had passed
by. This practice, an old usage belonging to the barbarous days of the
Empire, had been abolished by the good sense of Peter the Great; but
Paul, on his accession, had revived the custom in all its rigour, so that
Wilfrid, glancing along the Prospekt, saw two lines of kneeling people,
some of whom even, with a servility truly Oriental, were touching the
slush with their foreheads.

Close to Wilfrid was a landau from which there had alighted two ladies,
the one aged and feeble, the other young and delicate, both obviously of
noble blood since the panels of their carriage bore an armorial device;
yet there they were, side by side with their coachmen and footmen,
kneeling in the roadway upon a horrible mixture of snow and mud that
chilled their limbs and stained their fur cloaks.

And woe to them and to any other person who should rise too quickly after
the Czar had gone by! If detected by a backward glance of the Imperial
eye it was well for the offenders if they escaped the knout or Siberia.

As Wilfrid beheld the obvious discomfort of these two ladies, a fierce
anger flamed in his breast against the sovereign who required such
humiliating obeisance. During all this time the regiment, marching twelve
abreast, was drawing nearer to the place where Wilfrid stood.

Some of the kneeling throng, conjecturing from his attitude that he was a
foreigner, ventured to give him good-natured advice.

“Kneel to the Czar, little father!” they cried. “Kneel if you would
escape the knout. See! his eye is upon you.”

That fact made no difference in Wilfrid’s attitude. Determined to assert
his English manhood he stood erect as a palm.

Other Englishmen besides Wilfrid had declined to bow the knee, but they
had been strong in the knowledge that they could obtain the protection
of Lord Whitworth, the British Ambassador. Wilfrid had no such hope to
sustain him, since the withdrawal of that minister, on the outbreak
of the war, had left Paul free to do as he liked with those obstinate
Englishmen who refused to acknowledge his divinity.

“Halt!” yelled the little figure, who, for his size, possessed marvellous
lung power. “Halt! Stop that music!”

The regiment ceased its marching, the band its playing. There was a
terrible silence as the Czar, with a glare in his eye, marched straight
up to Wilfrid. A shiver of expectancy ran through the throng. Some
wriggled forward upon their knees with a view of getting into a better
position for watching the sequel.

Wilfrid, who had seen not a few kings in his day, thought that the being
now advancing towards him was the sorriest specimen of sovereignty he had
ever met with—a very Caliban of royalty. He could scarcely bring himself
to believe that the grotesque creature to whom all were kneeling as to a
god could really be the crowned head of a vast empire.

He beheld a man, short of stature, bald and wrinkled, with a leaden
complexion and large, glaring, dark eyes. The countenance was of the true
Kalmuck type, so frightfully ugly that, if history speak truly, its owner
shrank from looking into a mirror. (His wife, it is said, fainted at the
first sight of him.) Certain it is that, differing from his predecessors,
he forbade his likeness to be stamped on the coinage, with the result
that since his time the Czar’s head has not figured on the Russian
currency.

As if he were some character in a comic opera, whose part it was to
burlesque royalty, he wore a shabby old military surtout reaching down
to his heels, jack-boots with immense spurs, and an enormous cocked
hat carried beneath his arm. No matter how many degrees of frost the
thermometer might register, that hat was never seen upon his head. It
seemed as if he had set himself to contradict the current opinion that
St. Petersburg is the coldest capital in Europe. Cold? when a man can
walk about in the open air without furs and without a hat! Pooh, don’t
talk such stuff as that, sir!

Thus arrayed he was accustomed to play at soldiering by parading through
the streets at the head of a regiment of footguards, flourishing a baton,
marching on tip-toe with mincing air, and looking so like a little bantam
that if he had flapped his arms and cried, “Cock-a-doodle-doo!” one would
have felt little surprise.

The regiment that accompanied him was the famous Paulovski Guards, a
creation of his own and worthy of him. The face of every soldier, like
that of his Imperial master, carried the ornament of a snub, upturned
nose; and, as if to render the face still more grotesque, the moustaches
were brushed upwards to the ears.

Not only did Wilfrid’s erect attitude give displeasure, but his six feet
of handsome and athletic manhood was likewise an affront to a ruler, who,
on account of his diminutive and ugly appearance, had been so sneered at
by his mother’s tall and shapely courtiers that he had come at last to
hate the sight of a well-favoured person, and was jealous even of his own
son’s stature and beauty.

Directing a terrible glance at Wilfrid, the Czar spoke, and by that act,
Wilfrid, did he but know it, had become a very illustrious character.
“There are but two great men in Russia,” Paul had once said, “myself, and
he to whom I happen to be speaking at the moment.”

“Why,” demanded the Czar—and though Wilfrid had never before seen or
heard him, there seemed something oddly familiar, both in his face and
voice—“why do you refuse to us the homage of the knee?”

“Because, Sire,” replied Wilfrid, bringing his hand up to the salute, “I
revere the memory of the great Peter, who was wont to employ his stick
upon the bodies of those who knelt to him!”

This was hitting Paul full in the teeth, for if there was one thing upon
which he prided himself it was the imitating of his great-grandfather.

“We follow,” frowned the Czar, “a custom more ancient than the reign of
Peter.” And then, confident that Wilfrid’s boldness could spring from but
one nationality, he added, “You are an Englishman?”

“A man cannot choose his own parents, Sire.”

“Your name?” cried Paul, growing more angry.

“Wilfrid, Lord Courtenay.”

The Czar closed his eyes in thought. He seemed as if trying to recollect
something. Wilfrid wondered whether the Emperor was connecting his name
with that of the Princess. Suddenly opening his eyes again sharply, Paul
said—“We have heard of you from Baranoff. You are the artist who tried by
a picture to create an outbreak against established order?”

“I painted a picture portraying the murder of that royal lady, whose
daughter till lately was under your protection, Sire.”

Paul winced, recalling first with what state he had welcomed the daughter
of Marie Antoinette, and then, how he had sent her packing at a moment’s
notice, merely to please his new ally Napoleon.

“We have heard of you,” he repeated. “A spy of Pitt’s, with whose gold
you bribed Frederick William to hold aloof from the Russian alliance.”

The charge of being a spy came with a good grace, Wilfrid thought, from
the very head and front of the spy system.

“No Courtenay was ever a spy. Question your own officers, Sire, and they
will tell you that I have shed my blood in the service of Russia.”

“The more effectually to disguise your calling. A spy of Pitt’s. Silence!
Do you brave the Czar to his face? On your knees, rascal, or——”

And up went the stick that had been often applied to the bodies of his
subjects.

Wilfrid, his face somewhat pale, stepped back and half unsheathed his
sword, and thus the two stood looking at each other. There was in
Wilfrid’s eye a gleam which seemed to say that, if struck, he would
strike back, and strike hard. As if realising this the miserable little
man slowly lowered his stick, and just as slowly Wilfrid’s blade went
down into its scabbard again, finishing its descent with a little clang.

During this episode no man moved, whether among soldiers or civilians—not
a hand was put forth to defend the Czar. The significance of this fact,
which did not escape Paul’s notice, served only to increase his fury.

“You would see your Czar murdered?” he cried, turning upon his regiment.
“Lieutenant Voronetz, arrest this man.”

A young officer, motioning four men to follow him, approached Wilfrid.

“You are my prisoner,” he said, with a look that entreated the captive to
give as little trouble as possible.

For one moment Wilfrid hesitated. The wild blood of his viking ancestors
danced in his veins, urging him to defy his enemies. He was convinced now
that in any case death would be his lot; then why not die heroically,
with his trenchant blade whirling round his head?

“Give me his sword,” cried Paul, who had taken a fancy to the weapon. He
was a collector of swords, and kept a little store of them in his bedroom.

“This sword,” said Wilfrid, drawing forth the blade, “the gift of the
Prussian Queen, shall never be handled by a Muscovite barbarian.”

And ere his guards could stop him, Wilfrid snapped the blade in half, and
flung the two fragments upon the snow.

“An honourable way of treating a Queen’s gift,” sneered Paul; and then,
addressing the officer, he added, “To the Citadel with him. To be brought
to the Red Square at the first parade to-morrow. Your life for his, if he
escapes. Forward,” he cried, addressing the regiment and waving his cane.

The band struck up a march, and the grotesque Paulovski Guards, with the
Czar at their head, moved onward again; and as they passed the wearied
Petersburgers rose and straightened their stiffened limbs. They took care
to keep at a respectful distance from Wilfrid, and to maintain silence.
It was dangerous to express sympathy.

At a signal from Voronetz, the four soldiers fell into position, two
before Wilfrid and two behind, the lieutenant taking his place at the
prisoner’s right hand.

“Draw sabres. March.”

Four swords flashed simultaneously from their scabbards; and, as the
guard moved forward, Wilfrid mechanically moved forward with them,
scarcely able to realise that he was a prisoner, so quickly had the event
happened.

“Gospodin,” said Voronetz, “when the monkey plays the flute you should
dance. You have acted foolishly.”

“Wisely; for I have maintained the dignity of an Englishman.”

“And put yourself into prison.”

“No more in prison than yourself, good Voronetz. Russia is a prison.”

“’Tis a pretty large one, then. Gospodin, if one is not prepared to obey
the laws of Russia, one should keep out of Russia.”

“There’s something in that argument,” laughed Wilfrid. “Whither are you
taking me?” he asked presently.

“To the Petropaulovski Fortress.”

“The Pet—? ’Tis a melodious name.”

“’Tis called the Citadel for shortness.”

“Where situated?”

“On the other side of the Neva.”

“Far or near?”

“Three versts away. If the gospodin likes, he may hire a vehicle to take
us thither.”

“Thanks; but I’m in no particular hurry to reach your polysyllabic
fortress. Who is the governor of it?”

“Count Arcadius Baranoff.”

“The devil!”

“I believe he is, or a near relative. The post was given him as a sort
of reward for his successful mission to France. There’s a fine salary
attached to it.”

The thought that he was to be put into the power of his enemy, Baranoff,
was a somewhat disquieting one to Wilfrid. A dark cell and irons was the
least merciful punishment he could expect from the malignant governor.

Wilfrid’s position seemed to weigh little with the chatty lieutenant;
for, as they marched along, he took upon himself to point out to his
prisoner various buildings of note, thinking, perhaps, that as Wilfrid
was not long for this world, it would be a pity for him to pass out
of it without taking with him some knowledge of so fine a city. “See
Petersburg, and then die,” was evidently his motto. And as it is better
to be cheerful than gloomy, Wilfrid tried to take an interest in the
proffered remarks.

“And what place is this?” he asked, as they passed by a wide, open space.

“This is known as the Red Square.”

“And that hillock in the centre——?”

“Is where the condemned criminal stands.”

“And the wooden pillar——?”

“The post to which he is tied while receiving the knout.”

“The knout. What is that?” asked Wilfrid with assumed innocence.

“Now you jest, gospodin. ’Tis a whip.”

“Does it—ah!—hurt?”

“You’ll soon be in a position to judge.”

“How so?”

“You heard the Czar say that you are to be brought to the Red Square at
the first parade in the morning.”

“You mean that I am to be knouted?”

“As surely as the sun will rise to-morrow. If the gospodin has any money
or jewelry upon him, he had better entrust them to me.”

“For what purpose?”

“To bribe the executioner, so that he may accommodate you according to
your taste.”

“I fail somewhat to grasp your meaning.”

“Why, look you, knouted you must be in some way or other, for the Czar
will be present to see his orders carried out. Now, there are three ways
of swinging the lash.”

“Really? You interest me.”

“First, there is the merciful way. The strokes are made to descend upon
the back only; in which case one has a chance of surviving the lash, even
though gunpowder be rubbed into the wounds and set on fire.”

“Is that one of the features of the merciful way?”

“The people sometimes demand it; it pleases them, and need not hurt you.”

“How is the pain to be avoided?”

“A bribe to the knouter, and he will, before beginning business,
administer to you unseen a stupefying drug.”

“Good! And the second way——?”

“Ah, that is terrible, gospodin, terrible! The executioner causes the
lash to coil entirely round the body, cutting the flesh as with the
edge of a razor, laying the very bones and bowels bare. No one can
survive this method, which is the one he’ll adopt, unless bribed to act
otherwise.”

“And the third way?”

“Is the happy despatch; he kills at the very first stroke by breaking
the spine. You have but to say which method you prefer and Vladimir will
oblige. You’ll always find the friends of the condemned at Vladimir’s
door on the eve of a knouting.”

Wilfrid had no fear of death, as such, provided it should come in swift
and painless guise. But death by knouting! To stand half-naked, on a
grey, wintry morning in sight of a gaping crowd, his flesh hanging in
strips from ribs and spine, was an end so dreadful that it might well
have shaken the iron nerves of Zeno himself.

Just as he was preparing to make a dash for liberty at some side street,
gateway, or any other convenient opening, and was looking keenly ahead of
him with a view to this contingency, he noticed, not far off, and on his
side of the road, a man wearing the livery of some nobleman; a man who
commanded attention by reason of his stature, for he was fully seven feet
high and proportionately broad. He stood smoking a cigar, and lounging
at the foot of a flight of steps that led up to the door of a stately
mansion. Though attentive, apparently, to nothing but his cheroot, this
man was in reality keeping a watchful eye upon the advancing escort,
whose lieutenant was walking on the side remote from the steps.

Though struck somehow by the man’s manner, Wilfrid was not prepared for
his action.

As the little party came up and was in the act of passing, the hitherto
listless giant displayed a sudden and remarkable activity. Putting forth
his mighty hands, he grasped the two near guards, namely, the one who
marched before Wilfrid, and the one who marched behind, and hurled them,
each against his neighbour, with such force that all four went sprawling
to the ground, their sabres flying with them. At the same moment, Wilfrid
found his wrist clasped by the hand of a young lady, clad in a handsome
set of sables.

“Quick,” she said, her eyes dancing with excitement. “Up these steps, and
you are safe. Quick!”

Wilfrid required no second bidding. Pulled by the lady upon one side, and
by the giant upon the other, he was swung up the steps towards the door;
it opened at a touch, and the three disappeared before the very eyes of
the astonished escort. The rapidity of the feat was the most astonishing
part of it: the affair had not taken more than six seconds.

Recovering from his surprise, Voronetz called upon his men to follow him,
and flourishing his sabre he sprang up the steps, bent on forcing his way
into the mansion, when he suddenly stopped short at sight of some letters
upon the glass lamp above the door.

“We cannot enter here,” he said, his sword-arm dropping limply to his
side; and then, realising the consequences of Wilfrid’s escape, he
muttered, “Holy St. Nicholas! I shall lose my head for this.”

While Voronetz stood there, irresolute and despairing, Wilfrid, having
passed the double doors of the mansion, found himself in a stately
entrance-hall with a gilt gallery supported on marble pillars. The
tapestries and mirrors, the statues and pictures, rivalled the splendour
of Versailles.

Four lackeys in gold-laced liveries, stationed at different points, gave
an additional touch of grandeur to the scene. Two well-dressed gentlemen,
conjectured by Wilfrid to be secretaries, passing through the hall at
this moment, glanced curiously in his direction.

The lady who had rescued Wilfrid was about twenty-five years of age, with
dark hair and dark eyes. Wilfrid, who, it must not be forgotten, was an
artist, contemplated her tall and graceful person with secret pleasure.
He had seen only _one_ face more beautiful; and it was quite possible
that if his princess and this stranger were to stand side by side, an
impartial judge might have awarded the palm for beauty to the latter.

She laughed with all the gaiety of a schoolgirl at the feat she had just
performed.

“I was a witness of your arrest,” she said, “and hurried on before you.
I knew your guards would take the Nevski Prospekt, because it is the
direct route to the Citadel; and I knew, too, they would take this side
of the Prospekt, as being the sunnier. So I stationed François at the
foot of the steps with orders to snatch you from their hands. And we have
succeeded. You are safe here. The Czar and all his armies dare not enter.”

“What place is this, then?”

“Monsieur le vicomte,” she said, with a graceful little curtsey, “welcome
to the French Embassy.”

Wilfrid’s face clouded at these words.

“I thank you, mademoiselle,” said he, folding his cloak around him, and
taking a step towards the entrance, “but I must wish you adieu. An enemy
to France, I cannot in honour accept this asylum.”

“Stay a moment,” she replied, raising her forefinger with a pretty air.
“There is a twofold France, royalist and republican. For which are you?”

“For royalist France, undoubtedly.”

“You hate Bonaparte?”

“I do not love him.”

“Let me whisper a secret. I hate Bonaparte; yes, that is the word—hate.
Is not this a dreadful confession to come from the daughter of the
Ambassador that represents him? _Mon père_ is a republican, a servant
of the Consulate; but as for me—‘_Vive le roi_’ is my motto. Now, if I,
a foe of the Republic, do not scruple to reside under the roof of the
French Embassy, why should you not accept its hospitality, at least for a
day or two?”

“Will you let me see Monsieur l’Ambassadeur?”

“At present he is out. He will return shortly.”

“It is generous of you to offer me an asylum, but—your father may object.
My presence here is certain to bring trouble upon him. The Czar will
demand my surrender, and——”

The young lady drew herself up proudly.

“You are my guest, for I invite you here. _Mon père_ is a gentleman, and
will not hand his daughter’s guest over to death merely because he has
had the manliness not to kneel to a tyrant.”

Wilfrid began to waver. Why should he not accept her invitation? Not
only would he be escaping a terrible fate, but there would be in this
new situation a piquant charm that appealed to his love of mischief. He
pictured the First Consul’s rage on learning that the Englishman who had
defied him to his face, slain his fencing-master, and defeated his policy
at Berlin, had now put the finishing touch to his audacity by taking
refuge for a few days under the very roof of the French Embassy! “It will
turn his hair grey,” thought Wilfrid.

“Come, you must not go from here. Will you deprive me of your society,
when I have been expecting it these many days?”

“The deuce you have,” thought Wilfrid.

The young lady here drew forth a letter, and directed Wilfrid’s attention
to the signature, “Louisa R.”

“Do you know this handwriting?” she asked.

“I think I recognise the autograph signature of my friend, the Queen of
Prussia.”

“As children we were friends together,” said the Ambassador’s daughter,
“and though our lives now lie far apart, we still correspond with each
other. In this letter she bids me exercise surveillance over a favourite
knight of hers, Lord Courtenay, now on his way to Russia; for, to quote
her very words, ‘If I have rightly gauged his character, he will not be
twenty-four hours in St. Petersburg without coming into collision with
the authorities.’ See how excellently she has judged you,” smiled the
young lady, as she folded up the letter and put it away. “You haven’t
been a day in the capital, and yet you have already got, as you English
say, into hot water. The good queen having charged me to watch over you,
it is my intention to fulfil the trust.”

Her smile was so arch and her manner altogether so charming that Wilfrid
could no longer resist. He would accept her hospitality, conditional, of
course, on its being sanctioned by her father, the Ambassador.

“That is well,” said the young lady on hearing his decision.

She now informally introduced herself as Pauline de Vaucluse, daughter of
Henrion, the Marquis de Vaucluse.

“But you mustn’t give him his title,” she added. “He is a _çi-devant_,
that is, an ex-noble, a Republican. He has dropped the ‘_de_,’ and must
be addressed as Citoyen Henrion.”

“And you are the Citoyenne Pauline,” smiled Wilfrid.

“My faith, no!” replied the young lady, with a flash of energy. “I am
the Baroness de Runö in my own right; and claim the title due to my
rank.” Then, turning to Wilfrid’s rescuer, who, during this dialogue, had
been standing near by, but out of earshot, she said, “François, conduct
Viscount Courtenay to the Porphyry Suite. My lord,” she added, with a
graceful inclination of her head, “I hope to see you again within half an
hour.”

“Truly, my lines have fallen in pleasant places,” thought Wilfrid, as he
followed François to the apartments assigned him.




CHAPTER VIII

A CHARMING TÊTE-À-TÊTE


As Pauline was about to leave the entrance-hall, the double doors leading
from the street suddenly opened, and in walked her father, the Citoyen
Henrion, Ambassador of the Republic.

He was a man close upon his sixtieth year, with silver hair and a
dignified presence. His countenance expressed mildness and amiability,
rather than force of character or diplomatic subtlety; in truth, his
appointment was due more to his polished manners than to anything else.
The _parvenu_ ambassadors of the Republic had often, from lack of dignity
and ignorance of etiquette, excited the sneers and laughter of foreign
courts. The Marquis de Vaucluse was sent to St. Petersburg to show
that the race of gentlemen was not extinct in France, and that the new
government could count among its sons men distinguished both by birth
and manners. He conscientiously strove to do his duty to the Republic,
and when reproached for relinquishing the traditions of his order, he
was wont to say, “I serve France, not Napoleon: a nation, and not a
government.”

There was at this moment a cloud on his brow, and Pauline perceived its
cause in the shape of Lieutenant Voronetz, who, with a very lugubrious
face, followed hard upon the heels of the Ambassador.

“This may be fun to you, Baroness,” he remarked, “but it means death to
me.”

“And, naturally, you don’t want to die,” answered Pauline. “But, then,
neither does Lord Courtenay.”

“So the story this lieutenant tells me is true?” said the Ambassador,
looking in perplexity from one to the other.

“Quite true, _mon père_.”

“Where is the man?” said the Marquis, casting a look around.

“Probably at this moment admiring the Gobelins in the Porphyry Suite,
where he must abide till this storm be blown over.”

“You have lodged him in the suite kept only for our illustrious visitors!”

“Well, he’s an illustrious visitor. Comes of one of the oldest families
in Europe. Counts the Greek emperors among his ancestors. Can Napoleon
say as much?”

“He must be surrendered to Lieutenant Voronetz.”

“He shall _not_ be surrendered,” said Pauline firmly.

The Marquis grew uneasy. When his daughter assumed that look and that
tone, he knew full well that she would have her way in spite of him. Has
he been the only man to be ruled by his daughter?

“Why did you do this thing?” he asked, smiting his gloves together in a
helpless fashion.

“To teach a tyrant that liberty is not yet dead in St. Petersburg.”

The Marquis gave her a glance intended as a caution not to speak too
freely in the presence of the Czar’s lieutenant. Then, after a moment’s
pause, he drew her aside out of the hearing of Voronetz.

“Of course, _matiushka_,” he said, using the endearing term which the
foreigner in Russia soon learns to apply indiscriminately to all women,
“of course, little mother, we know, between ourselves, that this kneeling
to the Czar is a degrading piece of servility, and I can quite sympathise
with Lord Courtenay in his attitude. But your action, Pauline, has put
us all in the wrong. If you desired him to be set free it should have
been done in proper form. A joint note from the ambassadors would have
procured his release. As matters now stand, Paul will be justified in
demanding Lord Courtenay’s surrender. The meekest ruler in the world
cannot submit to have his authority flouted as you have flouted it. _Nom
de Dieu!_ Pauline, what were you thinking of?”

“Not of the niceties of diplomatic observance, you may be sure. But do
not look so troubled, _mon père_. The Czarovitch shall get us out of our
difficulty. Go and lay the matter before him. Ask him to persuade his
father to pardon the Englishman. He is sure to succeed. You know how
Paul—it’s his only good point—respects the judgment of Alexander. ‘I
must consult the Grand Duke,’ he says, when in a state of doubt. ‘He has
a fine sense of justice.’ Go at once, before Paul has had time to learn
that his prisoner has been rescued. The work of persuading him will be
easier then.”

“Alexander certainly _could_ effect this for us,” said the Marquis
musingly. “The question is, will he?”

“He will, if you say that it is the wish of Pauline.”

The Ambassador gave her a sharp, penetrating look, as if he would fain
learn the reason for this belief of hers.

“Was he not present at our ball here last week?” remarked Pauline,
answering her father’s unspoken question. “He danced with me four times,
and was extremely gracious; nay, did he not say if ever I should have a
grievance that he could set right, I was not to hesitate to apply to him?
_Mon père_, we’ll make him redeem that promise. Tell him that Pauline
de Vaucluse is a prisoner in her father’s Embassy, unable to stir out,
because she has made herself amenable to arrest by thwarting the Czar’s
will. He’ll soon set matters right, and you’ll return with a free pardon
both for Lord Courtenay and your mischievous daughter. But first you’ll
see our visitor?”

Her father assented, and bidding the lackeys supply Voronetz with wine he
requested the lieutenant to await his return.

Then, with old-fashioned courtesy, he offered his arm and conducted his
daughter to the daintily-furnished chamber that served as her boudoir.

“Now, remember,” cautioned Pauline, “that Lord Courtenay will require
delicate handling, for he is patriotically proud and quick to take fire.
If he should come to believe that his presence here, though personally
agreeable to us, is from a political point of view embarrassing, he’ll
make his _congé_ at once. As soon as he learned that this was the French
Embassy, he was for walking out again, his honour forbidding him to take
refuge here. He required some persuading to remain. So, _mon père_, be
careful.”

“Now, Heaven forbid,” said the Marquis, “that I should say aught to
embarrass him.”

And the Ambassador was as good as his word, for upon Wilfrid’s entering,
he greeted him in a manner so courteous and affable that Wilfrid was at
once placed at his ease. Pauline looked at her visitor with a smile that
plainly said, “Did I not say my father would take your part?”

“Monsieur l’Ambassadeur,” said Wilfrid, “our respective countries being
at war, my position beneath the roof of the French Embassy is certainly a
singular one.”

“And for me a happy one,” replied the Marquis, with a bow. “Still,
whatever the situation, it is not of your creating, but of Pauline’s. You
are her guest and mine; and here you must remain till we have persuaded
the Czar to see matters in another light.”

After a few more words of gracious import, De Vaucluse, taking Voronetz
with him, went off on his conciliatory errand, leaving his daughter to
entertain the stranger.

And a charming entertainer she made, quite fascinating Wilfrid with the
vivacity and intelligence of her conversational powers. Part of the time
was spent in showing her guest the various objects of interest contained
in her boudoir, among them being a piece of silk embroidery wrought by
her own hand and set as a picture in a silver frame. It represented a
castle, quaint, yet pretty.

“Castle Runö,” explained Pauline. “Built upon one of the islands of the
Neva by Peter the Great, to satisfy a fancy of his wife, Catharine. I
hope to have the honour of entertaining you there some day, for castle
and island are both mine, my very own, inherited from my Russian mother.
Its possession carries with it a title that makes me a baroness in my own
right.”

“Then you are half a Russian?” smiled Wilfrid.

Though by her own showing this must be so, the Baroness nevertheless
seemed to resent the idea.

“No, indeed, I am wholly French, as I can soon prove. Vera, come here a
moment,” she said, addressing her maid.

The girl came forward, and at her mistress’s request knelt upon the
hearth.

“Vera is a pure Muscovite,” said the Baroness. “Now, look at her ear,”
she continued, touching it caressingly. “You see it? Look at mine, and
tell me the difference.”

“Her ear has no lobe,” remarked Wilfrid, in some surprise.

“True. Have you not noticed the like before?” asked Pauline. “No? O,
unobservant man! Well, after this take due note, and you will find that
every true-born Russ is without a lobe to his ear.”

Wilfrid wondered whether his grand duchess was distinguished by this
peculiarity. He hoped not, for Pauline’s pearly little shell of an ear
was prettier than Vera’s.

“I suppose,” he observed, “that all the members of the Imperial Family
bear this Muscovite mark?”

“Not so, for the dynasty has scarcely a drop of true Russian blood, and
is rather proud of the fact. ‘I am a German, not a Russian,’ said the
Czar Ivan; and so have all his descendants said.”

Pauline hitherto had been bright and lively, but all her brightness and
liveliness went in a moment when she saw Wilfrid open a small album that
lay upon the table.

“You may look,” she said, with a heavy sigh, for Wilfrid, on seeing the
nature of its contents, had closed the book.

“Indeed, I would rather that you read it.”

Wilfrid opened the album again, and found it to contain melancholy
souvenirs of the Reign of Terror in the shape of private letters written
by some of Pauline’s friends, who had fallen victims to the guillotine;
written, many of them, on the very eve of execution. Their style, direct
from the heart, as was natural with persons at the point of death, gave
to these letters a pathos that would have touched the heart of the least
emotional.

“Those letters are dear to me,” said Pauline. “They are the fuel that
keeps the fire of my patriotism burning. Every day I read them, in order
to prevent me from ever loving the Republic, that Republic that put my
friends to death.”

With somewhat melancholy feelings, Wilfrid closed the album, admiring, as
he did so, the creamy white of the binding.

“Is this the famous Torjek leather,” he asked, passing his forefinger
over its smooth surface.

Pauline’s answer took a singular shape. She bent forward, and laying hold
of Wilfrid’s hand lifted it and drew the finger that had touched the book
slowly down her cheek, accompanying her action with a weird smile.

“Is not the touch the same?” she asked; and, without giving him time to
answer, she continued, “You have heard of the Princess Lamballe?”

“Good heavens! Do you mean that——?”

“Did you ever see her at the Tuileries in the days of the old _régime_?”

“No, but——”

“Well, from to-day you can say that you have had the honour of touching
her skin!”

Knowing that among the eccentricities of horror produced by the French
Revolution human tanneries had a place, Wilfrid had no need to ask more
with that binding, white and lustrous, staring him in the face.

“There is all that is left of the Princess Lamballe,” said Pauline, her
eyes set with a stony grief, a grief too deep for tears. “We were brought
up from girlhood together. She was my dearest friend. She was young; she
was beautiful; she was good. And you know her end? Taken to the prison of
La Force, her only crime being that she was a friend of the Queen’s, she
was flung forth from the prison-gate into the hands of a howling mob. And
then.... My God! it will not bear thinking of.... Pieces of the body put
on the end of pikes were paraded through the streets.... Some found their
way to the tanyard....”

Overcome by the recollection, she was silent for a few moments, and when
she spoke again it was in a mood fierce and dark.

“Do you wonder now why I hate the Republic? Let my father serve it, if he
will. For my part, I work for its downfall.”

It was clear to Wilfrid from this, as well as from previous remarks
made by her, that the one passionate aim of Pauline’s life was the
subversion of the Republic and the restoration of the Bourbons, an aim
laudable enough in itself, were she any other than she was, but scarcely
compatible with her position as the daughter of the Ambassador of the
French Republic.

“To work for its downfall,” she repeated. “And I shall succeed,” she
continued, with a smile as of coming triumph. “Mark me,” she added,
“smile, doubt, call it vaunting, if you will, but when the secret
history of to-day comes to be written, it will be found that I, Pauline
de Vaucluse, Baroness of Runö, have been the chief cause of Bonaparte’s
downfall.”

But when Wilfrid asked in what way she intended to accomplish this, he
was met by a tantalising shake of her head.

However strange her words, there was in her manner something which led
him to believe that they were no mere boast. Still, great as was his
desire to witness the fulfilment of them, he did not like to see a
daughter working in opposition to her father, especially if—he trusted he
was not wronging her by the supposition—she should be availing herself of
the political secrets acquired by her residence in the Embassy.

However, being as yet not sufficiently advanced in her friendship, he
refrained from taking upon himself the office of Mentor.

At a sign from the Baroness, her maid, Vera, withdrew, returning with a
bright samovar or tea-urn.

“Do you take sugar?” asked Pauline, who seemed to have recovered from the
gloom occasioned by her reminiscences. “Yes? I fear I can offer you none
but Barth’s.”

“And who is Barth?”

“A man who is making his fortune out of beetroot. We have to rely upon
him ever since Paul forbade the import of your colonial sugar.”

“It seems to me,” grumbled Wilfrid, “that this Paul lays his despotic
finger upon every department of life.”

“Too true. And he treats his own family no more indulgently than he
treats the public. He has kept his daughters under restraint for a week
upon a diet of bread and water merely for yawning at church. And in the
Greek Church, you must know, one has to stand, and not sit; and the
service usually lasts three hours.”

“Who would be a grand duchess?” smiled Wilfrid.

“Times will be different when little Sasha comes to the throne.”

“And who is little Sasha?” asked Wilfrid absently.

“The Czarovitch, to be sure—Alexander.”

“Of course—called little because he is like his father in stature?”

This remark drew a laugh from the Baroness and a smile from her maid.

“‘Little’ is a term of endearment. He stands six feet two inches high in
his boots.”

“My height exactly,” remarked Wilfrid.

Pauline paused with her cup half-way to her lips, and looked doubtfully
at Wilfrid.

“I don’t think that you are _quite_ as tall as Alexander.”

“Six feet two in my boots,” asseverated Wilfrid.

Pauline drank her tea thoughtfully. Presently she said:—

“You’ll think me silly, but I am quite curious to know which is the
taller, you or Alexander.”

“How shall we settle this weighty matter?”

“Easily enough. Alexander’s exact height is to be seen on the panel
behind that curtain. He called at the Embassy last week, and, _mon père_
being out, it fell to me to entertain his Imperial Highness. He had tea
here, just as you and I are having it now, and, if you’ll believe it, the
conversation took a similar turn to ours—that is to say, we talked of his
stature. I was actually so daring as to doubt the word of a Czarovitch,
so just to convince me, he laughingly stood against yonder wall, like
a recruit about to be measured, while I, with a piece of black crayon,
marked his height upon a panel, and found it to be, as I have said, six
feet two inches. See!” Walking to the place indicated, Pauline drew
aside the tapestry, revealing upon the white panel behind a short black
horizontal line, and something more as well that she had not mentioned,
for the line rested upon the life-size silhouette of a human profile,
drawn with black crayon, presumably the profile of Alexander.

“Now, if you want to measure yourself with little Sasha—?” said Pauline.

So, to please her, Wilfrid stood with his back against the panel, and
Pauline saw that the crown of his head was on a level with the charcoal
line, showing that his stature differed little, if at all, from that of
the Czarovitch.

“And this, I presume, is his profile,” said Wilfrid, falling back to
obtain a better view. “Drawn by—?”

“Your humble servant. As Alexander stood there, he said, ‘I wonder you
don’t draw my profile also!’ ‘Why, so I will,’ was my reply, and placing
a lamp on this column here, I made him stand in such a position that his
side-face was silhouetted upon the panel, and—there you have it! Now,
Lord Courtenay, you are an artist, that is to say, one who has, or ought
to have, a keen eye for beauty. Don’t you think that Alexander’s profile
is perfect?”

Wilfrid ventured to dissent, though with some diffidence, because it was
clear that his fair hostess regarded it as an ideal head.

“Well, Sir Critic, what are the faulty points?”

“To meet the requirements of my ideal of beauty—and mine, of course, may
be a wrong ideal—the line of the forehead should be brought slightly
nearer to the perpendicular. The nose would be perfect but for this
slight depression near the bridge, and the chin, in my opinion, recedes a
little more than it ought.”

“And your opinion of his character, so far as it can be deduced from this
silhouette?”

“An amiable and intellectual youth, disposed to do good, but likely to
fail for want of a strong will. Of course,” laughed Wilfrid, “this
opinion of mine is open to correction. One should see the whole face with
its expression, before passing judgment.”

Pauline’s pout showed that she was not altogether pleased with Wilfrid’s
views.

“Shall I criticise the critic?” she said, and calling upon Vera to place
the lamp exactly where it had been during her sketching of Alexander,
she adjusted Wilfrid’s position, little by little, till at last his
profile—brow, nose, lip, chin—became coincident as far as was possible,
with Alexander’s.

“That’s it; now don’t move,” she said. “Let us see how much difference
there is, and whom the difference favours.”

Taking up a piece of black crayon, she outlined Wilfrid’s profile upon
that of Alexander’s, with a result as surprising to Wilfrid as to herself.

The defects, or assumed defects, that he had pointed out in Alexander’s
profile were remedied in his own. The line of the forehead had become
vertical, imparting a more intellectual character to the face; the
depression of the nose had vanished, and the chin had taken a firmer
touch.

Though Wilfrid tried not to be conceited, his own judgment told him that
the second profile was preferable to the first, and so thought Pauline.

“H’m, an improvement, certainly,” she said, holding her head upon one
side and surveying her handiwork. “So I am to read your character thus,”
she added quizzically. “Amiable and intellectual, herein running parallel
with Alexander, but differing from Alexander in having a strong will. I
trust that in Alexander’s case you are in error, for ’twill be a pity if
weakness of will should prevent him from carrying out the good reforms he
has in mind.”

They returned to their chairs and to their tea.

“Since you know the Czarovitch so well,” said Wilfrid, “I presume you
know also his _aide-de-camp_, Prince Ouvaroff?”

“Do _you_ know him?” she asked.

“Serge and I are friends of several years’ standing,” replied Wilfrid,
very much doubting, however, whether the term “friends” was any longer
applicable to the relationship between himself and Ouvaroff.

Pauline’s face assumed a somewhat whimsical expression. “Poor Ouvaroff!”

“Why that sigh?” smiled Wilfrid.

“Lovers may come, and lovers may go, but Ouvaroff remains faithful for
ever.”

This to Wilfrid was a most surprising piece of news.

“When last we met the Prince spoke of a nameless lady who for some years
past had been saying him nay. Can it be that——”

“He will not take my ‘No.’”

Her words showed Wilfrid that he had been holding a wrong opinion.
Pauline, and not the nameless duchess, was Ouvaroff’s inamorata. So far,
good! There was no rivalry in love between them. But why, then, was the
Prince daily practising swordsmanship? Was the object of his resentment
some other Englishman, and not Wilfrid at all? And what had he meant by
saying he had recently discovered that it was death to court the lady of
his choice, language identical with that used by Baranoff when speaking
of the “Princess”? Were there, then, at St. Petersburg two ladies whom it
was death to court? Now, though it might very well be that peril would
befall the unauthorised suitor who should venture to make love to the
grand-daughter of Ivan VI., yet why an _aide-de-camp_ of the Czarovitch
should not pay his addresses to an ambassador’s daughter without having
the fear of death before his eyes was a question that set Wilfrid
thinking.

It may seem strange that Wilfrid, being now _tête-à-tête_ with one who
knew Ouvaroff intimately, did not ask whether she was acquainted with the
lady to whom the Prince had acted as escort, but the truth was, Pauline
had so fascinating and seductive a manner that Wilfrid hesitated to touch
upon this theme lest she should draw from him an account of the nocturnal
incident at the inn of the Silver Birch, a disclosure which would have
been a breaking of his word to the Princess. Upon that matter, therefore,
he determined to keep a silent tongue.

“Another cup of tea, Lord Courtenay?” said Pauline, breaking in upon his
reverie. “No? You really have finished? Well then——”

Taking the porcelain cup used by Wilfrid, she held it for a moment above
the tiled hearth, and then let it fall. It was shivered to pieces.

Wilfrid wondered in what light he was to take this action.

“It means,” said Pauline, responsive to his thoughts, “that no one else
shall ever drink from that cup. ’Tis a Muscovite way of honouring a
guest. You see, I _am_ half a Russian, after all. With our grand boyars
it is often the practice after a feast to cast all the plate out at the
windows upon the heads of the expectant crowd below, it being thought
undignified to make use of the same dishes a second time. Paul has done
his best by ukase to abolish this custom, chiefly with a view to the
saving of his own plate.”

Wilfrid acknowledged the high honour conferred upon him, adding—

“This must be a somewhat expensive habit on your part?”

“Not so, my lord,” replied Pauline with a charming curtsey. “It is not
_every_ guest I treat in this way.”




CHAPTER IX

A DOCUMENT MISSING


While Wilfrid was thinking that if Pauline’s ways with Ouvaroff were as
fascinating as her ways with him, it was no wonder that the poor Prince’s
head was turned, the maid Vera, who had gone off on some errand for her
mistress, now re-entered, bearing a salver, upon which lay two name-cards.

“Visitors, my lady.”

Just the trace of a frown appeared upon Pauline’s face as she took the
cards in her hand. Wilfrid’s society was much more interesting than
that of Count Baranoff and General Benningsen. She was on the point of
feigning some excuse for not receiving them when Vera remarked,

“They say they have startling news.”

“In that case I’d better see them.”

And bidding Wilfrid excuse her absence for a short time she descended to
that same entrance-hall in which she had held her first interview with
him.

Baranoff and Benningsen had met by chance upon the steps of the Embassy,
each bringing the same piece of news, the Count intending to communicate
it to the Ambassador, the General to Pauline.

Though apprised of Wilfrid’s arrival, Baranoff knew nothing whatever of
his arrest and escape, and it was only in the interval of waiting that he
heard the story from Benningsen. The news filled the Count with secret
rage. Hitherto hating Pauline a little, he now began to hate her more. To
think that but for her he might this night have had Wilfrid a prisoner
in the Citadel, subjecting him to insult and degradation! Instead of
which Wilfrid had now found powerful champions in the Ambassador and his
daughter!

Mingled with Baranoff’s ire was a high degree of fear. Self-interest had
prompted him to withhold from Paul the reason of his failure at Berlin,
and in thus hoodwinking the Czar he had committed a kind of treason. Now
should Wilfrid have given Pauline the correct version of that affair, it
would perhaps go the round of St. Petersburg society, bringing upon him
ridicule and mortification, to say nothing of dismissal from office—or
worse, should the matter reach the ears of the Czar.

Had he not sent in his card to the Ambassador’s daughter, he would now
have retreated. A coward at heart, he glanced apprehensively at the door
by which Pauline would enter. Supposing she should appear in company with
Wilfrid, and he with taunting tongue should renew the challenge! Outside
the Embassy Baranoff was a great man, a man to be feared, a man who, with
a few strokes of his pen, could send an opponent to Siberia; but his
power stopped at the door of the Embassy; inside it he was helpless, and
no match for the mocking Baroness and the devil-may-care Englishman.

It was a relief to him when Pauline entered alone.

Pauline had no great liking for the coarse burly Benningsen, but was
compelled by parity of political interests to keep on friendly terms with
him.

Far different was the case with Baranoff: him she loathed, as every pure
woman was bound to loathe the ex-lover of the dissolute Catharine. It
always cost Pauline an effort to treat him with ordinary civility.

“Aha, Baroness!” cried Benningsen. “What is this you’ve been doing?
Rescuing in broad daylight a prisoner of the Czar, and whisking him into
the Embassy. By Heaven, you’re a bold one!”

“And you’re not,” replied Pauline, whose habit it was to speak her mind
freely to the General, who was accustomed to speak freely to her. “I
marked you, running from the face of Paul, putting life before honour.”

“Faith, my dear!” said he with a grin, and not a whit abashed by her
reproach, “honour, when lost, may be recovered; one’s life, never.”

“You come with news, I understand?”

“Unpleasant news,” returned Baranoff, affecting a mournful air, in
reality secretly delighted, as knowing that the tidings would alarm her.
“Unpleasant news I regret to——”

“Hold! the Baroness must pay toll for our tidings. Toll,” added
Benningsen, significantly. “You know what I want.”

“I do, but unfortunately the knout is not here, but at the Citadel. The
Count will be but too pleased to accommodate you.”

The jest was a true one. Nothing would have pleased Baranoff more than
to see Benningsen tied up to the knouting-post. Baranoff gloried in the
fact that it was he, and he alone, that had persuaded Paul to make war
with England. Benningsen was sneeringly confident that the Count would be
the first to sign a peace as soon as ever the British fleet appeared in
Finland waters.

“Toll!” repeated Benningsen. “A bottle of—what shall it be? Who was it
that said, ‘Port for boys, claret for men, brandy for heroes’?”

“Louis, a bottle of port for the General,” said Pauline sweetly.

“Ach! but you’re down on me to-night,” grinned Benningsen.

However, the bottle when brought, was labelled cognac.

“A corkscrew? No,” said Benningsen, staying the hand of the servitor. And
drawing his sabre, with one stroke he cut clean through the neck of the
bottle, sending the glass fragments flying to the other end of the salon.

“That’s the way we do it in camp.”

The liqueur being poured out and watered to taste, Baranoff ventured to
drink to the fair Pauline.

“You are guilty of treason,” said she. “You know that Little Paul claims
the first toast.”

“O, damn Little Paul!” cried Benningsen savagely, and speaking with a
recklessness that led Pauline to wonder whether he had not been taking
brandy at other places besides the Embassy. “Little! Humph, that’s true,
but what there is of him is quite enough! Damn the powers that be!
Here’s to the powers that will be, eh?” he added, raising his glass with
a significant wink at Pauline, who tried by a warning frown to check the
license of his tongue.

“Your tidings?” she asked.

“The English consols are going up, and the Russian are going down,”
answered the General.

“’Tis very like, thanks to the Count,” said Pauline, “but you didn’t come
here merely to tell me that.”

“No. What think you is Little Paul’s latest craze? You’ll never guess, so
I’ll tell you. This afternoon he put the Czarovitch under arrest!”

“Our little Sasha!” faltered Pauline, with concern in her looks.

“Ay, our little Sasha!” repeated Benningsen. “And Constantine also. Both
brothers are prisoners, each in his own apartment. To-morrow they are to
be sent to a fortress.”

“And _mon père_ has just gone to the Michaelhof to have an interview with
Alexander.”

“Faith, then, he’ll return without it!”

Alas for Pauline’s hope of obtaining pardon for Wilfrid and herself
through the mediation of Alexander! Her father’s errand to the palace was
like to end in failure.

Matters began to wear a serious look. Having done a deed certain to
incense the Czar, she durst not leave the Embassy for fear of arrest. And
what would happen to her father if he should defy the Czar’s command to
surrender Lord Courtenay?

“What have the two youths done, or rather what does Paul say they have
done?”

“No one knows his reason,” said Benningsen. “But this is what he said on
giving orders for their arrest, ‘Before many days be past men will be
astonished to see heads fall that once were very dear to me.’ It’s my
belief he’ll keep his word,” continued the General. “He has a craze for
imitating his great-grandfather, Peter. And Peter put _his_ son to death,
you know.”

Pauline’s look of concern deepened.

“Let the Russians reproach Paris for its Reign of Terror,” she said. “It
was but a brief season. But at St. Petersburg life has now become one
long reign of terror. One rises from bed of a morning with no certainty
of returning to it at night. Our lives are made miserable by a series of
vexatious edicts. Our commerce is destroyed; the national credit sinking;
the treasury empty. Wars on all sides; Cossacks assembling at Astrakhan
for an overland march to India; troops massing upon the Prussian frontier
to compel King Frederick to join the Armed Neutrality. And ere long we
shall have a foe in the Baltic, for I presume,” she added, turning to
Baranoff, “the report is true that Nelson’s fleet has set sail.”

The Count, with a sour look, opined that it was correct.

“Then with the breaking-up of the ice will come the bombardment of
Cronstadt.”

“Thousand devils!” cried Benningsen, “and I’ve just bought a villa at
Oranienbaum. Right in the line of fire. Thirty thousand roubles clean
thrown away! Count, this war is of your creation. Undo your work.
Persuade Paul to make peace. This morning’s text ought to dispose him to
it.”

“Text?” said Pauline inquiringly.

“Text!” repeated Benningsen. “His latest craze is to turn the Bible into
a book of holy divination. Each morning he opens the Scriptures, and
the first verse his eye lights upon is taken as a direct message from
Heaven. To-day’s text was, ‘_Thou shalt bruise his heel_.’ Not quite
seeing its application to himself straight he goes with the verse to
Archbishop Plato. ‘The passage, Sire, is to be taken in connection with
the preceding clause, “_It shall bruise thy head_.” The head is a vital
part; not so the heel. The meaning, therefore, is that your enemies, the
English, will do you more hurt than you will do them.’”

“Trust Plato for making the Scriptures speak his own views,” said
Baranoff with a sneer.

“The text,” continued Benningsen, ignoring the Count’s remark, “has made
our little Czar thoughtful. All day long he has been saying at intervals,
‘_Thou shalt bruise his heel_,’ so that—but here comes Monsieur
l’Ambassadeur,” he said, breaking off in the middle of a sentence. “Now,
perhaps,” he whispered in Pauline’s ear, “I shall be able to have a word
with you on—start not—on a matter touching our personal safety.”

The Marquis de Vaucluse had entered the reception-hall wearing a
perturbed look, due to the discovery that the Czarovitch was a close
prisoner in his own apartments, and forbidden to hold any communication
with the outside world.

For a few moments the four discussed in common this latest phase of
Imperial politics, and then Baranoff, desirous of conversing privately
with De Vaucluse, drew him on one side, leaving Benningsen free to talk
with Pauline.

“How long, think you,” said Baranoff to the Marquis, “shall we be able to
keep the Czar alive?”

De Vaucluse, not understanding the other’s meaning, regarded him with a
startled look.

“I am alluding, dear citoyen, to the privately-expressed opinion of
Paul’s chief physician, Wylie.”

The Ambassador’s brow cleared. He had thought the other was about to
announce the existence of a conspiracy for the assassination of the Czar.

“Physicians’ forecasts are not always right. What has the Scotsman been
saying?”

“Paul has had of late several strokes of apoplexy, each one more serious
than the last. In Wylie’s opinion the next is likely to prove fatal. Now,
neither you nor I can afford to see Paul go, for Alexander’s accession
will mean the end of the Franco-Russian Alliance.”

This was a fact as well-known to the Marquis as it was to Baranoff.

“Any undue excitement,” continued the Count, “any undue rage will carry
him off.”

“The remedy is obvious,” smiled De Vaucluse. “His immediate _entourage_
must take every precaution to prevent him from exciting himself.”

“That is very good counsel of yours,” said Baranoff in a dry tone, “but,
unfortunately, your charming but too generously-impulsive daughter has
this day done a deed likely to raise the Czar’s wrath to a dangerous
point.”

“And, therefore,” said the Marquis, “he must be kept in ignorance of
Pauline’s act.”

“But when he demands his prisoner in the morning—what then?”

“Why, then, it will be advisable for you, the Governor of the Citadel, to
take upon yourself to affirm that the prisoner died during the night.”

De Vaucluse, being a diplomat, had no more scruple in suggesting a lie
to Baranoff than Baranoff, in other circumstances, would have had in
adopting it.

“It seems to me, Monsieur l’Ambassadeur,” said the Count loftily, “that
you are neglecting the safest way out of the difficulty.”

“And that is——?”

“To surrender the person of Lord Courtenay to be taken to the
Petropaulovski Fortress in accordance with the Czar’s wish.”

“I should be most happy to meet your suggestion, dear Count, were it not
for one little circumstance.”

“Ah!”

“I have pledged my word of honour to Lord Courtenay that I would not
surrender him.”

The Ambassador’s manner plainly showed that he meant what he said, and
that further arguments directed against his decision would be so much
wasted breath.

“Of course Monsieur l’Ambassadeur would not talk thus unless he were
sure that his action will have the approval of the First Consul?”
Baranoff’s smile was not that of a friend. It was a sudden revelation to
the Marquis, showing how sinister the Count could be when crossed in his
purpose. “You will mention this matter in your next despatch to him, eh?”

“This man means mischief,” thought De Vaucluse. “He will take care that
General Bonaparte hears of this matter. And then——?”

The Ambassador did not like to think of the “then.” Never before in his
diplomatic career had he been in such a strait as the present, and all
due to that wayward Pauline! He glanced somewhat darkly at his daughter,
little thinking that at that moment she had far greater grounds for
uneasiness than he had.

“General, you are drunk!” had been her frank utterance to Benningsen as
soon as she had found opportunity to converse with him privately.

“Heigh-ho! I wish I were,” replied the warrior.

“You must be, or you would never, in the presence of Baranoff, have drunk
to the powers that will be.”

“Pooh! what matters?”

“Much. He’ll be guessing our secret. He’s mean enough to report your
words to Paul. Do you want to be sent into exile a second time?”

“It’s a case of exile for all patriots, I’m thinking. I leave the city
to-night. By the waters of Finland I’ll sit down and weep when I remember
thee, O Petropolis, for I shall have to leave all behind me, including my
villa at Oranienbaum. I’m glad it isn’t paid for.”

“Speak more clearly, General,” said Pauline looking startled.

“Humph, haven’t I spoken clearly enough? Cannot you guess why little
Sasha has been put under arrest?”

She understood clearly now, and drew a deep breath, born of fear.

“Paul has discovered——?”

“I fear so.”

There followed a significant silence, during which both sat looking at
each other.

“Who has betrayed us?” she said at last.

“No one. It was an accident. You know—you have reason for knowing—that
there is in existence a weighty document containing the autograph
signatures of those who have pledged themselves to——”

She interrupted him with a gesture of impatience.

“Why tell me what I know already?”

“Our dear friend, Count Pahlen,” continued Benningsen, naming the
Foreign Minister, next to the Czar the most powerful man in the Empire,
“was the person to whom we all agreed to entrust our common document, a
document so precious that he durst not keep it at his bureau, locked in
an escritoire, lest it should be detected by some prying secretary. He
therefore carried it about on his person.”

“An unwise thing to do.”

“So it has proved, for he has lost our great charter.”

“Lost it!” said Pauline in dismay.

“It was on his person at one o’clock; at two it was gone. Either he
dropped it, or it was stolen from him. The question for us is—Into whose
hands has it fallen? It may have been picked up by some mujik, who, too
ignorant to read and therefore unable to appreciate its value, may use
it to light his pipe. Some one, not over friendly to Paul’s rule, may
have found it, in which case he may hand over the document to one of the
signatories occurring therein, or, at the least, he may keep a silent
tongue on the matter. But I sadly fear that the document has been found,
if not by an enemy, by one at any rate who, seeing in the discovery the
prospect of a reward, has hurried with it to Paul. At all events three
hours after Pahlen’s discovery of his loss little Sasha was put under
arrest.”

“That proves nothing. Is he the only one? Why are not all the others
arrested?”

“Who knows what may be happening at this very moment? I have come to warn
you. You will do well this night to set off with me for Finland, lest in
the morning Little Paul should be found demanding your head.”

“Fly! And leave Alexander to his fate! No, I’ll not do that. Having drawn
him into a conspiracy, I’ll stand by him to the last, and, if need be,
share his doom.”

There was a brief interval of silence.

“If Paul would but die!” murmured Benningsen.

“Oh, if he would only die to-night, our necks would be safe! But then,
men never will die when they are wanted to. Look at my rich uncle now,
that——”

“Hasn’t Count Pahlen determined upon any plan of action?”

“Within an hour from now he holds a meeting at his house to consider the
state of affairs. But, mark my words, nothing will be done. All their
resolutions will end in smoke. Fear will fall upon them when they hear
that the incriminating document is in the hands of the enemy. Every man
will look to his own safety. There will be a general flight. Nay, some,
thinking to save their own necks, will voluntarily come forward to betray
their fellows. And then, what will Monsieur l’Ambassadeur think, when he
learns that his trusted daughter is a member of a conspiracy to dethrone
the Czar, and more—has made use of the Embassy as a meeting-place for the
conspirators?”




CHAPTER X

THE DOCUMENT FOUND


Of the two visitors to the Embassy, Count Baranoff was the first to take
his departure.

“To the Citadel,” he said on stepping into his carriage, and the next
moment he was being whirled along the Prospekt in the direction of the
Neva.

The handsome stone bridges that now span that broad river were
non-existent in the early years of the nineteenth century, the present
Troitzkoi Bridge being then represented by a chain of pontoons, which,
overlaid with smooth planks, afforded a level road from one bank to the
other.

So long as the water continued frozen, and again after the current
had resumed its free flow, one could rely upon finding the bridge in
position, but the case was very different in early spring (and it was
now the twenty-third of March), when the breaking up of the ice and the
drifting of the bergs would cause the bridge to be taken to pieces and
put together again two or three times in the course of a day.

The bridge was in position when Baranoff’s carriage came up, and he
was driven rapidly over the shaking timbers to its northern end, where
rose the Fortress of Peter and Paul, a building as familiar to the
Petersburgers as the Tower to Londoners, with this difference, however,
that whereas the latter is a memorial of the dead past the former is, to
the Petersburgers, an object of present fear.

The edifice, a work of Peter the Great, was built originally to defend
his new capital, but has become useless for such purpose, being now
in the very heart of the city. In reality a brick fabric, it is faced
externally with granite, and with its five bastions rising from the
water’s edge has a somewhat majestic appearance.

Entering by the Ivanskaia Gate, whose sentinels presented arms as he
passed, the minister made his way to his official study, where, somewhat
to his surprise, he found awaiting him a visitor in the person of his
brother Loris, his junior by two years.

A medium-sized man was Loris Baranoff, with a cold, hatchet-shaped
face and grey eyes that in their keenness seemed capable of reading
one’s thoughts. His appearing in any assembly—and all assemblies in St.
Petersburg were open to him—was sufficient to send a thrill of uneasiness
to the heart of any man or woman who in talking had been so rash as to
touch, however remotely, upon State affairs. For Loris Baranoff was Chief
of the Secret Police. “Let a man speak but three words,” said Richelieu,
“and I will undertake to find treason in them.” Loris Baranoff would find
treason if a man did not speak at all!

He was reclining at his ease in an arm-chair by a bright fireside, his
legs stretched out before him at full length, his hands clasped at the
back of his head. Usually impassive in his bearing, he had at this time a
light in his eyes that told of some inward excitement; at least, so the
elder brother judged.

“You have news, Loris?” said he, taking a seat that stood opposite. “Good
news?”

“News!” echoed the other with a sort of fierce exultation. “News! Ay!
Dame Fortune is smiling on us at last.”

“Time she did. She has dealt us some reverses of late. What happy
discovery have you made?”

“Let us dispose first of little matters before we come to the big,” said
Loris, taking out a pocket-book and referring to some notes therein,
written in a shorthand of his own. “First, my spy Izak the yamchik
arrived this morning with your Englishman, Lord Courtenay.”

“I am already aware of that.”

“This afternoon Lord Courtenay happening to meet the Czar——”

“I know the whole story; his refusal to kneel, his arrest, and his
rescue by that marplot, Pauline de Vaucluse.”

“Oh, so you know! Well, what’s to be done? for so long as he keeps where
he is, the Czar himself cannot lay finger upon him.”

“Let him abide. His arrest is but a question of time. You have the place
under observation?”

“Trust me for that! He can’t sneeze without my knowing it. Let him but
take six steps outside the Embassy and he is a prisoner.—To return to
our useful friend Izak. He timed his journey admirably, arriving at the
Silver Birch on the very night and at the very hour appointed by you,
without creating any suspicion apparently in the mind of Lord Courtenay.”

“That, too, I know. Lord Courtenay has graciously obliged me by doing
for nothing what I was willing to pay him three hundred thousand roubles
for. So much the better for my pocket! Everything fell out precisely as
I planned it. Thanks to Nadia the affair seems to have moved as smoothly
as a piece of clockwork. Now, Grand Duchess Marie, proud and virtuous
beauty, we will see how you look when you hear that your reputation is
gone.”

As Loris caught the vindictive sparkle of his brother’s eye he said—

“You have never yet told me why you hate her so.”

Arcadius hesitated, then said with a sneer—

“The wisest man commits at the least one big error in his life-time. I
committed mine when I made love to her.”

No man was better able to control his emotion than Loris Baranoff. On the
present occasion, however, he sat perfectly aghast.

“_You—made—love—to—her!_”

“Why not?”

“An Imperial Duchess!”

“Pouf! A condescension on my part! Hasn’t an empress welcomed me to her
arms?”

“Bah! don’t compare the damnable old hag Catharine with the young and
beautiful duchess. So—you made love to her! And her answer?”

As if he would give it!—give it, that is, word for word. No, not even
to his brother. He would have braved the rigours of Siberia first. His
cheek, seldom touched by the colour of shame, coloured now as he recalled
the Duchess’s flaming words of scorn.

“She took my offer of love as a deadly affront.”

Loris did not wonder at it, though regard for his brother kept him from
saying so.

“That day,” continued Arcadius, “I made an enemy, and a dangerous one.
It is her aim to expel me from office, and to see that I do not return
to it. Either I must destroy her, or she will destroy me. Now you see my
reason for throwing this Englishman in her way. Why do you smile?”

“At the amount of unnecessary trouble you have been taking.”

“Unnecessary?”

“Entirely so. Now we stand too high in Paul’s regard for her to prejudice
him against us?”

“Granted.”

“It is through the medium of Alexander that she hopes to do us hurt?”

“Through none other.”

“Ah, well; if her power is dependent only upon Alexander, you will see,
after hearing my news, that you need no longer fear either him or her.”

“Let me hear the news,” said Arcadius, doubtfully, as he settled himself
in his chair to listen, “and I shall be the better able to judge.”

Loris put up his pocket-book and began his story with commendable
directness.

“This morning as I was at the Michaelhof on business the Czar chanced to
see me, called me to his side, and began a conversation, while walking,
in that restless fashion of his, from room to room, I keeping pace with
him. Entering a certain cabinet we came suddenly upon Pahlen standing
by a window engaged in the study of some document. Before the Count was
aware of our presence, Paul, with that _brusquerie_ so characteristic of
him, had snatched the document from his hand, demanding to know what it
was. The sudden fall in Pahlen’s countenance told me that it was a paper
whose contents he would fain hide; as a matter of fact, though I did not
know it at the time, his life was hanging upon a thread, for if Paul had
once begun the reading of that paper it would have been all over with the
mighty Chancellor of the Empire. However, as you know, it takes a good
deal to disconcert Pahlen. He was equal to the occasion.

“‘One moment, Sire,’ said he, venturing to take the paper from the
Czar’s hand, ‘the document is odorous of tobacco, whose scent I know
you dislike. Permit me.’ And taking out a perfume-bottle he began
to besprinkle the document, and while casually directing the Czar’s
attention to something happening outside the palace-window he——”

“Substituted another and more innocent document.”

“Just so. ’Twas neatly done, but it didn’t escape me. Convinced that the
document must be one of great moment I determined to become the possessor
of it. Knowing that Pahlen was about to proceed to the Mint to receive a
deputation of merchants, I made some excuse for accompanying him, first,
however, secretly sending a note to the Police Bureau.”

“What did the note contain?”

“These words—‘Send Godovin to me at once. I am at the Mint.’”

“And who in the devil’s name is Godovin?”

“Once the most expert pick-pocket in St. Petersburg, now an
honest—ahem!—police officer!”

“I see your design.”

“Towards the close of the meeting, just as Pahlen was ending his speech
to the merchants, my man entered. ‘Godovin,’ I whispered, ‘within
Pahlen’s breast-pocket is a paper that I must have. Can you take it
without his knowledge?’ The fellow smiled and nodded.”

“And he succeeded?”

“Godovin never fails. I’ve employed him before. Just as Pahlen was
passing out Godovin simply brushed by him, and the next moment he was
pushing beneath my cloak the document I wanted.”

“A useful knave! And the contents of this document?”

“Are eminently adapted to make us rejoice.”

“Why so?”

“Because the document—hold your breath—relates to a plot for the deposing
of the Czar; it contains the autograph signatures of the conspirators;
and, as many of them happen to be obstacles in the way to our future
advancement, we have but to denounce them to Paul, and Siberia or death
will be their doom.”

Arcadius slapped his thigh savagely.

“I knew it,” he cried. “I guessed there was something of the sort afoot
when Benningsen took to damning the Czar in my presence, and drinking
to the powers that will be! Of course that German pig is one of the
conspirators! At last I have him in my power! You have brought the
document with you?”

For answer Loris drew forth a roll of vellum, which he proceeded to
unfold.

“Read it.”

“The devil! You don’t ask me to read all this, do you?” protested Loris,
exhibiting the document to his brother’s gaze. “It’s infernally long and
prosy, but it’s unimpeachable in its treason, and that’s all we want. It
starts with a statement drawn up by a body styling Itself ‘The Committee
for the Public Weal.’”

“What’s the gist of it?”

“The Committee begin by affirming that they are neither revolutionaries
nor republicans, and proceed to enumerate the advantages of a hereditary
monarchy. At the same time, they admit that occasions may arise to
justify the setting aside of the legitimate occupant of the throne; as,
for example, when a ruler shows signs of madness. Such a crisis is now
occurring in Russian affairs, and the Committee proceed to point out
the strange words, ukases, and acts of Paul, all which, it is alleged,
sufficiently prove that the Czar has lost his reason.”

This was what all men in St. Petersburg had been thinking for a long
time, but none had durst say so openly.

“In these melancholy circumstances it becomes the duty of all good
patriots to unite for the peaceful deposing of Paul, who shall be
maintained in honourable captivity till such time as he shall recover his
reason; failing its recovery, he shall remain a captive till the day of
his demise.”

“Speciously put, but the conspirators know that they are signing Paul’s
death-warrant.”

“How so?”

“What sovereign ever lived long after his dethronement?”

“The probity of Alexander is a sure guarantee for his father’s safety.”

“Circumstances will prove too strong for Alexander. The conspirators will
take good care that Paul shall not live long to trouble the new reign.
One morning he will be found dead in bed, and people will say, ‘Alas!
for the Little Father! He has died of apoplexy. His physicians always
said he would.’ Dr. Wylie is already preparing the public mind for the
event.—Well, we’ll defeat their plans. In the morning this document shall
be put into Paul’s hands. But you spoke of autograph signatures. Of
course, the Czarovitch’s name figures there?”

“What makes you think that?”

“Men would not plot to put Alexander upon the throne unless they had
first gained his consent; they would require his signature as a guarantee
for their future safety.”

“You’re right. Alexander’s name heads the list.”

“’Tis his death-warrant; and let him die! We want no reforming Czars.
And, as a man’s foes are those of his own household, I warrant that the
second signature is that of the Grand Duke Constantine.”

“Correct. He follows his brother. Here is his name in Greek characters.”

“Grandmother Catharine hoped that he would one day be King of Greece,”
said Arcadius. “That day will never come now. Whose is the next
signature?”

“Count Pahlen’s.”

A savage joy mantled the face of Arcadius.

“Good! A powerful rival swept from my path. I may yet live to be Dictator
of Russia. And the next?”

“Is the autograph of that venerable father of the church, Archbishop
Plato. Did his conscience trouble him? ’Tis a somewhat shaky signature.”

“I warrant the conspirators moved heaven and earth to obtain it. Who
henceforth would stand aloof from an enterprise hallowed by the Church?
He is an Anglophile; let him perish!”

“Next comes Prince Ouvaroff. After him the Czar’s ministers.”

“_All_ of them?” said Arcadius, with an emphasis on the first word.

“You are the sole exception.”

Arcadius smiled bitterly.

“Their act in keeping from me all knowledge of the plot is a clear
proof that I am to have no place in the new Ministry. They hate me as
the author of the Franco-Russian Alliance. Let them talk as they will
of Paul’s madness; their real aim in dethroning him is to conciliate
England.”

“Here’s a name that you love—General Benningsen!”

“Bragging ass! Drunken wassailer! A Hanoverian, almost an Englishman!
Paul did ill not to follow my counsel. He _would_ recall him from exile.
Here’s his gratitude!”

“Next comes a name almost illegible, but I have a strong suspicion it’s
meant for James Wylie.”

“Paul’s own physician in the plot?”

“It seems so,” said Loris, scanning the name. “It’s a vile scrawl.”

“His Scottish cunning. If the plot miscarry, he’ll be in a position to
deny his signature.”

“Likely enough,” assented Loris. “Would it surprise you to learn that
there are women in this affair?”

“Not at all. And the leading spirit among them is Pauline de Vaucluse.”

“Right. There’s no hesitation about _her_ signature. Here it is, large,
firm, bold, and differing from the others as being written in red ink.”

“Ink?” said Arcadius, examining the signature. “It’s my belief it’s
written with her own blood. I doubt not that it was she who started the
plot. She hates Paul; she hates me; she hates the war with England.
Conspirators can meet safely beneath her roof, since spies are unable to
get a footing there. Besides, who would ever suspect a Foreign Embassy of
hatching treason against the Czar. She would act as an excellent decoy,
too, seeing that half the young men in St. Petersburg are in love with
her. Hence the many balls given of late at the Embassy.”

“By the by, why wait till morning before showing this document to Paul?
Why not take it to-night?”

“Need we be so precipitate?”

“Yes, in view of Pahlen’s desperate strait. When he discovers—and he must
have discovered it ere this—that his treasonable document is missing,
what will he do? Aware that the plot has become known to others, he and
his fellow-conspirators will see the necessity of striking the blow
before Paul has time to learn of their treason. It behoves them to act,
and to act at once. Delay will be fatal to them.”

This conclusion, so startling, yet so palpably obvious, filled Arcadius
with sudden dismay.

“A thousand devils!” he muttered. “What may not be happening now at the
Michaelovski Palace? We must—ah! what the devil’s that?”

Hitherto quiet had prevailed outside the Citadel, but now in a moment the
air became filled with a series of sounds, eerie enough and loud enough
to startle the boldest. As if subjected to a well-directed fusilade of
heavy artillery the fortress trembled to its very foundations, amid a
confused shouting of voices, a grinding of timber, and a crashing of ice,
intermingled with the dull plunge of heavy bodies into deep water.

“By heaven! the bridge is down!” cried Loris.

The bridge! Their only way to the Michaelovski Palace! The two brothers
rushed to the nearest window. Finding it difficult to open, Loris
shattered the glass with his sword-hilt.

Dark and starless as was the night, they could nevertheless see that
not a single pontoon remained in the place where the bridge had lately
been. Nature had played havoc with man’s work. Between the Citadel and
the opposite bank intervened a broad expanse of black water, upon whose
rapid current ghostly bergs tumbled and crashed, danced and whirled, as
if in glee at the destruction wrought. Here and there, in mid-stream and
clinging to fragments of timber, human forms could be heard uttering
cries for help.

The brothers looked at each other with pale faces, and eyes full of
baffled rage.

The catastrophe had put an end to the proposed visit to the Michaelhof.
No boat could live on such a tide. For hours, and it might be days, the
pair would be cut off from the Imperial quarter as effectually as if they
were in far-off Siberia.

“No crossing to-night,” said Loris. “Now, Pahlen, do as you list. There
is none to stay your hand.”




CHAPTER XI

“THOU SHALT BRUISE HIS HEEL”


Upon the departure of General Benningsen from the Embassy, Pauline de
Vaucluse was left, a victim to troubling thoughts.

Dear to her father’s heart was the Franco-Russian Alliance, and yet she,
his daughter and _confidante_, had been secretly working to bring it to
nought; and all to no purpose, so it seemed.

To be a successful traitress is bad enough, but to be an unsuccessful
one——!

In too melancholy a mood to seek Wilfrid’s society again, she left her
father to entertain him; and, on the plea of a headache, retired to her
own room, wondering what the morrow would bring forth. Apart from the
uneasiness arising from the loss of the incriminatory document, she was
troubled with a feeling of self-reproach, due to an indefinable something
in Wilfrid’s manner. It had not taken her long to discover that he was
one to whom deception of any kind was distasteful, his character in
this respect affording a striking contrast with her own. If any one had
reproached her with duplicity, she would have asked with a smile how it
was possible to succeed in this world without lying; but now, as she
recalled the grave air with which Wilfrid had received the hints that she
was secretly working in opposition to her father, she grew first uneasy
and then angry; though why she should let Wilfrid’s opinion trouble her
was a question that found no answer in her mind. There the fact was: her
attitude towards her father, now, for the first time, appeared in an
unfilial and hateful light, and it was mainly Wilfrid that had made it
look so.

Another circumstance, though in itself absurdly trifling, added to her
annoyance. Hitherto, she had been accustomed to regard the Czarovitch
as her ideal of a hero, handsome and brave, courteous and charming; and
lo, here was an Englishman handsomer and braver—had he not, even at the
risk of his life, refused to bow to a tyrant?—more courteous and more
charming, and, above all, truth-speaking, the last epithet being _not_
always applicable to Alexander, as history can testify. She grew vexed
with Wilfrid, as if it were a fault in him to be better than Alexander!

This odd frame of mind prevented her from obtaining her usual amount of
sleep; and when she arose in the morning she started at sight of the wan
face and heavy eyes reflected in the mirror.

Summoning her maid, Pauline proceeded to make her toilet, selecting her
prettiest and daintiest attire; and never did Vera find her mistress more
hard to please than on this particular morning. She was positively more
critical of herself than on the day of her receiving the Czarovitch!

On her way down stairs she chanced to meet one of her father’s oldest
secretaries, who had been out for an early drive, and she stopped for a
moment’s chat with him. They might have been in England; they talked of
the weather!

“A most remarkable thaw, this,” observed the secretary. “The oldest
inhabitant of St. Petersburg cannot remember one so rapid.”

“When did the change begin?” asked Pauline.

“The thermometer began to go up a little before midnight, and has been
going steadily up ever since. The Troitzkoi Bridge has been carried off
by the moving ice.”

“Then Count Baranoff, if he’s in his Citadel, will not be able to do any
mischief this side of the Neva for some days to come.”

“His isolation will not last long,” smiled the secretary. “In the opinion
of experts, the river, before the lapse of many hours, will be passable
for boats.”

“Then we shall be having the ceremony of the Golden Goblet,” said
Pauline to herself, as she continued her way down. “A quaint custom,
which I would like Lord Courtenay to see; but here we are, debarred from
going out.”

Pauline moved onward and was passing through the entrance hall when she
stopped short in surprise upon seeing Benningsen suddenly enter. He wore
a somewhat haggard look, having, in fact, the jaded appearance of a man
who has spent the night out of bed; and Pauline was quick to notice that,
though his step had been steady enough on the previous evening, he now
walked with a slight limp.

“What! General,” she cried. “Not gone to Finland after all?”

“Pahlen persuaded me to stay,” said Benningsen, with a smile that set
Pauline’s heart bounding; for it was a smile that augured good things.
“He and I, with a great many of the ministers, went to the Michaelhof
last night to have that long-meditated interview with Paul.”

“To get him to abdicate?” she said breathlessly.

“Just so.”

“How did he take the proposal?”

“’Tis a world of surprises,” said the General. “We might have spared
ourselves the visit. Paul had already abdicated.”

“You are jesting,” she said, angrily.

“Fact!” smiled the General. “Abdicated in favour of Alexander.”

“Why this graceful act on his part?”

“Well, to be plainer——”

Here Benningsen bent his head and whispered a short sentence. Pauline
received it with a keen, cold, steady look that seemed somewhat to
disconcert him.

“A fortunate ending for us,” she remarked drily, “seeing the strait we
were in. It matters little now who has found our lost document.”

“The finder will be well advised to burn it,” said Benningsen. “Alexander
won’t thank him for making it public.”

“When is the event to be proclaimed?”

“Within an hour from now. Alexander himself is to make the announcement
from the balcony of the Winter Palace. The people are already gathering
in the square.”

“How? They know?” she asked, in some surprise.

“They know nothing except that Alexander with his own lips is going to
make public some great event. Hence, there is great excitement in the
streets. The Foreign Ambassadors are already assembling at the Winter
Palace. Where is Monsieur le Marquis? I must tell him the news. He must
not be absent while others are tendering their congratulations to the new
ruler.”

“My faith! no,” returned Pauline. “_Mon père_ will be found in his study
at this moment, inspecting his morning’s correspondence. Louis shall take
you to him,” she added; and addressing a lackey she bade him conduct
Benningsen to the Ambassador’s study. “But stay, General,” she continued,
with a laugh that was not all a laugh, “what dreadful boots yours are,
dropping mud and wet! Respect our carpets. You must leave those great
Hessians behind you.”

Benningsen stared oddly at her, hesitated for a moment, and then,
perceiving that she was in earnest, he laughed, slipped out of his boots,
and followed in the wake of the lackey.

“He did not limp like that last night, though wearing the same boots,”
thought Pauline, as she watched the General ascending the staircase. “It
is the right foot that seems to be hurt.”

As soon as Benningsen was out of sight, Pauline, much to the surprise of
her maid, lifted one of the long boots and, for better inspection, held
it up to the light.

Her next act was more surprising still. Drawing forth her handkerchief,
she carefully wiped from the heel its caking of mud and snow. And there,
in the leather just above the heel, was a double row of perforations,
obviously caused by something sharp that had penetrated the leather from
without.

“Vera,” said Pauline, with a strange look, “tell me what you think was
the cause of these marks?”

The maid regarded them attentively for a moment, and then said, “They
seem to me very like teeth-bites, my lady. See!” So saying, Vera slipped
off her pretty little shoe, and by giving the heel a hearty bite,
produced in the red leather a double row of marks, very similar in
appearance to those in Benningsen’s Hessians. “He had strong teeth who
bit this boot,” she added.

“My God!” murmured Pauline. “What has happened?” And the boot dropped
from her trembling hand.

“My lady, you are ill.”

She had reason for her remark in Pauline’s sudden pallor. But the
Baroness made no answer. She stood, silent and motionless, deep in
thought; and when, after an interval of five minutes, Benningsen
reappeared, she regarded him with a look so strange and repelling that he
intuitively felt that his secret had become known to her.

“Now can one keep a thing from a woman?” he thought, as he drew on his
Hessians.

“General, what Bible-verse did Paul hit upon yesterday?” she asked in a
careless manner; and the General, off his guard for the moment, replied—

“‘_Thou shalt bruise his heel._’”

“There has been a quick fulfilment of that text.”

“True,” said Benningsen with a side-glance at the maid, who stood by,
wondering what it all meant, “and the less said about it before others,
the better.”

There was in his manner something approaching to the nature of a threat,
that caused Pauline’s eyes to blaze angrily.

“You have brought dishonour upon a noble enterprise,” she said.
“Henceforth, we are no longer friends. Pay no more visits to the Embassy,
or I’ll have you whipped forth.”

“_L’Ambassade, c’est moi!_” said Benningsen, with something between a
laugh and a sneer; and striking a Louis Quatorze attitude as he spoke.
“But if the Marquis chooses to receive me——”

“I’ll have you whipped,” she repeated, making the last word sound like
the lashing of a thong, “like the savage that you are. As for _mon
père_—have you told him the whole story? No! you dare not. You have lied
to him, as you have lied to me. _Mon père_ is a gentleman, and when he
hears the truth, he, too, will forbid your presence here. Go, coward!”
she added, with a stamp of her foot, and pointing to the door.

Benningsen’s great face reddened as he saw that two clerks of the
Embassy, passing through the hall to their daily duties, had stopped to
listen to this piquant dialogue between a brother-in-law of the Czar and
their chief’s daughter.

“Coward?” said Benningsen, repeating the word. “But bah! one is a fool to
bandy words with a woman. If only you were a man——!” he added, turning
away.

“Stay a moment, General,” she said, sweetly, “I’ll bring you a man.”

He knew that she meant Wilfrid, whose sword he durst not meet; and
without more ado he stalked off.

Almost at the same moment the Marquis de Vaucluse was seen descending the
stairs in a state of perturbation very unusual with him.

“Has Benningsen told you?” he began. “Do you know that——”

“He has told me, _mon père_,” replied Pauline. “I know—more than you
think,” she added to herself.

The Ambassador was too much excited to notice how dejected his daughter
was looking.

“Horses to the door!” he cried; and while the order was being executed he
walked to and fro, muttering, “This event, I fear, will bring no good to
the First Consul.”

And it was with a very rueful look that he drove to the Winter Palace.
If the Ambassador were gloomy, so, too, was his daughter. Wrapped in
moody thought, she remained standing where her father had left her, till
Wilfrid’s voice put an end to her reverie. And very curious it was to
notice how quickly Pauline’s face brightened as soon as she became aware
of his presence.

“Dare you venture abroad with me this morning?” was her first question;
in the circumstances, a surprising one to Wilfrid.

“Is not this a somewhat rash act on your part?” he objected. “In rescuing
a prisoner of the Czar, you made yourself amenable to arrest.”

“The Czar,” replied Pauline, without naming _what_ Czar, “is about to
issue an amnesty to all political prisoners.”

“And we come under that term?”

“I believe so. At any rate, we may go forth without fear of arrest. I
have received this assurance from—from an authoritative source.”

“Good. The Czar is not such a bad fellow, after all.”

“No, indeed he is not,” said Pauline, with a laugh, perplexing in its
merriment; “though you spoke somewhat hardly of him yesterday.”

In his own opinion, Wilfrid had not spoken half so hardly as had Pauline.

“What has caused this sudden change in him?”

“Come with me, and you shall learn,” said Pauline, with a charming air of
mystery. “I could tell you now, but I prefer to be dramatic with you. The
Czar himself shall proclaim what the Czar will do.”

And Pauline, having ordered her carriage, retired to put on her hat
and mantle, while Wilfrid, attracted by an unusual hubbub outside the
Embassy, went to the door.

The Nevski Prospekt was alive with a throng of men and women, all moving
in one direction, all animated by the same impulse.

The crowd was composed mainly of the lower orders, but now and again
there appeared the stately equipage of some lordly boyar.

At times there would trot past little bands of Cossacks, who, carrying
immensely long lances and mounted on shaggy ponies, sought to quicken
the pace of the people by crying, “To the Winter Palace! To the Winter
Palace!”

“Now, I wonder what all this excitement is about?” said Wilfrid,
re-entering the Embassy.

“You do? Well, then, let us go to the Winter Palace, and discover the
reason,” answered Pauline, who had returned, looking more charming than
ever in her handsome furs.

As for Wilfrid, having no choice in the matter of attire, he was wearing
the same Austrian uniform as on the previous day. Pauline, studiously
critical, noticed that he was without the ornament of a sword, and
thinking it a pity that he should go forth without his full equipment,
procured a handsome weapon from her father’s collection, and even went so
far as to help him in girding it on.

Having assisted Pauline into the carriage, Wilfrid was about to take his
place by her side, when she cried, with a little gesture of impatience—

“There! I have left my vinaigrette in the hall.”

While Wilfrid went back to fetch it a troop of guards came riding by. At
their head was Prince Ouvaroff, looking, so Pauline thought, pale, ill,
and melancholy.

“Now what is troubling _him_?” she murmured.

No sooner did Ouvaroff catch sight of Pauline than his melancholy seemed
to vanish. There came upon his face a smile, never seen there except when
she was in view.

He halted his troop, drew near to Pauline, and, saluting her with his
sword as though she were the Czarina herself, said:—

“Like the rest of us, you are bound for the Winter Palace, I presume?”
And on learning that such was the case he continued, “You must permit me
to be your escort. Place your carriage amid my gallant band and we’ll
clear the way for you through the crowd.”

“I thank you, Prince, but my escort is already chosen,” replied Pauline,
pointing to Wilfrid, who at that moment was descending the steps of the
Embassy.

Wilfrid cast a smile at his old friend, the very man he wanted to see.
There was much that Ouvaroff could tell him about the mysterious Grand
Duchess.

“You and Lord Courtenay are friends, I understand,” said Pauline.

“We used to be.”

The Prince’s air was so cutting and contemptuous that Wilfrid, whose high
spirit could ill brook an affront, compressed his lips ominously. The
cause of Ouvaroff’s disdain was plain enough to him. That Prince must
have seen him stealing from the Duchess’s bed-chamber. Wilfrid’s face
darkened, and his hand sought the hilt of his sword, but recognising
the unwisdom of entering into explanations he turned his back upon the
Prince and waited till Pauline should have finished her talk with him.
In troubled surprise she glanced from one to the other, wondering what
Wilfrid had done to alienate his old friend.

“Do you know, Prince, that when you frown so you remind me—yes, of Paul.”

This remark, spoken with no ulterior motive, produced a very strange
effect upon Prince Ouvaroff. As if detecting a hidden meaning in her
words he started sharply, as a man may start who is unexpectedly
confronted with his guilt, glared at her for a moment with a wild eye
that made him look more like Paul than ever, and then, putting spurs to
his steed, he suddenly set off at a gallop, leaving his astonished troop
to follow or not as they chose. Pauline watched him with a troubled face.
She knew something now unknown to her a moment ago.




CHAPTER XII

A GRIM BEGINNING OF A REIGN


“What are we to do now?” asked Pauline of Wilfrid, when, as their
carriage drew near to the Imperial Square, they found approach to the
Winter Palace impossible by reason of the dense crowd. “We can’t expect
these good people to open a way for us to the front, and yet, as we are,
we shall see nothing!”

Her situation at that moment contrasted singularly with that of her
father. While _he_ was within the stately palace and occupying a high
place among the Imperial _entourage_, she was outside in the open square
upon the skirts of a tumultuous swaying crowd.

Her glance, wandering around, rested upon the façade of the Hôtel de
l’Etat Major, the seat of various governmental departments. Situated upon
the south side of the Imperial Square, its front, nearly two furlongs in
length, sweeps round in a magnificent arc, and faces the south side of
the Winter Palace. The windows and balconies of this vast edifice were
occupied by groups of well-dressed men and women, whose elevated position
gave them a good view of all that was going on.

“That’s where we’ll go,” said Pauline, glancing up at one of these
windows.

She drove up to the chief entrance of the hotel, and, being well known to
those in authority there, soon obtained for herself and Wilfrid a place
among a little group upon one of the upper balconies.

As Wilfrid gazed downwards it seemed to him that all the city’s five
hundred thousand inhabitants must be gathered together in the space
fronting the Winter Palace. They were prevented from getting too near the
Imperial edifice by serried ranks of cavalry and infantry, whose numbers
were being increased minute by minute.

Wilfrid, with his semi-military tastes, took pleasure in watching
the advent of the various regiments that from different points kept
continually debouching into the square. Ever and anon from some new
quarter the rolling of drums and the wild strains of martial music
heralded the approach of some fresh band, till it seemed that not only
must all the civilian population of St. Petersburg be there, but the
whole of the Czar’s vast army as well.

And the variety and oddity of the uniforms!

Circassians were there, whose burnished helmets with steel veil falling
upon the shoulder, shirts of linked mail, and long lances, seemed to
recall the days of mediæval chivalry; Polish heydukes, whose upper lips
were adorned by triple moustaches, the first twisted upwards, the second
quite straight, and the third twisted downwards; Zaporogian Cossacks,
whose trousers were smeared with tar to show the wearer’s contempt for
the costly scarlet cloth of which they were composed.

“A soldier’s pride should be in his arms, not in his dress,” remarked
Pauline in reference to these last-named warriors, adding that this
strange practice was permitted by the government.

The marchings, wheelings, and evolutions of these troops were all
directed towards the formation of three main bodies, the first extending
along the entire front of the Palace; at each end a shorter division was
thrown forward at right angles to the main body, so that the arrangement
formed three sides of a rectangle.

The fourth side of the rectangle was formed by the front ranks of the
people, who were kept from pressing into the interior space by mounted
Cossacks, who, whenever the crowd was pushed forward by the pressure from
behind, did not hesitate to ply their whips with merciless vigour.

Upon the open ground thus kept clear by the lash of the Cossacks were
numerous mounted officers, who rode leisurely to and fro, now conversing
with one another, now issuing some order.

Conspicuous among these was General Benningsen on his famous black
steed Pluto; and there, too, was Prince Ouvaroff in command of the
Preobrejanski Guards.

These two, being the only officers known to Wilfrid, came in for a good
deal of his attention, and watching them for some time by the aid of a
lorgnette, he observed that though Benningsen seemed to have a word for
nearly every one among his equals and subalterns, he paid no attention
whatever to Ouvaroff, who, on his part, seemed to ignore the General. It
was evident that there was some estrangement between the two men, who,
till the previous day, had been on good terms; and Wilfrid could not help
wondering to what it was due.

Of the three divisions, that on the right hand, which stood, as
previously said, at right angles with the main body, consisted of
infantry, whose snub noses and upturned moustaches proclaimed them to be
the Paulovski Regiment.

“I don’t see my friend Voronetz among them,” muttered Wilfrid. “I trust
he has not been cashiered.”

Surveying these troops through his lorgnette, he observed that the face
of each, without exception, was marked by a sullen expression, a fact to
which Benningsen was keenly alive, for he eyed them from time to time as
if apprehending some disturbance on their part.

“The Paulovski Guards seem dissatisfied this morning?” remarked Wilfrid
to Pauline.

“Naturally, seeing that they are about to be disbanded.”

“Paul’s favourite regiment to be disbanded! Why?”

“Because they are too faithful to his interests.”

Wilfrid elevated his eyebrows.

“Fidelity is an extraordinary reason for disbanding a regiment.”

“Nevertheless it is the true reason,” replied Pauline.

Though somewhat annoyed at this mystification on her part Wilfrid curbed
his curiosity.

From the crowd his gaze wandered to the rear of the Winter Palace where
flowed the Neva, a broad winding stream of vivid blue. On its surface
floated miniature icebergs, varying in tint from white to rose colour.
Carried along by the current, and assuming every conceivable shape, they
crashed, and dived, and mounted one upon another as if they were trying
each to be first in the race to the sea.

The sounds produced by the collision were like the sharp rattle of
artillery, and could be heard above the hubbub of the crowd.

On the other side of the river, and grimly grey in the morning sunlight,
rose the Petropaulovski Fortress, an object of interest to Wilfrid as
being the place in which he would at that moment have been a prisoner but
for Pauline’s bold rescue.

On the waters of the river before the principal gate of the Citadel
floated a sort of state barge, rich with gilding, and gay with coloured
flags. This Bucentaur was being rapidly filled with officials from the
Citadel, conspicuous among them being the Governor, Count Baranoff.

As soon as he had taken his place in the barge a puff of white smoke
issued from the ramparts, accompanied by salvos of artillery, that were
repeated at regular intervals.

“That gun is a signal that the river is becoming passable for boats,”
said Pauline. “We are about to witness an interesting ceremony.”

“Of what nature?”

“On reaching this side of the river the Governor will proceed to the
Winter Palace, taking with him a goblet containing water from the Neva.
No matter upon what business the Czar may be engaged, custom enjoins that
he shall come forth and drink from the goblet in sight of all the people.
He then returns the cup filled with gold pieces. The ceremony is a kind
of homage paid to the Neva, an acknowledgment of the advantages to be
derived from the free course of commerce.”

“Petersburgers think a good deal of the Neva, then?”

“So much so that I have seen a youth welcomed home from his travels, not
with champagne or the like, but with a goblet of Neva water.”

Wilfrid watched the progress of the Bucentaur. While its rowers plied
their oars, men stationed at the prow and provided with poles kept the
passage clear from the floating ice. In the wake of the state barge
followed a long train of boats, filled with merchants and citizens clad
in gala attire.

Count Baranoff, in his seat of honour, was in a jubilant mood that
morning, as became a man who saw the elements conspiring to favour his
interests. A break-up of the ice in a single night was a phenomenon
almost without parallel in the history of the Neva.

He carried with him a secret, the disclosure of which would remove all
enemies from his path, and open a way for him to the highest offices
in the State. Fondly refusing to believe that any ill _could_ have
happened to Paul—though his brother who sat in the boat with him, was
troubled with doubts—he purposed after the Czar should have performed
the customary ceremony in the matter of the goblet, to ask for a private
interview, in the course of which he would put the treasonable document
into Paul’s hands with the words, “Read that, Sire.”

Eager for the coming of this moment, Baranoff urged the rowers to greater
speed, and as soon as the barge grated against the steps of the granite
quay he sprang hastily ashore, and taking his place among the detachment
of military sent to escort him, he moved onward to the Imperial Square.

His coming drew a satirical smile from Pauline.

“There are surprises for you, Sir Count,” she murmured.

He had now arrived at the principal entrance of the Winter Palace, an
entrance lofty and arched, and surmounted by a spacious balcony, upon
which Paul, whenever the humour took him, was accustomed to show himself
to his people. Against this archway there had been set a staircase,
covered with scarlet cloth, leading to the balcony above it.

Assuming an air of dignity suitable to the occasion, Baranoff ascended
the staircase, bearing in both hands the historic golden goblet filled
with water taken from the Neva.

As he slowly mounted aloft he became the mark of all eyes in and around
the square. His appearance was greeted with a loud “_Hourra!_” from the
crowd. Their long waiting was over. Usage prescribed that the Czar must
come forth without delay to drink from that notable cup.

In truth, before Baranoff had gained the top stair the troops were
presenting arms, and a military band, stationed beneath the balcony,
broke forth into the soul-stirring music of Russia’s national anthem.

A tall window giving access to the balcony was flung wide, and there
stepped forth a lofty and majestic figure, arrayed in a rich uniform.
Behind him came a train of magnates, civil, military, and ecclesiastical;
among this last and bearing in his hands a tall golden cross was the
Archbishop Plato, conspicuous by his long snowy hair and beard, his
stately person and majestic flowing robes.

The train paused while the figure in the rich uniform advanced to the
edge of the balcony, and bowed to the populace, who greeted the action
with thunders of applause.

But though the figure was far distant Wilfrid, without having recourse to
the lorgnette, could tell that it was not Little Paul. Who was it that
thus assumed to himself all the honours of Czardom?

Wilfrid’s feeling was one of surprise merely; that of Baranoff’s was
absolute, overwhelming dismay.

First on the list of conspirators to be denounced by him came the hateful
name of the imprisoned Alexander, and lo! it was Alexander himself that
faced him and put forth his hand for the goblet!

“None but the Czar can drink from this cup,” said Baranoff huskily,
drawing back a pace or two.

“True, and the Czar is before you,” returned the other.

“Yesterday it was Paul.”

“And to-day it is Alexander. To-morrow it may be—who can tell? Is Fortune
ever constant?”

Mechanically Baranoff surrendered the goblet to Alexander, who, turning
to the now silent people, cried with a loud voice—

“To the health of the Russian nation!”

He drank, and returned the goblet to Baranoff, first calling upon one in
attendance to fill it with gold coins in conformity with ancient usage.

The populace looked on in silent wonderment. What mood had come over Paul
that he should depute this duty to the Czarovitch? Was any explanation to
be given? Yes, there was. Hush! little Sasha is speaking.

“People of St. Petersburg, my father Paul——” His voice shook with
emotion. He stopped, and turned to a minister in his rear, as if desiring
him to act as speaker. Count Pahlen, for he it was, proceeded to make the
momentous announcement.

“People of St. Petersburg, it is my melancholy duty to state that last
night our little father Paul was seized with apoplexy, and died at
a quarter to twelve.” He made a pause, and then added, “The Czar is
dead”—and, pointing to Alexander—“Long live the Czar!”

For a moment the people were dumb with surprise. The news seemed too good
to be true. Then a mighty shout rent the air.

“Long live little Sasha!”

The cavalry spontaneously waved their sabres in an ecstasy of loyalty;
among the infantry helmets danced aloft upon the points of bayonets; a
remark, however, not applicable to the Paulovski Guards, who, in spite
of the addresses of their officers, could not be made to show the least
token of enthusiasm.

The civilian crowd, however, were wild with delight; it seemed as if
their cheering would never cease. There could be no doubt as to the
popularity of Alexander with the great mass of the people, and the
ministers upon the balcony, who, for reasons best known to themselves,
had feared that the news of Paul’s death might provoke a very different
feeling, began to be relieved, a relief somewhat discounted when they
noticed the demeanour of the Paulovski Guards, many of whom, having
grounded their rifles, were leaning upon them with a sullen and moody air.

Their action was, of course, unseen by the greater part of the people,
who, after the fashion of crowds, began to make comments upon what they
had just heard.

“The great Catharine was right. She said that Paul would not long outlive
her.”

“True. He hasn’t reigned five years.”

“A terrible blow this—to the Empress Mary.”

“A blow! Say rather a piece of good luck! But yesterday, so ’tis said,
Paul threatened to put her into a convent for life.”

“Lucky, too, for Alexander. To think that he was a prisoner yesterday,
threatened with death, and to-day the Czar!”

There was no disputing the fact that Paul’s departure from this world
had been very opportunely timed for Alexander by that particular angel
who has the arrangement of such matters; very opportunely indeed—so
opportunely that, perhaps, it may not have been an angel at all, but——

There was less cheering now. Men began to stare suspiciously at one
another. But what each thought he kept to himself, mindful of the
Muscovite saying, “If three persons be seen conversing, one of them is a
spy.” How many spies must there be, then, in a crowd so vast! In Russia
the wise man is the silent man.

Wilfrid’s remote situation had prevented him from hearing the
announcement made by Count Pahlen, but he quickly became apprised of it
by the thunderous shouts of “Hourra, Alexander! Hourra, the new Czar!”

“Paul dead!” he exclaimed, turning to the Baroness. “So this is the
secret you have been keeping from me? When did he die?”

“Late last night, suddenly of apoplexy, so Benningsen says. We shall see
a full account of it in to-day’s _Journal de Petersbourg_.”

Wilfrid, aided by the lorgnette, took a long and critical survey of the
new Emperor.

He beheld a man as different in appearance from his father Paul as the
day is from the night. Alexander exhibited in his person all the beauty
of the Romanoff family. His figure, over six feet in height, was well
proportioned and graceful in movement; his hair, light brown in colour,
with a tendency to curl. His face was singularly handsome; he had eyes
of a dark blue, a profile purely Grecian, and a complexion as clear and
almost as colourless as marble. In short, it was no wonder that all the
ladies in St. Petersburg were in love with him, for, externally, he
was just the sort of man to captivate a woman’s imagination. To add to
his attractiveness the graces of his mind were, according to Pauline,
far superior to those of his person. His conversation was lively and
charming. In scholarship he far surpassed his equals in age; indeed, his
grandmother Catharine had kept him to his studies so closely as somewhat
to impair his eyesight.

Wilfrid listened with some indifference as Pauline ran over the list of
the Czar’s accomplishments. Truth to tell, Wilfrid felt a latent spirit
of antagonism to the new ruler, finding—somewhat absurdly it must be
confessed—a ground of complaint in the very fact that he should owe his
recovered freedom to the action of this Czar, for the power to set free
implies likewise the power to imprison. That the liberty of an Englishman
and a Courtenay should depend upon the irresponsible will of an autocrat
of twenty-three was galling to his high spirit. That young man, without
consulting either judge or jury, could banish Wilfrid from his dominions,
and, if he chose, could order Pauline to receive the knout. There was
nothing in Russia to stop him. The wealth, the liberty, the lives of
sixty millions were at his absolute disposal.

When Pauline went on to speak of Alexander’s swordsmanship, and of how,
in that art, he excelled every officer in his army, Wilfrid became
more than ever critical and depreciatory. Empire might belong to the
Romanoffs, but when it came to a question of swordsmanship, let them not
presume too much.

“Can beat every officer in his army, can he?” muttered Wilfrid. “Humph! I
shall never be happy till I have crossed swords with his Czarship.”

Alexander did not retire immediately upon his proclamation as Emperor,
but remained upon the balcony for the space of two or three minutes,
possibly with the object of giving the people time to take a good look
at their new ruler.

And then came a grim and significant incident, never forgotten by those
who witnessed it.

Just as the Archimandrite Plato was preparing to pronounce a benediction
upon the people, and with this view had raised his hand, an action which
produced a solemn hush over the vast assembly, there came a sound like
the shivering of glass. The panes of a window in the lower part of the
palace were falling outward by reason of blows dealt from within, and
through the opening thus caused there leaped forth a wild figure.

Alighting upon all fours in the rear of a squadron of horse, he sprang to
his feet immediately, and though hands, and even sabres, were put forth
to stay his progress, he contrived, by adroitly turning and twisting
beneath the horses’ bellies, to elude capture and to gain the open space
fronting the palace, thus becoming visible to the Czar and his staff
upon the balcony. The incident was not lost upon Wilfrid, who turned his
lorgnette upon this sudden apparition.

Some twenty hours previously Wilfrid had seen the man’s face, but now,
disfigured all over with medical plasters, it was barely recognisable.

“My God! it’s Lieutenant Voronetz!” said a lady sitting next to Pauline.

“And who’s Lieutenant Voronetz?” asked her companion.

“The officer whose duty it is to guard Paul’s bedroom at night.”

Lieutenant Voronetz it was, and a more ghastly figure was never seen.

Moved by some overpowering impulse he had evidently escaped from the
bed in which he had been put by the kindly, or perfunctory, care of the
physician. He wore no clothing except swathings and bandages, which,
criss-crossed all over trunk and limbs, suggested the idea that he had
been hacked and slashed by sharp weapons from head to foot. The exertion
of moving had caused his wounds to open afresh; his linen swathings had
lost all their whiteness—from neck to ankle he was one red hue!

There was death in his face, death within a very short time; why then,
instead of remaining peacefully on his bed, had he chosen to come forth
in this startling fashion?

Voronetz, casting a wild glance around, had no sooner caught sight of the
group upon the balcony than he raised his right arm and fiercely shook it
at Alexander. With a thrill of horror Wilfrid perceived that the arm thus
raised was without a hand—it had been severed at the wrist!

Those who at that moment happened to be looking at the Czar whispered
afterwards that he trembled and turned pale. The benediction that the
Archimandrite was about to pronounce died upon his lips.

Turning from the balcony the grim red figure ran, or, to put it more
correctly, reeled forward in the direction of the Paulovski Guards.
Trotting quietly in his rear, as if to keep an eye upon him, came
Benningsen upon his black horse Pluto.

“Men of the Paulovski Guards,” gasped Voronetz in a hollow voice, “do not
... shout for ... Alexander! Listen! I have a tale ... to ... tell....”

“Tell it, then, in hell!” growled Benningsen, as he whirled his sabre on
high.

Men talked for days afterwards of that mighty stroke. When Benningsen
lifted his sabre again Voronetz lay on the ground, cloven from skull to
breast!

Angry cries broke from the Paulovski Guards. Many of them levelled their
rifles at Benningsen, who, to do him justice, did not flinch at this
critical moment.

“Eyes right!” he yelled.

So well had these troops been drilled that in a moment their eyes, in
spite of their will, turned to the right.

There was no need for Benningsen to say more. The Guards saw what he
wanted them to see.

A body of infantry near by had suddenly receded some six paces or more,
revealing the startling fact that they had been posted as a sort of
screen to mask a battery of twenty cannon, whose gleaming nozzles,
obliquely turned, were trained full upon the whole line of the Paulovski
Guards. Beside each piece stood a gunner ready with lighted match. If
that battery should be discharged it was certain that, though many
civilians in the rear would at the same time fall, the Paulovski Guards
themselves would be blown out of existence, and with the recognition of
that fact vanished, for that day at least, all hope of revolt.

“Pile arms, ye snub-noses!—Paulovski Guards that were!” said Benningsen
with an insulting smile.

Slowly and sullenly the discomfited regiment proceeded to obey, and
defiled from the square, escorted on each side by mounted Cossacks, who
grinned rejoicingly that an end had come to the favoured regiment with
its high privileges and high pay.

The young Emperor turned away, his face already shadowed by that
melancholy that was never to leave it.

“What a beginning to a reign!” he murmured.

“Sire, its future glory shall make men forget its beginning,” said Count
Pahlen.




CHAPTER XIII

THE TRIUMPH OF BARANOFF


From the balcony the Czar withdrew to a stately hall to receive in
audience his late father’s ministers.

As they advanced, one by one, Alexander with gracious air bade each
continue in the exercise of his office. When, however, Baranoff
approached, the Czar’s countenance underwent a change, and the Count
recognised that his dismissal was at hand. The Franco-Russian Alliance
had been mainly due to him, and it was no secret that Alexander had
viewed it with disapproval.

“Count,” the Emperor began, “your policy in the past——”

But at this point Baranoff, though it be contrary to all Court etiquette
to stop a sovereign in the middle of a remark, boldly made interruption,
recognising that if his dismissal were once pronounced Alexander could
not, without loss of dignity, revoke it.

“_My_ policy, Sire,” said he, emphasising the first word. “Your Majesty
errs in ascribing to me a policy of any character soever, other than
this, ‘The King’s will is the highest law.’ He surely is the best
minister who obeys his sovereign without questioning.”

Alexander wavered. There could be no doubt that the war with England had
been the policy of his father.

Baranoff took courage from Alexander’s hesitancy.

“Let me retire from office. I stipulate only that you shall write across
my _congé_, ‘Dismissed for being faithful to a Czar.’”

“Fidelity to a sovereign may be carried too far,” said Alexander, who had
not forgotten the lessons of his Republican tutor, La Harpe.

“True, Sire,” replied Baranoff, who knew how to trim his sails to meet
the changing breeze. “And, therefore, when fidelity ceased to be a virtue
I withdrew my allegiance.”

“Since when did you withdraw your allegiance from Paul?” sneered
Benningsen.

“Since yesterday at three in the afternoon,” retorted Baranoff. “Sire, in
dismissing me you dismiss the man to whom you owe both life and throne.”

“Why, this is the language of treason,” said Benningsen, fingering
the hilt of his sabre and much regretting that he could not deal with
Baranoff as he had dealt with Voronetz.

“Speak on,” said Alexander, mentally contrasting the Count’s deference
with the General’s _brusquerie_.

Benningsen and Pahlen were both disposed to play the master; it might
be well, then, to have in the ministry a counterforce in the person of
Baranoff.

“Seeing that your father Paul,” continued Baranoff, addressing the Czar,
“imprisoned you and the Grand Duke Constantine for a trifling breach of
military etiquette, to what point would his anger have risen had he known
that you were at the head of a conspiracy formed to deprive him of his
crown?”

The ministers interchanged significant glances.

“I repeat it, Sire, that you and all here present owe your lives to my
forbearance.”

“Explain.”

Baranoff drew forth the document containing the signatures of the
conspirators, and laid it upon the table before the Czar.

“This paper came into my hands yesterday at three in the afternoon.”

As a matter of fact he had not seen it till eight hours afterwards, but
he wanted to make the best of his case.

“Had I shown this to the Czar Paul, what would have been the result?”

“Why _did_ you suppress it if you were so faithful to him?” asked
Alexander, toying with the paper.

“Consider, Sire!” returned Baranoff with an air of lofty
disinterestedness. “Had I so acted, your life as well as the lives of the
other signatories, would have been forfeited. I shrank from filling the
city with the noblest blood of the State. And yet, to throw in my lot
with your party would have been ingratitude to my Imperial master. Hence
I took the only course consistent with honour. I remained neutral.”

“Among the Athenians,” remarked Pahlen, “he who remained neutral received
punishment.”

“The usage of an ancient heathen city is no precedent for a modern
Christian state,” was the reply, a reply that drew a secret curse from
Pahlen, who saw that the Czar was being won over by Baranoff’s tongue.

“Yes, Sire, the triumph of either side being distasteful to me, I held
aloof from both. Happily, the course of nature has prevented you from
lifting an unfilial hand against your sire. Who is so dull as not to see
the hand of Providence in this sudden demise of his Majesty?”

While speaking, Baranoff cast at the ministers a covert smile, that
caused Pahlen to murmur in Benningsen’s ear:—

“This fellow suspects.”

“What matters, so long as the Czar condones.”

Baranoff was an accomplished hypocrite. None who saw his bearing in the
presence of Alexander would have suspected that only two hours before he
had set off from the Citadel, intent on destroying the very Prince whose
favour he was now so anxious to win.

Entirely deceived by Baranoff’s air of sincerity, Alexander was more than
half disposed to retain him among his ministers, though well aware how
displeasing this would be to the rest.

Baranoff, growing more elated as he beheld the disconcerted looks of the
ministers, now ventured upon a very bold stroke indeed.

“How faithfully I have watched over, not only Paul’s interests, but your
own, I can clearly show, if your Majesty will permit me to speak with you
only.”

A murmur of protest arose from the Ministry.

“Let what you have to say be said openly,” remarked Pahlen.

“The matter is for the Czar’s ear only,” retorted Baranoff, with an air
of dignity. “It is for his Majesty to disclose it afterwards if he
pleases. I trust your Majesty will grant me this favour, the last perhaps
that I may ask.”

There was in Baranoff’s manner something that convinced the Czar that
he _had_ an important matter to communicate, that were better heard
secretly, too.

“We will humour you,” said Alexander, who proceeded to make good his word
by calling upon the rest of the Ministry to retire to the ante-chamber.

“What tale hath that knave to tell?” muttered Pahlen. “His subtle tongue
will be our undoing. He’ll keep his place, and we shall see a continuance
of the war.”

In which forecast the chancellor was destined to prove a true prophet.

“Now, Count,” said Alexander, as soon as the door had closed, “we are
alone. What is it you would say?”

“The matter is one that concerns your honour, Sire. Hence my reason for
this secrecy.”

“Be brief.”

“It is with pain and regret, your Majesty, that I bring an accusation
against one of the Imperial house.”

For a moment the Czar looked as if he doubted his own hearing.

“Accusation?” he exclaimed haughtily. “Of what nature?”

“Ah! Sire, I fear to say, knowing what a blow it will be.”

“Tush! Am I a child? The weakling king who desires to hear nothing but
what is pleasant will never hear the truth. What is this accusation?”

“It concerns the honour of a lady, who—how shall I say it?”

“Go on,” said Alexander sharply, as Baranoff paused again.

“Your Majesty will surely understand me when I say that she whom the Czar
loves should keep herself sacred to the Czar.”

His Majesty _didn’t_ seem to understand, to judge by his perplexed looks.

“What would you imply?”

“Knowing, Sire, how great is your love for the Grand Duchess Marie—your
pardon, I ought to call her——”

“Is this a time for titles? You would accuse _her_? Of what? Speak out,
and speak the truth; for, as there is a God above us, you receive a
stroke of the knout for every false word.” He spoke in real anger, but
beneath it all it was easy to see there lurked a fear that what Baranoff
would say might prove true. “Of what would you accuse her?”

“Of letting her love wander from the Czar.”

“To whom?”

“To an Englishman.”

“His name.”

“Lord Courtenay.”

It seemed as if the name were familiar to the Czar; at any rate he asked
no question as to who Lord Courtenay might be.

“Your proofs?” he asked, affecting a disdain that did not deceive
Baranoff.

“She wears at her heart a locket containing his portrait.”

“Natural that she should preserve some souvenir of a man who once saved
her life.”

“Sire, a fortnight ago she obtained Paul’s sanction to leave St.
Petersburg for a few days. Why?”

“For prayer and meditation in the Convent of the Ascension.”

Baranoff smiled satirically.

“In returning she stopped at a wayside hamlet, named Gora, and stayed for
the night at an inn called the Silver Birch.”

“You are telling me what I already know.”

“Do you know this, Sire, that Lord Courtenay was at this inn on that
self-same night?”

No, the Czar did not know that, if one must judge by his startled look.

“Did they see each other?”

“Sire, in the dead of the night he was seen stealing from her
bed-chamber.”

“A lie as black as hell!” cried Alexander in a sudden blaze of wrath,
the more striking from his previous enforced calmness. Unable longer to
control himself he sprang to his feet, at the same time half-unsheathing
his sword, as if with the intention of striking the other dead. Then, as
reason asserted itself, the weapon slid from his relaxed fingers down
into its scabbard again, and the Emperor resumed his seat, glancing at
the door as if fearing lest his voice should have reached the ears of his
ministers in the ante-chamber.

“If it be a lie, ascribe it not to me, but to Prince Ouvaroff, from whom
I receive the story.”

“I will hear Ouvaroff. I will examine him—by torture if necessary. If you
and he are found to be liars, you die. If you speak truth——But I’ll not
think _that_, yet. Where is this Lord Courtenay at the present time?”

“In St. Petersburg, Sire, at the French Embassy.”

“The French Embassy! How comes he to be there?”

Baranoff explained the circumstances.

“What was the Baroness’ motive for this act?”

The Count shrugged his shoulders.

“Mischief, pure mischief! Pauline de Vaucluse is sometimes a woman,
and sometimes a girl. As a girl she delights in offering defiance to
established authority. ’Twas unwise of the Marquis to countenance his
daughter’s action, for whatever secret this Englishman happens to pick up
at the Embassy will soon be transmitted to his own government.”

“How? You think him to be a spy?”

“I _know_ him to be such,” replied Baranoff, who, always able to lie
like truth, was on this particular morning quite surpassing himself.
“This Lord Courtenay, who wanders about Europe, ostensibly in search of
adventure, whose rank procures him admission to the highest circles, is
in reality a secret agent of the British Government. Young, handsome,
accomplished, and of noble birth, he is the very person to take a
woman’s fancy. By some means he has got to know of the Duchess Marie’s
infatuation for him, and he comes to St. Petersburg with the subtle view
of using her as a medium for acquiring State secrets. Be sure, Sire, that
whatever matters you communicate to her will soon become his, to be
transmitted to his master, Pitt.”

“That same Pitt,” said the Czar, darkly, “with whom Pahlen bids me make
peace!”

“Bids, or—advises?”

The Czar compressed his lips significantly. Baranoff smiled to himself.
It was clear to him that Pahlen was disposed to play the master over the
youthful sovereign, and that the youthful sovereign did not like the yoke.

“I have shown you, Sire, the infamous methods to which an English premier
resorts. And yet you will make peace with him, merely because Pahlen
urges you?—An ill precedent to set at the beginning of a reign! The
ministers of a Czar are his servants, not his counsellors. The sovereign
who accepts advice is not the ruler, but the ruled.”

And then, in defiance of his own words, Baranoff proceeded to give advice.

“Will you reverse your father’s policy all in a moment? despatch a
courier to the First Consul to break off the alliance, even before your
royal sire is laid in his grave? Will this be decent?”

Much more to the same point flowed from his lips. His specious pleading,
but especially his lies concerning Wilfrid, began to tell upon Alexander,
causing his young and plastic mind to waver from its friendly attitude
towards Britain. Why not let the war continue—for a time at least, if
only to teach his peace-advising ministers that the Czar’s will must be
supreme?

Wilfrid’s love-affair was a matter unknown to the European chancelleries
of that day. It would have surprised them—it certainly would have
surprised Wilfrid—to know that it was a potent factor in shaping the
foreign policy of the Czar. Another proof that great events spring from
trifling causes. Did not all the wars of the Grand Monarch originate in a
dispute about a window?

At this juncture there came a knock at the folding-doors followed by the
entrance of two chamberlains, who, bowing low, announced that the new
Czarina desired to speak with the Czar, whom she had not seen since his
accession.

Alexander received this message with a frown.

“I am occupied on matters of State, and cannot see her now.”

In the ante-chamber, arrayed in deep mourning that enhanced, rather
than detracted from her beauty, stood Alexander’s wife, the youthful
Elizavetta, receiving with a gracious air the congratulations of the
ministers on her accession to Imperial rank.

Upon this little circle the Emperor’s cold and curt message fell like a
bolt from the blue.

Too proud to venture into Alexander’s presence after such a rebuff, the
Empress turned away, affecting an air of unconcern, though in her eyes
could be seen the glitter of tears.

“The devil!” growled Benningsen. “Baranoff has the laugh on us. He has
become of more moment than the Czarina herself!”




CHAPTER XIV

IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT


On the second night after the death of the Czar Paul, it happened that
Wilfrid was sitting over a newspaper in his private room at the Hôtel
d’Angleterre, when a sound caused him to look up.

There, a few paces off, stood a young man, wrapped in a long cloak that
glistened with the moisture deposited, apparently, by a heavy fog. He
was perhaps not more than twenty years of age, singularly mild and
placid of countenance, and with light blue eyes marked by a somewhat
odd expression; they appeared to be looking straight at Wilfrid without
seeing him.

“Do I address Lord Courtenay?”

His voice was like his looks. He had a subdued air altogether.

“My name, sir,” replied Wilfrid, somewhat resenting this sudden
intrusion. “And yours?”

“Alexis Voronetz.”

“Voronetz, Voronetz,” repeated Wilfrid thoughtfully. “Any relative of a
certain lieutenant of that name?”

“His brother.”

“That cannot be.”

“Why not?”

“I understand that the man who killed him still lives.”

“I am blind,” answered the stranger with a sigh.

“Your pardon, good Alexis. I was not aware of that.”

Wilfrid guided the stranger to a chair, and offered him wine. “And what
does the brother of Lieutenant Voronetz want with me?” he asked, when the
other had set down his glass.

“My errand is a strange one. I am sent by a certain person, whose will
is that I should escort you to a place, not far hence, where your coming
is awaited.”

“What place?”

“I am forbidden to reveal its name. You will learn, if you come.”

“Without doubt,” smiled Wilfrid. “But why should I go to this person? If
he wish to see me, here I am, easily accessible.”

“It is impossible for——” he hesitated for a word—“for the person to visit
you.”

“Why not? Is he on a sick bed? Dying? In prison? Who is he?”

“I am on oath not to reveal the name of my principal. You are suspicious,
I see; and your suspicions are, perhaps, natural; but in the name of
God”—and here the speaker lifted his hand—“no hurt is intended you.”

Wilfrid knew that when a Muscovite swears by the name of God, he may
usually be trusted. Still——

“I don’t doubt your word, good Alexis, but I strongly suspect the
motives of a principal who clothes himself with such secrecy. It is now
close upon twelve o’clock. Why may I not go with you to-morrow, and in
daylight?”

“To-morrow will be too late.”

“Too late for what?”

“That is the answer I was told to give. It must be to-night or never.”

“You do not know, then, for what purpose I am wanted?”

Alexis signified that he did not.

Wilfrid mused. Was it safe to pay a visit at midnight to a strange
house for the purpose of meeting a man who declined to state beforehand
either his name or business? It was certain he had in the city one
enemy, Baranoff, if not more; and this errand of Alexis might be the
initial step for putting him into that enemy’s hand. A little reflection,
however, caused Wilfrid to dismiss this theory. Why should Baranoff
employ all this secrecy? If he wanted to remove an enemy he had simply to
sign an order for that enemy’s deportation to Siberia, and the thing was
done.

Then there occurred to him an idea that set his blood tingling with a
pleasurable excitement.

“So,” said he to Alexis, “you will not give me the name of _the lady_
that has sent you?”

It was a chance statement, but it found verification in Alexis’ sudden
look of surprise.

“I have not said that my principal is a lady.”

True, but he had shown a scrupulous avoidance of the masculine pronoun,
and hence Wilfrid’s conclusion. Who was this lady, if not the mysterious
duchess?

The atmosphere of peril in which she moved had doubtless left her no
other way of seeing him except at midnight and in secrecy.

She wanted him, and that at once: to-morrow would be too late! Was it to
give warning of some danger that threatened him, or her, or, possibly,
both?

“Had the lady any reason for selecting you as her messenger?”

“My brother’s death was mentioned, and I was told to be earnest in
persuading you to accompany me, for it might lead to the punishment of
his murderer.”

As Alexis spoke he set his sightless eyes appealingly upon Wilfrid. There
was something pathetic in the picture of this youth, whose infirmity
rendered him unable to avenge himself. The brutal slaughter of Lieutenant
Voronetz had filled Wilfrid with disgust, a feeling that, in a degree
scarcely less strong, included the Czar likewise, when that ruler,
instead of punishing the savage, gave him a place in the Ministry.
Wilfrid hesitated no longer when he heard that his going with Alexis
might bring about the downfall of Benningsen, against whom Pauline had
whispered certain dark hints. In what way this was to be brought about,
Wilfrid did not stop to inquire. Arming himself with a sword and a brace
of pistols, he declared himself ready for the journey.

Sallying forth from the hotel, Wilfrid found the city wrapped in a fog so
thick as to prevent him from seeing anything distant more than an arm’s
length.

No voices: no footsteps: no wheels: not the faintest sound anywhere.
There was something weird in the silence that hung over all. Petersburg
was like a city of the dead.

Wilfrid soon began to see that he was with a guide of peculiar
excellence; the real reason, perhaps, why he had been selected for the
trust. On a foggy night blindness is better than sight.

In walking down the staircase of the hotel Wilfrid had guided Alexis;
in the street it became the turn of Alexis to guide Wilfrid. Linking
Wilfrid’s arm within his own he walked forward with no more hesitation
than an ordinary man would have shown in traversing the street in broad
daylight. It was marvellous to mark the ease with which he steered his
course, now to right, and now to left. To him darkness was no darkness at
all.

Twenty minutes of silent walking, and then the two were brought to a
sudden standstill by a startling challenge. “Who goes there? Halt!”

Barely discernible, there loomed up out of the fog a figure clad in a
long grey coat with cross-belt, and armed with a bayoneted rifle.

Alexis whispered something that Wilfrid did not catch, and the soldier,
apparently satisfied, melted into the fog again.

“A sentinel, and a watchword,” thought Wilfrid. “Either a Government
building or an Imperial palace. I incline to the palace.”

The two went forward, treading upon a wooden flooring that gave forth a
hollow sound. Moved by curiosity, Wilfrid drew forth a coin and flung it
sideways in air. Its descent, as he had expected, was accompanied by a
slight splash.

“A bridge and water,” he thought. “The Fontanka Canal, or the moat round
the Michaelhof? The moat, I fancy.”

At the end of the supposed bridge they were challenged by a second
sentinel. Alexis whispered, and, as before, the two were permitted to
pass on, walking now over a pavement of flagstones.

“The courtyard of the Michaelhof,” murmured Wilfrid.

Presently Alexis stopped and put forth his hand; so did Wilfrid, who
found his fingers touching damp stone, doubtless the actual wall of
the palace itself. Turning to the right Alexis began to follow the
course of this wall, stopping at last before what seemed to be a small
arched entrance, and producing a key he applied it to the lock of an
iron-studded door. Unlocking this, Alexis passed within, followed by
Wilfrid. The place was as black as night.

“Make as little noise as possible,” said Alexis in a low tone.

He moved forward through the darkness, and Wilfrid followed in silence,
his hand and foot telling him that he was traversing a passage whose
walls and floor were of stone.

In a few moments they had come to a wide staircase of oak, dimly visible
in the faint light proceeding from some unseen point above.

This staircase gave access to a long and broad gallery, decorated with
tapestry and paintings. A few lamps, ranged at regular intervals along
the wall, did little more than make the darkness visible.

With the belief, right or wrong, that every corridor in a Czar’s palace
is tenanted by an armed sentinel, Wilfrid wondered to see this gallery
left unwatched, till it struck him that perhaps this absence of a guard
was due to some secret manœuvring on the part of those employing Alexis.
Half-way down this gallery Alexis paused, and, opening a door, said:—

“My orders are that you wait here.”

The “here” was a lofty apartment, very richly furnished, its recesses
piled high with books, showing that it served the purpose of a library. A
handsome reading lamp of bronze with a very bright flame stood upon the
central table.

But why it should be ordained that night must for ever rest upon this
apartment was a mystery to Wilfrid; yet such was the case. Windows there
were none, the spaces that had once let in daylight being now closed
with masonry, a walling-up that, judged by appearances, had taken place
but recently. Alexis offered no explanation of this singularity; perhaps,
being blind, he was not aware of it. Wilfrid could not help noticing
how odd was his manner at this moment; he seemed to be under a spell of
nervousness, if not of actual fear, his eyes being riveted upon a certain
door at the far end of the apartment, as if, blind though he was, he
could see something that the other could not see. Turning away, he said:—

“I must leave you for a time. I go to announce your arrival.”

With this he stepped from the apartment, closing the door behind him.

Too much excited to spend the interval in sitting down, Wilfrid paced to
and fro for a few minutes.

Suddenly, he stopped short in his walk, and, without knowing why, shot
a suspicious glance at the distant door. What lay on the other side of
it he did not know, but he felt a sense of satisfaction in having come
equipped with sword and pistols.

He resumed his pacing, though more slowly now, and even when his back was
turned to the door, he moved, as a Spaniard would say, with his beard
upon his shoulder.

That door haunted him!

It was in vain that he tried to divert his mind from it by examining the
objects of art contained in the room: a rectangle of wood, seven feet by
three, proved a greater attraction than oriental alabaster or porphyry
vases. Many minutes had now passed, yet Wilfrid still remained the only
person in the apartment.

Growing impatient at this long delay he went to the door by which he had
entered, and peeped out into the gallery.

He could not see anybody, nor could he hear the sound of coming
footsteps. No sound at all, far or near.

“Truly, they are quiet people in the Michaelhof,” muttered Wilfrid, as he
closed the door again.

The midnight hour and the deadly silence, the mysterious character of
this chamber, with its windows sealed against the light of day, but
above all, the strange door, began to tell upon Wilfrid’s nerves.

Was it fancy merely, or did he catch a glimpse of it in the act of
closing, just as he was withdrawing his gaze from the gallery?

The more he dwelt upon Alexis’ oddity of manner, the stronger became his
suspicion that the door gave access to something strange, something that
was a matter of fear to Alexis.

If the mystery were one to be solved merely by opening the door, then
Wilfrid would solve it; if the door were locked, his curiosity would, of
course, be baffled; even his boldness would hardly proceed to the length
of breaking the lock of a door belonging to the Czar’s palace.

Lifting the lamp, the only one in the apartment, from the table, Wilfrid,
albeit somewhat slowly, went forward, fancying as he did so that he saw
the door vibrate, an illusion due, perhaps, to the oscillating lamp.

Reaching the door he stood there for a time, hesitating, for all his
boldness. He held his ear close to the panels, but failed to detect
either sound or movement; he applied his eye to the keyhole; darkness was
upon the other side.

He drew his sword as a precaution against he knew not what. As it is
somewhat difficult for a man holding an object in each hand to turn the
knob of a door, Wilfrid resolved to place the lamp on the floor in such
a position that its rays would illumine the room beyond as soon as he
should have swung the door open.

As he stooped to lower the lamp, his eye was caught by some dark stains,
varying in shape and size. He raised the lamp again, and looked round
about. The stains were nowhere else, only there, just around the door,
and along one side of the wall at the foot of the arras.

Something had happened there, and it was the knowledge of that event that
had put fear upon the mind of Alexis.

Setting the lamp upon the floor, Wilfrid rose to his full height, and
placing his fingers upon the knob turned it, and at the same time with a
push of his foot he sent the door flying wide.

The next moment a cry of vexation broke from him, as he realised when too
late his want of foresight.

The sudden opening of the door had produced an in-draught of air
sufficiently strong to extinguish the flame of the lamp before he could
catch even the briefest glimpse of the chamber. Being without flint and
steel he was unable to rekindle the flame.

As a precaution against being transfixed by hostile blades Wilfrid, on
opening the door, had recoiled a few steps, and he now stood with his
sword on guard, half-expecting to be attacked, or at the least to be
addressed, by some unseen foe. There was neither movement nor speech;
the chamber was soundless, its darkness seeming to be not the ordinary
darkness of night, but something far blacker, an effect due, Wilfrid
intuitively felt, to the fact that the windows of this place, too, were
walled up.

Now, while he was hesitating whether to go forward a few paces, just to
ascertain whether this supposed chamber might not be a corridor, his
ear was startled by the sound of something coming through the doorway,
something moving low down, a slow, gliding rustle along the floor at the
foot of the wall. Wilfrid did not doubt that some one was stealing into
the chamber with some deadly design against him, else why this secret and
voiceless action?

Wilfrid put no question; he gave no warning.

Swift as the electric flash his sword descended edgewise upon the quarter
whence came the sound, and he had the grim satisfaction of knowing that
he had not struck in vain. His sense of feeling told him that the edge of
the blade had not only cut the tapestry, but had also passed through some
fleshy obstacle, severing it in twain.

But the strangeness of the thing!—the victim had uttered no cry!

A sensation, such as he had never before known, passed over Wilfrid.
For a moment he hesitated; then, impelled almost against his will, he
stooped, not neglecting, however, to keep on guard against a possible
attack, and, feeling with his left hand in the place where his blade
had struck, he grasped something that he immediately relinquished on
realising what it was.

_A human hand!_

And the man thus maimed had endured the pain without a groan! an apathy
so utterly opposed to human nature that Wilfrid recoiled with an eerie
thrill.

And there he stood, staring at the place where he knew the hand to be,
fancying he could see it looking ghastly white through the darkness. If
that, outlined beside it, were really a human shape, and not merely a
figure woven upon the tapestry, there could be but one solution of the
mystery. The victim must be a dumb man, belonging perhaps to the class of
those tongueless eunuchs often to be found in the seraglios of the East,
though seldom, if ever, in the palace of a Czar.

Was he writhing in silent agony?

Wilfrid listened for any sound indicative of human presence. But there
was no movement; there was not even a breath audible in the place where
the handless man should be.

Recovering from his spell of fear, Wilfrid came slowly forward and
passed the point of his sword along the foot of the wainscotting without
lighting upon the owner of the hand. What had become of him? It was
impossible to believe that the man, on receiving the sword-stroke, had
risen to his feet and glided off without a sound. Where, then——?

Once more Wilfrid stooped, and, repressing the natural repugnance
engendered by such a task, he began to search for the severed hand, which
he was not long in finding. His gloved fingers could not tell whether
the hand were warm or cold, but a touch of the mutilated member against
his cheek told him that it was icy-cold. When held to his nostrils, it
emitted a decaying odour, thus proving that some hours, if not some days,
must have elapsed since its severance from the parent limb.

It had been lying near the door at the foot of the wall, hidden, perhaps,
by the fringe of tapestry, and Wilfrid, when aiming the downward stroke
of his imaginary foe, had, by a singular chance, lighted upon this
dead hand, the keen edge of his blade slicing a part of the wrist. The
sound mistaken by him for a stealthy human movement had perhaps been
nothing more than the return of a hungry rat towards a meal that had been
disturbed by the entrance of himself and Alexis.

Resisting the temptation to fling the ghastly relic from him, Wilfrid
laid it upon the table, with the words:—

“This may have been the hand of a brave man.”

He had just closed the door of the supposed inner chamber and restored
the lamp to its place, when his ear caught the sound of footsteps in the
gallery.

“Friends or foes?” he muttered, keeping the table between himself and the
door, and laying his hand upon his sword. His eyes, so long in darkness,
blinked with a sudden radiance, as the door opened.

“In the dark!” said a sweet voice in a tone expressive of reproachful
surprise. “Did you leave Lord Courtenay here without a light?”

“Your Highness, no,” replied Alexis.

The voice of the first speaker sent a thrill to Wilfrid’s heart, for it
was the voice of the lady he was longing to meet.

Graceful in figure, and stately in bearing, she moved forward with
all the dignity of an Imperial princess. In Wilfrid’s eyes she seemed
more beautiful than ever, attired as she was in a clinging robe of the
richest silk, her face and hair framed in a dainty lace wrap. Radiant
and youthful, what did she want in a chamber so grim with suggestions
of tragedy? He was glad to note that at that moment the dead hand lay
in shadow. Beside the Duchess on her right walked Alexis, as faithful
a servitor as his blindness would permit; in the rear, and carrying a
small silver lamp that shed a soft glow around, came a third person, whom
Wilfrid took to be a lady-in-waiting.

“Remain here,” said the Duchess, addressing her two attendants, and
with that she moved forward towards Wilfrid. Her reason for keeping her
attendants in the room was obvious. When a youthful duchess holds an
interview with a man in the dead of night it is well to have a witness
by to prove that such meeting is all that it should be.

The Duchess’s first question was personal, and to the point.

“Lord Courtenay, have you learned yet who I am?”

“Am I wrong in concluding that you are a Grand Duchess?”

She hesitated, an odd smile on her lips.

“I was—once.”

“Once? Yet your attendant has called you Highness!”

“Alexis forgets that——” And then she stopped. “No matter. Call me by that
title. ’Twill do as well as any other.”

A duchess no longer! What did she mean? Had the jealous Alexander
deprived her of the title conferred by Paul? _That_ he could do, but
he could not take away her Imperial descent, nor the regal beauty that
accompanied it. It was clear that, so far as Wilfrid was concerned, she
wished still to remain _incognita_.

“Were you,” said the Duchess—to call her still by that name—“were you
expecting to see me to-night, when you accompanied Alexis?”

“Presumptuous of me, perhaps,” smiled Wilfrid, “but I was not without
hope that the summons _might_ have come from you.”

It was with a certain touch of hauteur in her manner that the Duchess
replied:—

“Learn, then, that it was not _I_ who called you to this
meeting.”—Wilfrid’s hopes fell.—“Not till an hour ago was it told me
that you had been sent for.” Wilfrid’s hopes rose. Her coming to see him
immediately on hearing of his arrival was proof that she took _some_
interest in his fate. “Is it likely,” she continued gravely, and speaking
more as if to herself than to him, “that I should invite you to a meeting
like this, when death would be your lot should you be seen here by my
enemies?”

Her enemies? Wilfrid wished he could have them all in line and fight with
them, one by one, from sunrise to sunset, with due intervals for rest
and refreshment. He’d have left none alive!

“Then, since you did not send for me, will your Highness condescend to
tell me who did?”

“The Empress.”

“Elizavetta?” asked Wilfrid, naming the youthful wife of Alexander.

“No, Paul’s widow. The Dowager Empress, I should have said. She was
desirous of seeing you in person, but circumstances preventing her, I act
as her ambassadress.”

Wilfrid breathed a silent benison on the head of the ex-Czarina for her
choice of ambassadress.

“And what is the will of the Empress with me?”

“To do a work that—but your question will best be answered in that room,”
replied the Duchess, pointing to the door of the mysterious chamber.
“Countess, bring the light.”




CHAPTER XV

HOW PAUL DIED


The lady addressed as countess came forward with the lamp, and the little
party moved towards the ante-chamber—for such it was—Wilfrid himself
opening the door.

The Duchess, as if claiming precedence, was the first to enter, and
Wilfrid noticed that as she passed the threshold she looked downwards,
seemingly careful as to where she stepped.

Wilfrid followed. The Countess and Alexis stood by the door, and as
before, beyond earshot.

The chamber was one that had no exit save the door by which they had
entered. As in the other apartment every window had been walled up. A
plain camp bed in the middle showed that the place had been used as a
sleeping-chamber. The rest of the furniture was of the simplest kind,
quite in keeping with the bed.

“You are treading,” said the Duchess, solemnly, “where, after to-morrow,
the foot of man will never tread again.”

“Then this is——?”

“The death-chamber of the Czar Paul.”

Then did Wilfrid remember that it is a usage in the Russian Court on
the death of a Czar to wall in the windows and to seal the doors of his
private apartments, a process which, if repeatedly carried on, must in
course of time expel the living Czar from the palace of his ancestors.

“To-morrow will be too late,” had been Alexis’ argument for inducing
Wilfrid to accompany him. A true remark, if applied to the seeing of this
chamber, but wherein lay the necessity for his seeing it?

“Yes, Paul died here,” said the Duchess. “But why do I say ‘died?’ That
is not the word. Died! They do well to shut the light from this room! Let
there be perpetual darkness; it will be a fitting symbol of—of the work
done here. If these walls could speak!”

She was silent for a moment, and then turning to Wilfrid with eyes that
spoke of an inward horror, she said,

“Do you know how Paul died?”

“Your words lead me to suspect the official account that he died of
apoplexy?”

“It is false—false!” she cried with a vehemence that surprised Wilfrid.
“Paul was murdered in this very chamber—cruelly and barbarously murdered.
And they that did the deed still live. Live, do I say? They are the
Czar’s ministers, highest in the State, honoured of all men! And Paul’s
physicians are not ashamed to sign lying proclamations that he died of
apoplexy; they are posted all over the city. And editors print the story,
and people believe it—all save a few, and these dare not open their
mouths, for it is a crime against the State to speak the truth. It is
only in Russia that such things can be.”

Overcome by emotion she sank down upon a chair by the bedside. Wilfrid
thought she was going to faint, and made a sign for the Countess to come
forward. Her help, however, was not required.

“Whence did you learn this?” asked Wilfrid.

“From one who, till his dying day, will be haunted by the memory of the
deed—from Prince Ouvaroff.”

“Will not your Highness tell me the story?”

“It is the will of the Empress that you _should_ be told it.”

Wilfrid could not help wondering why Paul’s widow should honour him, of
all persons in the world, with this confidence, seeing that, only two
days before, he had given dire offence to her husband. Doubtless he would
receive an explanation ere long of a circumstance that at present was
altogether inexplicable.

Pausing for a time before she began her narrative, and often pausing
after she _had_ begun, the Duchess proceeded to describe Paul’s death,
one of the grimmest stories in the annals of Czardom.

Two nights before—to tell the tale more connectedly than it was told
by the Duchess—upon the stroke of eleven, twenty cloaked men presented
themselves at one of the gates of the palace. They were the ministers,
relatives, and friends of the Czar, among them being Count Pahlen, the
chief of the conspiracy; General Benningsen, a savage when roused to
anger; and Prince Ouvaroff, a patriot actuated by the best and purest of
motives.

The soldier on guard permitted them to pass, never suspecting that
treason lurked beneath those brilliant uniforms and the decorations that
attested rank and dignity. Once within the palace they silently ascended
to the Emperor’s apartments.

On guard before the bedroom door stood Lieutenant Voronetz. Guessing
their errand, he shouted “Treason!” and, faithful to his trust, he drew
his sabre, though well knowing that resistance meant death.

“We have no quarrel with you,” said Benningsen. “Stand aside from that
door! You will not? Well, then, if you prefer to die——”

A dozen blades were stabbing and slashing at Voronetz; his hand was hewn
off; mutilated and moaning he fell.

The door was fastened on the inside; a violent kick burst it open, and in
rushed the conspirators.

The Czar was not to be seen.

“He cannot have fled far,” said Benningsen. “His bed is still warm. Ah!
Yon screen!”

From behind the screen there stepped a little figure clad only in a
dressing-gown.

The conspirators, about to rush forward, checked themselves. There was
in the figure a certain air of dignity that awed them in spite of their
resolve. However insignificant in person, he was nevertheless the Czar,
descendant of a long line of Czars, only son of the great Catharine,
and nearest in blood to the mighty Peter himself. His picture hung in a
million homes; tyrant though he were, ten million persons would weep if
hurt befell the Little Father; ten million voices would demand vengeance
upon the slayers!

Appalled at the magnitude of their intended deed some of the conspirators
shrank back, and with averted faces stole towards the door.

But the master-spirit of the scene, Benningsen, intercepted them with
drawn sabre.

“No weakness, or I slay you.”

The figure spoke.

“By whose authority do you come here thus?”

“By the authority of the Czar Alexander.”

Paul’s eye flashed.

“Alexander is not Czar.”

“He will be when—you have signed this,” said Benningsen, holding forth a
paper. “’Tis your act of abdication.”

“I will never abdicate!”

“Sign!” said Benningsen, menacing the Czar with his sabre.

Paul defied them. As often as they repeated their demand so often did he
refuse. At last he seemed to yield.

“Give me the paper.”

The document was handed to him. He rent it to fragments and tossed them
at their feet.

The smile of triumph accompanying the act provoked Benningsen to fury;
in a moment of forgetfulness he smote Paul upon the face. Too late he
realised what he had done.

“I have struck the Czar! We are all lost—_if he does not die_!”

The conspirators shuddered; there was now no retreat.

Flinging himself upon the Czar, Benningsen brought him to the floor.
Emboldened by his example the others crowded around. There was a flash of
steel.

“Hold!” cried Benningsen. “No bloodshed. No disfiguring mark on the body.
A sash, some one!”

Paul, not realising till that moment that resistance might end in
death, suddenly lost courage. His words were no longer threatening, but
supplicatory.

“Spare—me—I will—abdicate—!”

He could get out the words in gasps only. Benningsen’s great hand was
pressing upon his windpipe.

“Too late! Will no one lend a hand?” said Benningsen, for the Czar was
making desperate efforts to fling his adversary off. “Must I do the work
alone?”

Several knelt and pinned the struggling Paul to the floor. Benningsen
rose, and directed their movements. A sash was slipped loosely round the
Czar’s throat, but in his deadly agony he succeeded in getting his left
hand through the noose, and drew it across his chin.

“Give me time—for God’s sake—a minute only—to say a prayer!”

His misty glance, wandering around in search of pity, suddenly fell upon
Prince Ouvaroff, who, with a troubled look on his face, had come forward,
bent, even at the cost of his life, on making an attempt to stay the deed.

“Ouvaroff—_my own son!_—among these men!—will you see your
father—murdered?”

The Prince, his mind absolutely frozen with horror at this sudden and
unlooked for revelation—a revelation that he felt to be true—stared with
ghastly look at the Czar. The assassins, in the surprise of the moment,
stopped in their work. Then the Prince, with a wild laugh like that of
a man who has suddenly become insane, swayed feebly forward and fell
senseless.

“I didn’t know we had a woman among us,” laughed Benningsen. “Good Lord!”
he continued, apostrophising the struggling Czar, “did ever man yell so?”

He set the sole of his great boot upon the mouth of the victim; the heel
slipped between the jaws of the Czar, who bit with such fury that the
teeth penetrated the leather and entered the flesh. With a snarl of pain
Benningsen withdrew his foot. Till his dying day he carried on his heel
the mark left by the Czar.

They got the noose around his neck at last, and two men, one on each
side, tugged at the loose ends. The work was hard and long; fully ten
minutes passed before they rose from their knees.

And now that the deed was over their courage fell again, and they stared
at one another in a sort of stupor. There would be a tribunal to face,
namely, the nation, and what would it say to this deed of darkness?

Benningsen still maintained his hardihood, at least outwardly.

“Who’d have thought the little ape had so much life in him?” he sneered,
looking down upon the body. “We have damaged him a little. But some paint
and the doctor’s art will soon make him presentable to the public. You
are all witnesses that he died of apoplexy.”

As they stole from the dimly-lighted chamber leaving Ouvaroff to awaken
beside the body of his murdered Sire, they caught the faint moaning of
the prostrate Voronetz.

“A lad of brave spirit!” commented Benningsen. “’Tis a pity he should
die. We’ll send Dr. Wylie to him to see whether he can be mended. But
he’ll have to hold his peace.”

Making their way to another quarter of the now alarmed palace the
ministers sought the chamber where the two Grand Dukes, Alexander
and Constantine, were confined—under sentence of death, so it was
believed—and setting the two brothers free gave them an account of their
father’s _execution_, seeking to pacify their grief and indignation
by the argument, doubtless a true one, that since Paul would not sign
the abdication, no alternative was left but killing. For let them but
retire from his bed-chamber, and Paul would at once have called upon his
guard to slaughter them; and, having now learned that his two sons were
parties to the conspiracy, he would doubtless have included them in the
slaughter. It was Alexander’s death or Paul’s, and they chose it should
be Paul’s.

“And thus,” said the Duchess, concluding her story, “thus did Paul die.
His body lies in state in St. George’s Hall. A solemn mass is chanted
twice a day—and twice a day the murderers bend in prayer beside the bier!
The mockery of it! Does God sleep that such things can be?”

The Duchess’s narration, correct in the main, as the historian can
testify, set Wilfrid’s nerves a-quivering with a variety of emotions.
Horror was followed by indignation, and indignation by loathing. The deed
itself was black enough in all conscience, but blacker still were the
cowardice, the hypocrisy, the lying employed to conceal it.

“In England,” he remarked, “these assassins would be swinging. In Russia
they are ministers. Truly, Alexander the Amiable merits his name. He _is_
amiable—very—towards his fathers’ murderers!”

The Duchess seemed to resent this disparagement of Alexander.

“Consider his position,” she answered. “Is he to begin his reign by
degrading the men who have put him on the throne? They who slew one Czar
may slay another.”

“And can a man die better than in the attempt to avenge his father’s
murder? If fear of the assassin’s dagger keeps Alexander from doing an
act of justice then have the Russians a Czar, but scarcely a hero.”

“You are bold, sir, in the absence of Alexander.”

“Nay, I would say the same in his presence.”

And the Duchess did not doubt it when she remembered how Wilfrid had
faced the fiery Paul—nay, had half-drawn his sword upon him.

Wilfrid ventured at this point to remind the Duchess of an earlier remark
of hers.

“You said, I think, that the Empress had a work for me to do?”

“True. The Empress, well knowing your character, appeals to you to do
what the boldest in St. Petersburg would shrink from doing, namely, to
make known to the world the truth respecting Paul’s death.”

“I am indeed honoured, but in doing her will I shall be trenching on the
Czar’s ground. It is his duty, not mine.”

“The Czar remains silent from a mistaken sense of honour. Looking upon
Paul’s death as a regrettable accident, Alexander would deem it a breach
of faith on his part were he to denounce those with whom he was equally a
conspirator. He had pledged his written word that the ministers should
retain office. That word he will not break. But he must be made to break
it. And the Empress sees but one way. There is something greater than
even the power of a Czar, and that is, the will of a united people. Why
do the ministers conceal their crime? Because they fear the people. Let
the millions of Russia learn how Paul came by his end, and there will
arise a flood of indignation strong enough to sweep the ministers from
power. But that day will not come till a man be found bold enough to
proclaim the truth.”

“And does the Empress invite _me_ to be the avenger of that Czar who, for
no fault at all, would have had me knouted to death?”

“Yes, for she judges that Lord Courtenay is too noble to refuse an act of
justice to a fallen foe.”

“Humph!” said Wilfrid, immensely flattered; “is Alexander a party to this
scheme?”

“No. It is of the Empress’s own devising.”

“She leaves it to an Englishman to teach her son his duty?”

The Duchess winced.

“How hard you are on Alexander!”

He was, and that because he wished to disillusion her of her idea that
Alexander was a hero. “Women are all alike,” he thought; by “women”
meaning the Duchess and Pauline. “A crown dazzles them. A king can do no
wrong.”

“Has her majesty,” he continued aloud, “any plan for me, or am I left to
follow my own devices?”

“In view of the peril attendant upon the enterprise—for those who slew
a Czar may not hesitate to slay the man who publishes their crime—the
Empress has thought of a plan that can be carried out with secrecy, and
yet with effect. What you did once, the Empress bids you do again.”

The Duchess proceeded to make clear her meaning by words spoken in a
subdued key. The communication, whatever its nature, caused Wilfrid’s
eyes to brighten and his lips to take a smile as of coming triumph. He
accepted the office, not so much because justice required it or the
Empress wished it, as because he saw that success would give pleasure to
the Duchess.

“You understand, now,” continued she, “why the Empress has summoned you
to this death-chamber. It is needful that you should see it with your own
eyes, and to-morrow would have been too late.”

“Not a feature of it has escaped me,” said Wilfrid. And, indeed, he was
confident that if he should live for a century the aspect of the little
bedroom would never fade from his mind.

“Besides the ministers,” she continued, “there are others to be made a
mark for public hatred.”

“Among them being——?”

“Pauline de Vaucluse.”

Wilfrid turned upon her a look of wonder.

“The Baroness was not with the assassins.”

“In spirit she was. She was the very soul of the plot. The conspirators,
aiming as they thought for a better Government, were in reality dupes,
ministering to her selfish and wicked ends.”

Wilfrid frowned. Selfish and wicked? He did not like to hear such terms
in connection with Pauline, whose character he thought he understood much
better than did the Duchess.

“I fail to see what she has personally gained by Paul’s death.”

“Her reward, so she hopes, is yet to come.”

The Duchess, as she spoke, compressed her lips with an air which plainly
said that the reward, whatever it might be, would not come if _she_ could
prevent it.

“I greatly fear,” said Wilfrid, taking a decisive stand, “that even
were I persuaded that Pauline de Vaucluse was the wickedest of all the
conspirators, I could not treat her in the way you suggest.”

“Why, you must love her!”

Her tone implied pitying scorn for any one who could be captivated by a
Pauline de Vaucluse.

“My sentiment toward the Baroness is not love, but friendship. Caring
nothing for Paul’s anger she rescued me from the hands of his soldiers.
Shall I then requite her good deed by holding her up to the people’s
hate? No, I cannot do that, your Highness.”

“She ran no risk. It suited her to play the heroine, knowing that Paul
was to die that same night. But I speak to deaf ears, I see.” And then
abruptly changing the subject, she added:—

“Lord Courtenay, the Empress bids you ask a reward for your coming
service.”

It somewhat piqued Wilfrid to think that the Empress should hold him as
one incapable of doing a just and generous deed without hope of payment.
She was forgetting that he was an Englishman, and a Courtenay.

“Ah, yes! my reward,” he murmured, wondering what answer to make. Then,
all in a moment, a romantic and daring idea suggested itself.

“The reward I claim—nay, insist upon—is one that the Empress cannot give.
It must come from you.”

“From _me_?” she said, in a tone that somehow thrilled Wilfrid to the
heart.

“It is that if I succeed in deposing the Ministry, you will give me——”

“What?” as he hesitated.

“A kiss.”

Strange that it cost Wilfrid a greater effort to say these two little
words than it did to face the fiery Paul.

But the Duchess!

First she drew a sharp breath; then she started back, in her eyes a look
of anger so deep that it made Wilfrid almost regret his bold request.

“Do you think because Catharine has reigned that there is no modesty left
in Russia?”

“How can I think that, your Highness, when I look upon you?”

“Ask, instead, for fifty thousand roubles; you shall have them.”

“I prefer something more precious.”

“You—prefer—a—kiss—to—fifty—thousand—roubles!” she said, pausing in
surprise between each word.

“If the kiss come from you.”

“It shall never come,” she said breathlessly.

“Your highness, ’tis yours to refuse; ’tis mine also.”

“You mean that you will decline the Empress’s wish.”

Wilfrid’s grim smile implied that he would; and at this the Duchess’s
face assumed a look of dismay, for she knew Wilfrid to be the only man
qualified for the task required of him.

“Why do you ask this—this silly thing?” she faltered.

“That I may return home with the knowledge that I have kissed the fairest
lady in Russia.”

There was silence for a brief interval, during which the Duchess seemed
to become reconciled to the enormity of being kissed.

“And nothing but a kiss will content you?”

“I will add a second condition; you must at the same time tell me your
name, your rank, your history, and how it happened that I could save your
life, as you say I did, and yet retain no remembrance of the event.”

“To gain my ends I must consent to your humour. Thus then do I pledge my
word. Rid the Czar of his wicked Ministry, and”—her eyes drooped, and a
beautiful colour stole over her cheek—“and ... you ... shall ... take ...
a ... kiss ... from ... me.”

“Pardon me. There must be no taking on my part. The kiss must be freely
given by you.”

“You are a hard taskmaster,” she smiled. “Well, it shall be as you wish.”




CHAPTER XVI

THE FALL OF THE REGICIDES


It was a usage of the Russian Ministry, in 1801 at least, for each member
to present himself at the Winter Palace once a week on a stated day for
the purpose of reporting on the affairs of his office.

Count Pahlen’s hour for meeting the Czar coincided with that of General
Benningsen, and hence, on the forenoon of a certain day in early summer,
seated in a three-horse car, they were making their way towards St.
Petersburg after a night spent at Strelna.

Upon entering the suburbs the two ministers were immediately struck by
the unusual number of people abroad. Like other cities St. Petersburg
has its artisan class that rises early and works till late. On this
particular morning, however, the toilers had apparently taken leave of
work, and were standing in knots about the streets and squares.

As the day was not marked in the calendar as a feast, some affair of
great moment must have caused them to suspend their labours. They looked,
by their grave air and subdued voices, as men look when hearing of the
death of a king.

As the Petersburgers caught sight of the carriage, their whisperings
ceased, and they eyed the ministers with an air that sent misgiving to
the heart of the timid Pahlen; for, if ever hatred was seen in the eyes
of men, it was seen in the eyes of the Petersburgers that morning.

On the previous day their appearance in public had elicited cheers and
other tokens of good-will. Now all was changed; in one night they seemed
to have toppled from the height of their popularity.

Interpreting this in his own way, Pahlen concluded that in his absence
some ill news must have reached the city; that devil of a Nelson—he was
known to be in the Baltic—had perhaps been bombarding Revel.

When Pahlen turned into the Nevski Prospekt, he met with a fresh shock.
As high minister of the Czar, he might surely look for recognition and
respect from the fashionable and wealthy crowd, whose daily habit it was
to drive to and fro along that grand thoroughfare. But no!

A boyar of princely rank, seated in a splendid equipage, drew near.
He was well known to Pahlen, who waved his hand in greeting. Looking
straight before him, the boyar drove past, altogether ignoring the
presence of the chancellor and the general.

This disdainful indifference towards men with whom lay the power of
banishment to Siberia, kindled the anger of the two ministers, anger that
increased as they continued their way.

They smiled at this fair lady; they saluted that grandee, but met with no
recognition whatever. It was clear that the _élite_ of St. Petersburg had
made up its mind to ignore them. Why?

Fallen ministers have no friends—in Russia. Was it possible that the Czar
had made up his mind to dismiss them, and that his determination had
somehow become known to the people?

Glancing ahead Benningsen saw coming along the Prospekt a mounted colonel
of his own regiment.

“Muscovitz,” muttered he, fingering his sabre. “Let the fellow fail to
salute, and I’ll run him through.”

However, Colonel Muscovitz in passing brought a hand up to his helmet,
though in a somewhat perfunctory manner.

“Halt!” yelled Benningsen; and the colonel, with a somewhat queer look,
reined in his steed.

“Are we still ministers of the Czar?”

“I have heard of nothing to the contrary, General.”

“Then will you tell me what has happened during the past twenty-four
hours to cause everybody in St. Petersburg to look as black as the
devil?”

“Pardon, General; I carry a message from the Czar, and may not tarry in
his service. The answer to your question is to be seen at the Orphan
Asylum.”

So saying, Muscovitz saluted with the same indifferent air as before and
rode off quickly, much as if it were a disgrace to be seen talking with
the two ministers.

The Orphan Asylum? The two looked inquiringly at each other. The edifice
in question was a foundation of the ex-Empress Mary, and the ex-Empress
Mary, as both well knew, had good reason for hating the existing Ministry.

“Now, what devilry has that old bedlam been up to?” said Benningsen.
“Drive to the Orphan Asylum,” he cried, turning to the coachman.

“Better not,” murmured Pahlen. “A crowd may be there, and I like not the
people’s looks this morning. They would do us mischief if they dared.
Besides, the Czar awaits us.”

But Benningsen scoffed at the other’s fears, and swore he would go there
though the place should contain ten thousand devils.

Arrived within sight of the building, they found the space fronting it
filled with a vast throng, drawn mainly from the lower orders, a throng
jostling, excited, garrulous. Women and children were there, as well
as men, all animated apparently with the one object of pushing their
way to the fore, in order to obtain a glimpse of something exposed to
view behind the railings that guarded the façade of the Orphan Asylum.
Everybody in the crowd was talking at once, making it impossible for the
ministers to gather anything intelligible. The hubbub was loudest in
front where those in full enjoyment of the view clung to the railings,
refusing to give place to their fellows in the rear.

“A nice disorderly mob!” growled Benningsen, standing up in the carriage
and surveying the crowd as it swayed to and fro like waves of the sea.
“Where is the Governor of the city or the Chief of the Police? Asleep?”

“If the object behind those railings be to our hurt, Baranoff and his
brother will not be over-eager to disperse the throng.”

Pahlen’s suspicion was well founded. The Governor of the city and the
Chief of the Police, having a fore-knowledge of what was to take place,
had arranged that the people were not to be interfered with.

At this point a man on the outskirts of the crowd suddenly caught sight
of the two ministers.

“See, see!—Pahlen and Benningsen,” he cried excitedly, extending his
forefinger towards them.

Those beside the speaker turned, and, observing at whom he pointed, took
up the cry—

“Pahlen and Benningsen!”

There was a wild rush of feet over the pavement, and before the terrified
driver could set his steeds in motion the carriage was surrounded by
a crowd of fierce-eyed men. Pahlen, his cheeks blanched, shrank back.
Benningsen, familiar with the rush of bayonets on the battle-field, lost
nothing of his presence of mind.

Whipping out a brace of pistols, he pointed them, the one to the right,
the other to the left.

“I’ll make a dead man of the first that comes within a yard of the car.”

Those advancing with a fell purpose instantly stopped short, and strove
to stem the pressure in their rear. They knew that, happen to him what
might, Benningsen would keep his word. Had he not cut down a soldier in
the very teeth of a hostile regiment?

Benningsen took advantage of the momentary lull to single out with his
eye a young man whose dress showed him to be a student of the university,
a youth distinguished likewise from the rest of the crowd by his bold,
not to say defiant, bearing.

“Hearken, sirrah, your name?”

“Nikon, son of Andreas.”

“Well, Nikon son of Andreas, you seem a more sensible sort of fellow than
those around you. Just tell us in a few words to what all this excitement
is due?”

“To the picture.”

“What picture?”

“The picture placed at dawn before the Orphan Asylum by command of
the Empress Mary. Does that picture tell the truth?” he added with a
threatening look.

“How the devil should I know when I haven’t seen it.”

“Come and see it then,” said the student.

This was deemed a good idea by the crowd, who seemed to have taken fresh
courage from the student’s bold attitude.

“Yes, yes!” they cried. “Bring them face to face with it. Show them their
wickedness.”

The student gave the ministers no alternative. Forgetting or ignoring
Benningsen’s threat to shoot, he took hold of the horses by the bridle,
turned their heads in the direction of the asylum, and motioned the
bystanders aside with his hand, crying, “Way there for Pahlen and
Benningsen.”

The voice and gesture of the student caused the crowd to open a path, and
thus the ministers passed slowly through a lane of people, who received
them with a running fire of threats.

“Down with the regicides!”

“Death to the murderers of the Czar!”

“The liars who told us that Paul died of apoplexy!”

“Pull Benningsen from the car!”

“Stamp on his mouth, as he stamped on Paul’s!”

And but for the dissuasive words of the student the crowd would have made
good their threats.

The student, having arrived at the railings that guarded the front of the
Orphan Asylum, halted and cried—

“Behold your work!”

Pahlen gave a strange gasp. Benningsen looked on with an air of scornful
indifference.

If the Ministry had hoped their crime would never be revealed to the
public, that hope was now gone. For there, exposed to view behind the
railings, was an expanse of canvas, twenty feet by ten, painted with a
tableau, vivid and grim in its realism. It represented the interior of
a dimly-lit bed-chamber with furnishings of the simplest. Within this
chamber were human figures, drawn to life-size, their faces limned with
a fidelity that made them instantly recognisable. Benningsen, gazing,
saw himself standing with the heel of his boot planted upon the mouth of
a struggling figure held down by four grim-faced men, two of whom were
drawing the fatal noose around the throat of their victim.

The artist had dealt fairly with Prince Ouvaroff, who was making an
attempt to stay the deed. Count Pahlen, more scrupulous, or more craven,
than his agents, was represented as standing outside the chamber
listening at the partly-opened door, at his feet the wounded body of the
faithful Voronetz.

The helplessness of the victim, and the brutal strength of the assassins,
formed a contrast that would have moved the least emotional to a sense of
horror, pity, and indignation; and, as if to drive home the moral of the
picture, there was written at its foot, in Russian, what were erroneously
supposed by the crowd to be Paul’s last words, words well adapted to
quicken the blood of the coldest Muscovite—

                   “I LOOK TO MY PEOPLE TO AVENGE ME!”

Whatever weakening of the sentiment may take place in the twentieth
century, certain it is that in the early part of the nineteenth the
feeling towards the Czar was a sort of religion with the Muscovites of
the lower classes. Rule he never so ill, still a Czar _was_ a Czar and
his murder the greatest of crimes. So at least the crowd seemed to think,
if their looks and words meant anything.

“This is true,” said the student, pointing to the picture, “for the good
Empress would never put forth a lie. Ye are murderers! And what saith
Holy Writ of such? ‘Whoso sheddeth man’s blood, by man shall his blood be
shed.’”

“It seems, then, that this is a court of justice,” said Benningsen.

He could afford to sneer, for he saw at that moment what the other
apparently did not see.

“It is an assembly of the people, who adjudge you both to be worthy of
death. You shall be hanged from these railings.”

“Lying prophet!” said Benningsen with a sardonic grin. “Look there!”

“The soldiers! the soldiers!” was the cry that suddenly rose from all
sides.

And the student, looking in the direction indicated by Benningsen, saw
glinting over the heads of the people the plumed helmets of a posse of
cavalry, who, laying about them with the flat of their sabres, were
endeavouring to open a way to the spot where the ministers were.

There was a moment of irresolution on the part of the crowd, and then,
with a howl, they rushed at the carriage.

Well was it for Benningsen that disguised police existed, otherwise he
would have made a tragic ending then and there.

It so happened, however, that a number of these secret agents of the
Government had been slowly edging their way to the front, with the result
that the crowd suddenly found the carriage girt by a ring of men, armed
with batons and pistols, who, in the quickness of their appearing, seemed
to have sprung from the ground. Their resolute attitude cowed the mob as
if by magic, and as the trampling of horse-hoofs and the waving of sabres
were now close at hand, to be far from the ministers and not near them,
now became the object of the crowd.

Benningsen made no attempt at taking reprisals. At a word from him the
cavalry closed in order round the carriage, and, escorted thus, the two
ministers made their way to the Winter Palace.

Here, in the ante-chamber where it was their custom to await the pleasure
of the Emperor, they found the rest of the ministers assembled, Count
Baranoff alone excepted, a very significant exception. They had all
received a special summons to attend the Imperial presence, and were
looking somewhat downcast, an aspect due to the belief that the coming
interview would end in their dismissal.

From the vast crowd that had gathered in front of the palace there came
with regular iteration, the cry of “Down with the Ministry!”—a cry
plainly heard by those within the ante-chamber.

“Alexander will throw us to the wolves to save himself,” said Plato
Zuboff, an old lover of Catharine’s, and one of the two actual assassins
that had drawn the fatal sash around the throat of her son Paul.

“Think you that he will listen to the cry of the _canaille_?” said
Pahlen. “That were to show himself a weakling—to set a premium upon
future disorder.”

“But the intellectuals, too, are clamouring for our downfall,” answered
Zuboff. “What! have you not seen to-day’s issue of the _Journal de
Petersbourg_? Read that.”

And producing a copy of the newspaper he directed Pahlen’s attention to a
column containing an article to the effect that the continuance in office
of the regicidal ministry was a public scandal, certain to alienate
the sympathies of the European chancelleries. In any other country
but Russia, concluded the writer, with a boldness rarely found in the
Muscovite press, the ministers would now be on their trial for murder.

“What was the censor doing,” frowned Pahlen, “to let language like this
go forth to the world?”

“Doing! The will of the Empress Mary,” replied Zuboff, in a lower tone,
glancing, as he spoke, at the door of the presence chamber, where, as he
knew, the ex-Czarina was sitting in conference with her son Alexander.
“Her one aim is to send us to the gibbet. Since Paul’s death she has
never ceased intriguing against us. The picture is her latest weapon.
Before daybreak this morning her hirelings were traversing the city with
the cry, ‘Go, see the picture at the Orphan Asylum.’ And when the Black
People had seen, and were cursing us, then her agents raised the further
cry, ‘To the Winter Palace, and shout for the downfall of the Ministry.’
You hear them singing her tune.”

“And when you remember,” chimed in another minister, “who the Governor of
the city is, and who is the Chief of the Police, you can understand why
the people have been allowed to march at will through the streets.”

“Then the hand of Baranoff is in all this,” said Pahlen, biting his nails.

“Without doubt,” returned the other. “The picture-idea emanated from him,
and was eagerly adopted by the Empress. We should have made him a partner
in the abdication-plot. We thought to exclude him from the Ministry; it
is he who is excluding us. To-day Baranoff triumphs all along the line.
We go; he remains.”

As the speaker ended, the chamberlain appeared to summon them to the
Czar’s presence.

Entering the chamber the ministers stood in a respectful semi-circle at
a little distance from Alexander, who was seated at a table. Beside him
was his mother, the ex-Empress Mary, whose presence was a new feature
at ministerial meetings. She scarcely deserved the disrespectful term
“beldam,” applied to her by Benningsen, for she had not yet reached her
forty-second year, and still retained much of the magnificent beauty of
her youthful days.

Alexander’s face wore a troubled look; it was evident that he and his
mother had been divided upon some question, and her barely suppressed
smile of triumph showed in whose favour the dispute had ended.

For a few moments the Emperor did not speak. His head was turned to a
large window that commanded a view of the vast crowd outside, whose
voices had all joined in singing the national anthem.

The Czar’s eyes kindled as he listened. His people were with him—whom,
then, should he fear?

“’Tis a loyal crowd,” said the Empress-mother.

“Loyalty to the Czar,” broke in Pahlen, “should also include loyalty to
the ministers appointed by him. I make request, Sire, that a certain
picture be withdrawn from the front of the Orphan Asylum.”

“For what reason?” said the Empress. “Does it not tell the truth?”

“It has made us ministers odious in the eyes of the people. They have
attempted our life.”

“Terrible!” said the Empress. “One may kill a Czar, but when it comes to
killing a minister——”

She paused, as if unable to express in words the enormity of such a deed.

“But,” continued she, “this is a matter over which the Czar hath no
jurisdiction. The Orphan Asylum is my own private property, and if I
choose to decorate its exterior with a historic picture, who shall say me
nay?”

“My mother speaks truly,” said Alexander. “If you would have the picture
withdrawn, it is to her you must address your persuasions.”

“You will choose, Sire,” said Pahlen, “between the removal of the picture
or the resignation of your chancellor.”

The Empress laughed contemptuously.

“Chancellors are cheap enough!”

The singing of the national anthem, having now come to an end, was
superseded by various cries, the most frequent being, “Down with the
Ministry!”

“The voice of the people is the voice of God,” said the Empress. “Go
forth! Show yourself! Give them the answer they desire. Tell them that
Czar and justice are the same word.”

Her authority over the Emperor was great, and she seemed pleased that the
ministers should see it.

He rose, walked to a window and, opening it, stepped out upon the
balcony. No sooner was he seen than the air rang with cries of greeting.

The lifting of the Czar’s hand was like the lifting of a magic wand. An
instant hush fell upon the crowd.

“Good-day, my children.”

Like a roar of thunder came the answer—

“Good-day, Little Father!”

“What is your will with me?”

Almost before the words had left the Czar’s lips a man, evidently
desirous of shaping the people’s answer, cried—

“Justice on the regicides!”

The cry was immediately taken up; it rolled from mouth to mouth through
the length and breadth of the crowd, and was repeated again and again—

“Justice on the regicides!”

Then, as if surprised by their own boldness, the crowd became quiet
again, waiting for the Czar’s answer. Would he grant the request thus
irregularly made?

Alexander hesitated for a moment, as if reflecting, and then replied:—

“Depart quietly to your homes. The Czar will do justice.”

With simple and touching faith the crowd accepted this assurance of the
Imperial tribune.

“The Little Father will punish the murderers! Hourra! Hourra! Now let us
go. He will not let his word fall to the ground.”

Alexander, believing that his own withdrawal would accelerate the
departure of the crowd, turned and entered the council-chamber.

He seemed to have derived fresh courage from this brief interview with
his people. His air of restraint had vanished; he spoke with authority
and dignity.

“_Messieurs les Ministres_, it must ever be the aim of a ruler to hold
by the good-will of his subjects. You see for yourselves that I shall
forfeit that good-will by retaining you in office. It behoves me,
therefore, for the sake of public peace, to dispense with your services.
Perhaps,” he continued, as if desirous of softening the humiliation of
this dismissal, “perhaps, at some future day—it may be—that——”

Here he paused, not willing to make a rash promise.

“In thus dismissing us,” said Pahlen, “you break your written pledge.”

“Not so. My pledge to retain you in office was made dependent upon my
father’s deposition. But you took from him not his crown only, but his
life. As you have broken faith with me, I count it no wrong to break
faith with you. Gentlemen, you will retire from the city to your country
seats.”

“No greater punishment than _that_?” said the Empress.

“And there await my further pleasure,” Alexander added.

The discomfited ministers withdrew.

“The slave of his mother,” sneered Benningsen. “Our power is over.
Dismissal to-day; to-morrow Siberia, if that old hag has her way.”

The ministers gone, Alexander turned a gratified face upon the Empress.

“Mother, you have done well,” he said, stooping to kiss her. “Thanks to a
picture I enjoy a sense of freedom unknown before. Who is the artist that
has done us such good service?”

“The Englishman, Lord Courtenay.”

The Czar’s face fell. His new-found pleasure vanished as he heard that
name.[1]

[1] It may interest those readers, unversed in Russian history, to know
that the murder of Paul took place in a manner differing little from
that described in Chap. XV., and that the fact, concealed at first from
the public, was made known by means of a picture painted by the command
of the Empress Mary. The downfall of the Pahlen Ministry immediately
followed.




CHAPTER XVII

A VOW TO SLAY!


On the day following the dismissal of the Pahlen Ministry Wilfrid
received a visit at his hotel from Pauline; a welcome visit, for he was
not so foolishly enamoured of the Grand Duchess as to be altogether
insensible to the charms of other fair ladies, and Pauline with her
bright smile looked very charming indeed at that moment.

“I have been on a two days’ visit to Peterhof,” said she, “and returned
only this morning to find all the city talking about you and your
pictorial feat. I offer you my congratulations. You are a maker of
history,” she continued admiringly. “_Ma foi!_ if some of the ladies
of St. Petersburg could only see me now! How they would envy me my
friendship with _le brav’ Anglais_!”

Wilfrid’s mind turned to the one lady. Would _she_ feel envy, he
wondered, could she have seen Pauline at this moment in confidential chat
with him?

“Now, at last,” continued Pauline, “I have learned why for three months
you have lived an unsocial life, working mysteriously in an attic at the
top of the hotel, any why, whenever I have called, you have looked cross
at my coming, and glad of my going; and——”

“I assure you, Baroness,” began Wilfrid, laughing, “that——”

“Hush!” said Pauline, raising her forefinger playfully. “Don’t say it
wasn’t so. I am not blaming you. You were engaged on a noble work.”

Naturally Pauline was all curiosity to know whence he had learned the
true account of Paul’s death. Wilfrid enlightened her; but, desirous
of keeping his love-story a secret, he referred to the Empress’s
intermediary as “a lady whose name I do not know, because she declined
to give it”—herein stating nothing but what was true.

“The Empress Mary,” he explained, “was very desirous that I should repeat
the feat done by me at Paris. There, though my paint-brush failed in
upsetting a government, it might succeed here in upsetting a ministry;
and, you see, it has done so.”

“But how came you to hit off the likenesses so well, for I am told the
faces are perfect portraits?”

“That’s easily explained. You know that for the space of a fortnight
Paul’s body lay in state in St. George’s Hall. Twice a day the Court
and the ministers heard mass beside the bier. By favour of the Empress
I was provided with a coign of vantage where, unobserved, I could take
surreptitious sketches of the ministers, to be reproduced on canvas. When
the picture was finished, I placed, by preconcerted arrangement, a blue
lamp in my attic window, and that same night the picture was fetched
away by two men. Now you know the whole story,” he said in conclusion.
“My patroness, the Empress, I have never seen; and, as for her fair
intermediary, I have seen her but once only, namely on that strange night
in the Michaelhof.”

“But,” objected Pauline, “if you attended the masses held in St. George’s
Hall, you must have seen the Empress Mary every day.”

“Doubtless, and the young Czarina as well, and the Imperial Duchesses.
But I don’t call it seeing a woman when her face is covered with a
mourning veil.”

In truth, Wilfrid, from his secret place of espial, had breathed anything
but a blessing upon the heavy veils worn by the Court ladies on the
occasion in question, since the wearing of them prevented him from
identifying the mysterious Duchess who, he doubted not, formed one of the
group.

“And Ouvaroff, you say, is Paul’s son?” remarked Pauline. “A natural
son, of course? It was long suspected—the likeness between the two was
so remarkable—but Ouvaroff himself appears to have been almost the last
to learn it, and that at a dreadful moment. Poor Ouvaroff! No wonder he
looked so ghastly and wild next morning! Do you know he has not been
seen since that day?”

“A pity that, for there was a matter I would fain discuss with him,” said
Wilfrid, thinking of the night at the Silver Birch.

“No one knows where he is. Some say that in penitence he has turned
monk.” And then, coming back to the subject of the picture again, she
continued, “And you didn’t fear to set your name to the picture?”

“Fear! Do you take me for Alexander?”

Pauline thought it prudent to ignore this reflection upon her hero. She
could not help inwardly acknowledging that while Alexander had walked in
darkness, assenting to a course of deceit in the matter of his father’s
death, Wilfrid, though well aware that grim fortresses and Siberian mines
awaited those who should give umbrage to ministers, had not shrunk from
proclaiming the truth in the light of day.

“Three months’ toil!” she said, her eyes round with wonder. “Did you do
all this without hope of reward? from a mere abstract love of justice?”

“No—o! not exactly. I am to receive a sort of—of _douceur_,” said
Wilfrid. “Very much _douce_,” he added, with a smile. “It’s nature?
Your pardon, Baroness. You shall know, but not yet. After it has been
received.”

Pauline thought Wilfrid was becoming very mysterious all at once. It was
hard for her to put a curb upon her curiosity. After a short pause she
murmured with a glad light in her eyes:—

“Well, thanks to you, Benningsen and Pahlen have had to go.”

“True,” grumbled Wilfrid, “but it’s rather mortifying to find that one
result of my work is to confirm in office the very man whose confusion
both you and I desire to see. Count Baranoff, having had no part in
Paul’s murder, is not included in the list of disgraced ministers, and
still retains his post.”

“But not for long,” replied Pauline. “His power is on the wane. His
counsels are already being ignored by the Czar.”

“In what way?”

“As regards the war with England. What! you do not know? Ah! I am
forgetting. The story is not in the newspapers, since our editors must
publish only what is pleasing. Of course, living at an Embassy, I often
learn matters unknown to the outside public. Well, here’s a secret for
you. Our Russian admiral, knowing himself to be no match for the hero of
the Nile, has declined an engagement, and is coming fast to Cronstadt.
’Tis the old story; leaky ships, cracked cannon, and an unpaid crew,
sullen to the verge of mutiny. The result of this flight is to place all
the towns on the Finland Gulf at the mercy of the English guns. Nay, the
very gate of the city, Cronstadt itself, is liable to bombardment. Hence,
let Baranoff protest as he may, the Czar is bent on making peace. So
magnificently sure were your Government that victory would crown their
arms, that along with their fleet they sent an envoy with plenipotentiary
power to arrange the terms of a treaty. That envoy will arrive at St.
Petersburg in the course of a few days. Should peace be established, and
there is little doubt that it will be, the envoy remains here in the
character of British Ambassador.”

“Who is this envoy?”

“Lord St. Helens. What! you know him?” asked Pauline, observing Wilfrid’s
peculiar smile.

“My uncle.”

“Your uncle?” she repeated, incredulously.

“My mother’s brother. Baroness, you are indeed the bearer of good news.”

The uncle in question was one who held, among other views, that the only
business worthy of an English peer is the study of diplomacy; and hence
he had often growled at his nephew’s taste for painting and swordsmanship.

It would be pleasant now to show the old gentleman that his nephew’s
swordsmanship had defeated the policy of Baranoff at Berlin, while a
painting had largely contributed to the downfall of a Russian Ministry.
And both these events within the space of six months! Could the most
accomplished diplomatist have done more in the time?

“With the coming peace,” said Pauline, “the first half of my work is
accomplished: Czar and Consul fight side by side no more. I call it my
work, because it _is_ mine. If you have wrecked the Czar’s Ministry,
I have had the chief hand in shaping his war-policy. How? Ah! that is
my secret,” she continued, with a peculiar smile. “The second and more
difficult part of my task now remains—namely, to set the Czar in arms
against Napoleon.”

Wilfrid longed to give her a severe lecture, but refrained, convinced
of its uselessness. It was clear from her words that she was still
pursuing her course of working in secret against her father’s policy, an
undaughterly action on her part, and one with which Wilfrid could not
sympathise.

“But a truce to politics!” exclaimed Pauline. “Have you received your
ticket yet from Prince Sumaroff?”

“I have yet to learn who that grandee is.”

“Here’s ignorance, forsooth, from a three months’ resident in St.
Petersburg! Why, Prince Sumaroff’s palace and gardens by the Nevka are
one of the sights of St. Petersburg. A fortnight from to-day he gives a
fancy dress ball, to which you are certain to be invited, by reason of
your rank.”

“How so?”

“The Prince’s aim is to gather to the ball every titled personage in St.
Petersburg, whether native or foreign, ranking from baron upwards. ‘I am
perhaps prejudiced,’ he is credited with saying, ‘but for me, mankind
begins with the rank of baron.’ So, you see, the ball is to consist of
the _crême de la crême_ of Society. To add to its splendour, Alexander
himself and the young Czarina have consented to be present.”

“And the Court ladies?”

Pauline replied in the affirmative, wondering at the quickness with which
Wilfrid put the question. Then divining the cause, she added with a smile—

“So, possibly, you may meet your fair _incognita_ there.”

This was the hope that had just entered Wilfrid’s mind. Since the Duchess
was one of the Court ladies, what more likely than that she would be
present at this fête in company with the Czarina? What woman, especially
a Russian woman, can resist the attraction of a dance? Now that the
Pahlen Ministry had fallen, it would be a matter of honour with her to
redeem her word by bestowing upon him the promised kiss; and since every
guest must be masked, such disguise would enable him to approach the
Duchess without attracting attention or creating suspicion.

To this fête, then, it behoved him to go, and next day he received a
ticket of invitation.

At nightfall there came something still more agreeable, in the shape of a
visit from the blind Alexis Voronetz, who brought with him a pretty blue
scarf embroidered with silver.

“Wear this at the masquerade.”

And without any more words he withdrew, ignoring Wilfrid’s request for
an explanation, though, in truth, one was scarcely required. From whom
did this favour come, if not from the Duchess? It was a proof that she
intended to be present at the approaching fête, and was desirous of
fixing some token upon Wilfrid to enable her to distinguish him from
among the crowd of masked dancers.

Thirteen days yet before he would meet her! How was he to live through
them all?

The first four, measured by Wilfrid’s feelings, seemed more like four
months: on the fifth, however, came a welcome diversion in the arrival of
Lord St. Helens, the British plenipotentiary, sent to consider the peace
proposals of the Czar.

There was assigned to him and his suite a stately mansion on the Nevski
Prospekt, at the point where it is crossed by the Fontanka Canal.

Wilfrid lost no time in calling upon the old gentleman, who was delighted
to see his nephew, and proud likewise of his late achievements in the
political arena.

“Ah! my boy,” said he, “since you can do great things in an unofficial
capacity, what would you do as a diplomatist?”

“Much less,” replied Wilfrid drily.

Lord St. Helens had frequent interviews with Count Panine, the new
chancellor of the Empire, and from each interview he returned more
hopeful. He condescended now and again to favour Wilfrid, under the seal
of secrecy, with the course taken by the negotiations.

“Peace is agreed to,” he remarked, upon the seventh day after his
arrival. “Nelson will be disappointed at having to take his ships home
again. The Russians think so much of Cronstadt that naturally our admiral
is burning to show that their much-vaunted fortress is not impregnable.
Its capture would be the crowning-piece of his life.”

But a man in love has no sense of historic perspective. Living in a
pleasant day-dream Wilfrid paid little attention to his uncle’s political
remarks. A single golden hair from the head of the Duchess had more
interest for him than the departure of the British fleet from Revel. It
was often in his mind to tell his uncle the story of the Duchess, but
yet somehow he forbore. Supposing, in spite of the diplomatic caution
upon which he prided himself, Lord St. Helens should, through some
inadvertence, let fall a remark concerning her in the presence of any of
the Czar’s ministers, she might receive from Court circles a supervision
not at all agreeable to her. Her going to the masquerade, for example,
might be stopped.

“Two days more,” he thought, “and from her own lips I shall hear her name
and story. I shall know then whether the case warrants the taking of my
uncle into confidence.”

On the morning of the day fixed for the masquerade Wilfrid, calling upon
his uncle, found the latter looking so grave that he thought at first the
peace-proposals must have fallen through. He soon found that the envoy’s
gravity was due to a very different cause.

“Is your swordsmanship as good as ever?”

“I shall be happy to meet the man that questions it,” replied Wilfrid.

“You are likely to do so. Have you seen Prince Ouvaroff since you came to
St. Petersburg?”

“Once, and that for a moment only, on the morning of Alexander’s
accession. The Prince has not been seen since that day. Taken to a
monastic life, some say.”

“Nothing of the sort. He has been living quietly at his country seat in
company with two or three of the best fencing-masters in Europe. During
the past three months he has spent the greater part of every day in
nothing but sword-practice. Yesterday he returned to St. Petersburg.”

“With what object?”

“To kill you.”

Wilfrid’s smile implied that the Prince was welcome to try.

“He evidently imagines he has some grievance against you. I don’t ask for
confidences, but I suppose some woman is the cause of it all?”

“It’s probable. He thinks that—but no matter what he thinks,” muttered
Wilfrid, with a dark frown, as he recalled the night at the Silver
Birch. If Ouvaroff could believe _that_ of the Duchess, there would be a
pleasure in slaying him.

“Well,” continued Lord St. Helens, “Ouvaroff now considers himself
sufficiently skilled in his art, and it’s his intention to be present at
this masquerade with the object of forcing a quarrel upon you.”

“You seem pretty well versed in his movements.”

“I have learned all this from a friendly minister, whose name I am not
at liberty to disclose. He was not aware that you are my nephew, and
referred to you as that eccentric Englishman, Lord Courtenay. He seems to
have a kindly feeling towards you, for he suggested to me that to avoid a
possible scandal, it might be as well if I were to exert my influence in
persuading you to leave St. Petersburg secretly.”

“’Twas very kind of him! And your answer?”

“Can you not guess it?—‘Our house does not breed cowards, Monsieur le
Comte. It is not our fashion to run away from any man. My nephew has no
quarrel with Ouvaroff, but if Ouvaroff be bent upon forcing a quarrel
with him, he’ll find he has the devil to deal with.’”

“Precisely my sentiments,” commented Wilfrid.




CHAPTER XVIII

THE MASQUERADE


The night, long-looked for, had come, and Wilfrid, throwing a cloak over
his fancy costume, was driven off in a covered carriage to the French
Embassy, in fulfilment of a promise to escort Pauline to the masquerade.

While waiting for her in the entrance hall he was somewhat struck by
the oddity of the situation that he, the nephew of Great Britain’s
representative, should be awaiting the daughter of one who stood for
a power hostile to Great Britain, a thought quickly cut short by the
entering of Pauline, fresh from the hands of her maid.

Naturally the first thing each did was to look at the dress of the other.

Pauline showed over Wilfrid’s costume the simple delight of a schoolgirl.
And in truth he presented a majestic figure, equipped, as he was, in a
lofty silver helmet with silver wings, a corselet of silver mail, a rich
baldric, a horn, a sword, and all the accompaniments of a Norse warrior;
his look and bearing gave proof of his descent: he was the very ideal of
a Viking chief.

Pauline was moved with a thrill of pride at having for her escort one so
handsome in person and dress as Wilfrid, while he in turn felt a similar
pleasure as he viewed Pauline’s graceful and stately figure. She was
dressed to represent Night, in a dainty robe of darkest blue glittering
with stars, a silver crescent gleaming in her raven hair.

Conscious of Wilfrid’s look of admiration Pauline coloured with secret
pleasure, becoming somewhat pale again as she noticed his eyes resting
upon the figure of an Imperial crown embroidered upon her sleeve.

“A secret token by which you are to be known to some favoured one?”

Her smiling assent gave Wilfrid a momentary pang of jealousy, a feeling
strange and illogical; for, seeing that he had his own lady to meet, what
did Pauline’s doings matter to him?

“I am as you are,” said she, touching the scarf upon his left arm. “That
is not worn without a purpose?”

Offering his arm Wilfrid escorted her to the carriage, and they drove off
to the masquerade.

On the northern side of that river-arm known as the Great Nevka,
and fronting the Aptekarski Island, there now stands a long line of
Government buildings, whose site in the opening years of the nineteenth
century was occupied by the Sumaroff Palace and its beautiful gardens,
gardens ample enough to furnish a camping ground for all the Czar’s
armies.

On this particular night, a warm lovely night in July, the halls and
gardens of the palace were gay with a throng of picturesquely-clad
masqueraders, drawn from the noblest blood in the land.

Some good people had affected to be scandalised at the holding of such
a fête, with Paul but four months dead. Their criticisms vanished,
however, when it became known that Prince Sumaroff had not only obtained
Alexander’s sanction for the fête, but a promise also that the Imperial
family itself would be present.

“There is a time to mourn and a time to dance,” had been the Emperor’s
remark—so it was said—and the time for mourning might be considered as
fairly past.

On arriving at the palace Wilfrid and Pauline, both closely masked,
entered the reception room, where their cards were scrutinised by
liveried officials, after which the two were free to go whither they
would. Their steps were immediately directed to the famous ballroom,
known as the Hall of Mirrors, the glory of the Sumaroff Palace. Crystal
columns sustained the roof of this hall, a hall that seemed far more
spacious than its actual size, due to the fact that its walls consisted
of mirrors, whose multiplying reflections created the illusion of endless
vistas of twinkling lights and swaying dancers. Rare flowers glowing
from porphyry vases perfumed the air with their fragrance. Here and there
were fountains that diffused a refreshing coolness around. The tall
windows, ranged along a colonnaded wall, were left open to the night,
revealing the moonlit gardens, fair with marble terraces and statuary,
gleaming white amid the dark foliage.

Wilfrid, familiar as he was with the various capitals of Europe, had seen
nothing to rival the splendour of this ballroom, which, filled as it was
with a crowd of masqueraders, all dressed in fanciful costumes, made a
picture full of colour, brilliance, and movement.

The gigantic bronze chandelier, hanging from the middle of the ceiling
was a superb work of art, radiant as a sun, a mass of flowers and
foliage, and—what? Wilfrid turned his ear to listen more attentively:
yes, from it came the orchestral music that regulated the steps of the
dancers. The chandelier was large enough both to hold and to hide the
musicians!

“Big as it is,” said Pauline, “the one in the Hermitage is bigger.”

The dance—it was the first of the night—had come to an end, and while
a few couples had seated themselves, the greater number were slowly
promenading around the ballroom. As they passed by in gay talk Wilfrid
scanned the shape of each fair masker, and tried to catch the sound of
her voice in the hope that he might hear the Duchess speaking; nor did he
neglect to hold his arm in such a position that his lady’s favour might
be clearly seen.

Now, during this promenading, Wilfrid’s attention was struck by a tall
gentleman—he was more than six feet high—clad in the glittering dress of
a Crusader. This individual, while going by, fixed a keen glance both
upon Pauline and Wilfrid. Through the holes of his mask a pair of steely
blue eyes seemed to flash anger; the next moment their owner had passed
by.

“Prince Ouvaroff, or my name isn’t Courtenay,” murmured Wilfrid.

“Which is Ouvaroff?” asked Pauline.

“He in the dress of a Crusader,” replied Wilfrid, indicating the receding
figure.

“Yes, that is Ouvaroff.”

She spoke with a sort of hesitancy that gave Wilfrid the impression that
while she herself did not really believe that it _was_ Ouvaroff, she was
desirous that Wilfrid should! An odd impression, certainly, but there it
was.

The music, suspended after the first dance, now started again. Eager as
Wilfrid was to begin his search for the Duchess, he nevertheless realised
that it would be unmannerly to escort Pauline to the ball without
offering to tread one measure at least with her.

“The second dance is beginning. It is a waltz. Shall we——”

Pauline’s manner was odd, not to say perplexing. She hesitated; nay,
Wilfrid fancied he could detect a look of fear in her eyes; then she gave
a grateful smile, and the next moment to the sound of sweetest melody she
was floating around in the dreamy mazes of a waltz, the very dance in
which Wilfrid had no superior.

The waltz is the most voluptuous of dances, and Pauline drank fully of
its charms. She had no need to look where she was going. Wilfrid’s touch,
strong yet tender, steered her gracefully and lightly through the moving
throng. The ballroom, the lights, the dancers—all seemed to vanish.
She and Wilfrid were the sole beings in a Paradise of their own. With
her lips parted into an unconscious smile she yielded herself to the
delicious spell of intoxication; her eyes half-closed, she rested on his
arm, swaying to and fro on a billowy sea of pleasure. Could her wish at
that moment have had its fulfilment this dance would have lasted for ever.

Wilfrid, to his shame be it said, felt little of this fascination;
his pulse beat, perhaps, two or three above the normal; no more. His
attention to Pauline was more apparent than real; his mind was dwelling
on the Duchess, and whenever any lady, golden-haired and blue-eyed,
floated past, she was sure to receive from him a scrutinising glance.

Then came a sudden surprise.

“_Baroness!_”

The word, though but faintly whispered, was nevertheless heard not
only by the person for whose ear it was intended, but also by Wilfrid.
The voice was a man’s, and it was marked, so Wilfrid thought, by an
intonation expressive of reproach at her evident pleasure in the waltz.

Wilfrid looked around, curious to discover who had been the speaker.
Among the masked forms circling about them was that very Crusader whom he
half-suspected to be Ouvaroff. Doubtless it was he who had spoken; at any
rate, the voice was not unlike that of the Prince.

He glanced at his partner, but Pauline, though conscious that Wilfrid
had heard the name, made no remark, and Wilfrid, responsive to her mood,
refrained from comment. It seemed, however, a safe conclusion to draw
that the speaker, whether Ouvaroff or not, was the man in whom Pauline
was interested, and that he had recognised her by the sign upon her
sleeve.

The name had roused Pauline from her dreamy state; she continued dancing,
but its pleasure was gone. The little hand within his own was trembling
very much. The waltz over, he led her to a seat.

“I will release you now; it is time you looked for—for _her_!” said
Pauline, indicating the scarf upon his arm. “Please, go,” she added, as
he hesitated.

There was something odd in her manner, a sort of defying and scorning of
herself, and yet withal a touch of sadness in her voice, as though, in
spite of her command, she was reluctant to part from him.

“Farewell, Baroness—for a time,” said Wilfrid, and with a bow he turned
away, leaving her seated upon a lounge.

He did not at once quit the ballroom, but, making his way to one of the
open windows that gave egress to the gardens, stood there in a somewhat
conspicuous position, his embroidered favour clearly showing, to the end
that if the Duchess should be in the ballroom, it might certify her of
his presence.

While standing there he could not help wondering what had caused Pauline
to take so strange an interest in Ouvaroff—that is, supposing the
Crusader to _be_ Ouvaroff. What was implied by his whispered word,
“Baroness!” so meaningly emphasised? Reproach that she should be found
dancing with one so dishonourable as Wilfrid? Had he seen Pauline
recently and given her _his_ version of the affair at the Silver Birch,
openly avowing that he would take vengeance upon Wilfrid? Was Pauline
going to use her influence over Ouvaroff with the object of getting him
to desist from the attempt? If so, she had chosen a strange time and a
strange place for endeavours that, however well-meant on her part, would
not be very acceptable to Wilfrid, who much preferred to punish with
a little blood-letting the presumed traducer of the fair and innocent
Duchess.

From time to time he turned his eyes in the direction of Pauline, who,
seated where he had left her, seemed intent only on watching him.

Then it suddenly struck him that, so long as he stood there, Pauline
would not be approached by Ouvaroff. Not wishing, therefore, to deprive
her of the desired interview, Wilfrid walked slowly out upon the terrace,
thinking that, if the Duchess were really in the ballroom, and had seen
the embroidered scarf, she would perhaps, after a reasonable time, follow
in his wake.

From the terrace a flight of steps descended to the palace gardens, now
in all the glory of their summer foliage. Voices and laughter from near
and far showed that many of the masqueraders preferred the purer air of
night to the atmosphere of the ballroom. And then, too, the gardens with
their shady walks, winding here and there beside silver lakes, formed an
ideal place for love-making.

As he did not appear to be followed by the Duchess, Wilfrid resolved to
make a tour of these gardens in the hope of meeting her.

Rapidly traversing this or that path, as chance directed, he came in the
course of his search upon a terrace over-hanging the Neva. A little group
was looking down upon the smooth-flowing water.

“There goes my fan!” said a fair masker, lamenting the loss of that
article, accidentally dropped by her into the river. “A hundred roubles
floating away.”

“Ask the Baroness Runö to restore it you to-morrow,” said a gentleman
beside her.

This chance mention of Pauline’s name caused Wilfrid to listen for a
moment.

“I don’t understand——” began the lady.

“Why, look you,” replied her companion, “she goes to-morrow to her summer
residence, the castle on her little island of Runö, some three miles down
the river.”

“You mean that——”

“The current of the river strikes directly upon the eastern side of Runö,
upon the shore called the Silver Strand. Things carried down by the river
are always——”

“Always?”

“Well, say usually, cast ashore upon this same strand. There’s a romantic
story that a former Prince Sumaroff, being in love with a daughter of a
former Baron Runö, used to communicate with her by putting a letter into
the cleft of a stick and throwing it into the river. An hour afterwards
the lady would be reading the message. So, perhaps, your fan——”

An interesting anecdote, but as it had nothing to do with the whereabouts
of the Duchess, Wilfrid passed on, coming finally to a lonely and quiet
spot, a spot as far as he could judge, the most remote from the palace.
Just as he was on the point of turning back, his ear was suddenly caught
by the sound of voices coming from the other side of some shrubbery
against which he was standing.

“The Neva’s waters are deep!”

It was not the oddity of the speaker’s remark so much as his voice that
attracted Wilfrid. That voice he could have sworn to out of ten thousand.
The speaker was none other than Izak, the driver, the companion of his
long wintry journey from Kowno to St. Petersburg. What was he doing in
these gardens upon a night when entrance was denied to all save persons
of rank? Perhaps he had left off his profession of driver to become one
of the many servitors of Prince Sumaroff.

Peering warily through the shrubbery Wilfrid caught a glimpse of four
men, three sitting upon a rustic seat and a fourth, Izak, standing in
the attitude of addressing them. All were masked, and all clad in the
chocolate-coloured velvet and gold lace that marked the livery of Prince
Sumaroff. But something told Wilfrid that, in spite of this attire, Izak
was no lackey; the dress was assumed for that night only. The man no
longer carried himself with an obsequious and servile air. He spoke with
authority, and even with dignity, leading Wilfrid to suspect that he was
a spy of the Government, and one occupying as high a post as is bestowed
upon these agents. Desirous as Wilfrid was of finding the Duchess, there
was something in the talk of these men that fixed him to the spot.

“The Neva’s waters are deep!” repeated Izak.

“Hush, speak low,” said one of the men.

“We are safe enough here,” returned Izak. “No one will wander so far as
this from the palace. That is why I have chosen this nook for our little
meeting. Now, what would you say if I were to talk of a thousand roubles
to each?”

“That you are lying!”

“I guessed you would say so. You see what I am lifting with my hands?”

“Earth!”

“Earth it is, our common mother. I place it upon my head, and what does
that signify?”

“That you are on oath.”

“So; the most solemn oath known among us. By this, then, know that I am
speaking the truth when I say that, if we do it, a thousand roubles to
each will be our reward.”

An interval of silence followed this promise.

“How did he find out that she was here?” asked one of the men presently.

“Her mask accidentally slipped off.”

“But if it’s now on her face again how are we to recognise her?”

“By her dress. There are five hundred ladies here to-night, so I’m told,
but only one with her costume. She wears a grey domino——”

“So do many other ladies.”

“Let me finish. There _are_ many grey dominoes here—true, but look
well at them, and you will see that their material is velvet, silk, or
something equally costly, whereas hers is modest serge trimmed with
silver cord, the simplest costume of the whole ball. Her mask, too, is of
grey silk.”

“What made her venture here to-night.”

“She wishes to see the Czarina.”

“And she may be having her wish at this moment.”

“Hardly. She must wait till the supper-hour comes.”

“Why so?”

“O silly! Aren’t all the ladies masked? No one knows who’s who till the
general unmasking at supper-time.”

“And when she sees the Czarina—what then?”

“She’s bent on giving her a letter. It’s our business to see that it be
not given, and the sooner we set about our work the better.”

Thus advised, the three men rose and moved off, Izak leading the way,
bent, as his words showed, on preventing some girl or woman from giving a
letter to the Empress; but how was it possible to stop its presentation
without the employment of questionable methods?

Wilfrid by chance had evidently lighted upon some sinister plot. Ever
ready to oppose knavery, he put aside the Duchess for a time, determined
to follow the men, and to defend, at the sword’s point if necessary, the
woman against whom this plot was directed.

Now, had the men’s way lain parallel with the course of the shrubbery,
it would have been an easy matter for Wilfrid to shadow them; but it so
happened that they turned off in a line almost at right angles to this
thicket, which was too densely set to permit the passage of a human body.
Wilfrid ran, now to the right and now to the left, and when at last he
_did_ come upon a gap the men were out of sight.

With no clear idea as to the direction taken by them, Wilfrid,
nevertheless, hurried forward, but his attempt to discover them proved a
failure.

His good fortune took him again to the terrace fronting the river and
there, a few paces off, with one hand lightly resting upon the marble
balustrade, stood a graceful figure, dressed in a simple grey domino,
with silver cording. Silent and motionless she stood, as if absorbed in
the beauty of the night.

Wilfrid’s mind felt a sudden relief. Thank heaven, the knaves had failed,
so far, in their purpose; the lady, whoever she might be, was still safe,
and would continue to be so, as long as his trenchant blade swung by his
side.

At Wilfrid’s approach the lady turned her head, and, as her eyes fell
upon the blue scarf, she gave a start as of recognition.

That start raised a sudden hope in his mind, a hope confirmed as he
received through the holes of her grey mask the attentive glance of a
pair of dark blue eyes.

Wilfrid thrilled, first with pleasure, and then with amazement, as he
recognised that the lady, sought for by Izak and his confederates, was
none other than his own duchess!




CHAPTER XIX

THE PRINCESS’S KISS


“Fair lady,” said Wilfrid, bowing as he spoke, “you are alone, though
it be the unwritten law of a masquerade that every one must have a
companion.”

“Then are you breaking that law,” replied the lady; “for you, too, seem
alone.”

“A Courtenay is ambitious, you see; he will have for his companion none
but the fairest.”

“And have you not found her in Pauline de Vaucluse?”

Her tone was slightly satirical. Had she seen him in the ballroom, he
wondered, and recognised with whom he was dancing?

“Your highness, it was not for Pauline de Vaucluse that I wrought for
three months in a solitary attic.”

“No; it was for a wronged and widowed empress,” replied the Duchess,
feigning not to see his meaning. “Lord Courtenay, the Empress is
unspeakably grateful for your good work. The one desire of her heart was
to see the fall of the wicked Ministry, and, thanks to you, she has been
enabled to see it. You wanted no reward, but the Empress prays you to
name one.”

“Why, I thought I _had_ named one.”

“Foolish Englishman,” she murmured, averting her head, “have you not
forgotten _that_?”

And then, as if wishful to divert his thoughts from herself, she said,
with her eyes set upon the river:—

“Have you any scene like this in England?”

Patriotic as he was, Wilfrid was fain to confess that his own land could
never at any time show a scene so fairy-like as that presented by St.
Petersburg on a midsummer night.

It was now on the stroke of twelve, and though the glow of the setting
sun had scarcely faded from the western sky, yet the eastern horizon was
already becoming shot with golden streaks. This intermingling of dusk and
dawn illumined by the glory of a full moon, produced a light soft and
clear, poetic and dreamlike.

The river flowed, silent and majestic, breaking here and there into
silver ripples. Its long line of quays and palaces, fading away in dim
perspective, seemed like the fabrics of a vision too lovely to be real.

Enchanting as was the scene, it was made still more so to Wilfrid by the
presence of the young Duchess, attractive both by her beauty and by the
romantic air of mystery surrounding her.

It filled him with pleasure to learn that while he had been seeking
_her_, she had been seeking _him_.

“I saw you leave the ballroom,” she observed, “and as soon as I could
conveniently do so, I stole away. Not finding you in——”

She paused. They were no longer alone. Merely a gallant and his inamorata
in close conversation, and apparently so enwrapped in each other, as to
be oblivious of everybody else. Nevertheless, the Duchess turned her face
riverward again; and, evidently fearing lest her voice, if overheard,
should lead to her recognition, she refrained from speaking till the two
had fairly passed by.

“I fear a spy in every one I see to-night,” she murmured.

“Is our meeting, then, a crime?”

“My enemies would endeavour to make it such.”

“Let me know who these enemies are, that I may make them mine, too.”

“Shall I take you at your word?” she said gravely. “Yes? Then mark. The
one whose enmity I have most cause to dread is the woman with whom you
have danced to-night.”

“Pauline de Vaucluse.”

“None other.”

“That is a hard saying.”

“But a true one.”

“That Pauline de Vaucluse would use this meeting to your hurt, and to
mine? Nay, I cannot so think of the Baroness. I would that I could bring
your highness face to face with her for a few minutes. I feel certain
that such interview would end in your becoming the best of friends.”

“Having full proof of her guilt, I have no desire for such an interview,”
she answered coldly.

It seemed clear from this that the Duchess must be known to Pauline. What
act had Pauline committed against the Duchess that it should be called by
the strong term “guilt”?

“That your Highness _has_ enemies,” he said, after an interval of
silence, “is, alas! but too true. They, or rather their agents, are here
to-night.”

“How do you know this?”

“Concealed behind some shrubbery I overheard four men talking.”

“Of me? But not knowing my name how could you tell I was the person
meant?”

“Because they spoke of a lady wearing a grey mask and a grey serge domino
trimmed with silver cord, such as I see yours to be. One question will
show whether you are the lady meant by them. Tell me, are you not seeking
to present a letter to the Czarina?”

The Duchess looked a little oddly at Wilfrid, as if surprised at this
knowledge on his part.

“It is true. I have upon me a letter addressed to the Czarina,” she
murmured, speaking with a certain hesitancy.

“At this very moment these four men are looking for you, determined to
prevent you, by means fair or otherwise, from giving that letter to the
Czarina.”

“Lord Courtenay, you must not leave me till I am safe in the ballroom
again. This letter must not be taken from us.”—The “us” thrilled
Wilfrid.—“I say us,” she continued, with a smile, as pleasant as it was
mysterious, “because the letter is of vital consequence to you as well as
to me.”

“Your Highness is safe with me; have no fear. But since you seem to live
in an atmosphere of peril, why not seek to escape from it?”

“How?”

“There is a way open to you,” said Wilfrid, with a sudden and bold
inspiration. “The British Embassy is about to be re-established at St.
Petersburg. Let that be your asylum. Come with me this night. Tell the
Ambassador your secret history. Make him the guardian of your person.
Under the protection of England you will be safe.”

“Lord Courtenay,” she said decisively, “yours is an impossible remedy.”

“I will believe so only when you have proved it to be such.”

“Were I to take refuge there, the Czar would demand my surrender.”

“Very likely; and my good uncle, the Ambassador, would meet the demand
with a refusal.”

“I think not. Let the refusal be given, however; that would not prevent
the Czar from entering with his troops.”

“Not so. Such an act were an outrage upon the law of nations. The Czar
would have to face an immediate renewal of the war with England.”

“And he would be ready to face it, were I to act as you suggest.”

Was she really a person so great in the political world that her
detention at the British Embassy would be a sufficient cause for war
between two empires? It was an amazing statement, and yet her air, quiet
and grave, somehow carried conviction with it.

“Your Highness,” said Wilfrid, with a sort of reproachful despair,
“have you not mystified me long enough? May I not know who you are? You
promised at our last meeting to reveal to me your name and history.”

“Let me redeem my word, then.”

She sat down within a hemicycle that formed part of the parapet of the
terrace, and motioned Wilfrid to a place beside her.

At their back flowed the shining river; before them, and bordering the
whole length of the terrace, rose a grove of dark pines whose leaves
rippled to the night-breeze. From the far-off ballroom came the faint
sound of the orchestral music.

Though attentive to every word spoken by the Duchess, Wilfrid, mindful of
the four men in the chocolate-coloured liveries, kept a watchful eye upon
all sides, though he doubted very much whether the quartette would show
themselves so long as he was with her.

Now and again groups of laughing masqueraders would make their
appearance; and, at their approach, the Duchess either suspended her talk
or continued in a whisper till the revellers had gone by.

“I am at your service, Lord Courtenay. Question me.”

“First, then, explain the puzzling mystery of how I came to save your
life without retaining any remembrance of that event.”

“That is easily answered. More than eight years ago—I was then a girl
of fourteen—my sister and I were staying at the Castle of Silverstein
in Saxony. One evening, among other diversions, there happened to be a
series of _tableaux vivants_, in one of which my sister and I took part,
each clad in the garb of a forester; and,” added the Duchess, with a
touch of vanity, “if all that was said of us be true, we made a pair of
handsome lads.—The next morning, before breakfast, my sister, always
full of mischief, proposed an especial piece of daring. ‘Let us put
on the dress we wore in the _tableau vivant_, and take a walk outside
the castle grounds.’ I laughingly consented; and, escaping the eyes of
our elders, we two girls sallied forth in male garb. The keeper of the
lodge, past whom we boldly marched, failed to penetrate our disguise, and
doubtless wondered why we laughed so, when at a safe distance from the
gate. It was a sunny morning, and we turned our steps to the forest that
lay eastward of the castle. Forgetful of time, we wandered onward till
at last it began to dawn upon us that we were a long way from home, and
were, perhaps, doing a foolish thing, for we now suddenly remembered that
a bear had recently been seen in this wood.

“Scarcely had the thought seized us when we actually came upon two
little black cubs rolling over each other at the foot of a hollow tree.
The sight turned our blood cold, for one glance showed that this hollow
trunk was a bear’s den, and we did not doubt that its savage tenant was
not far off. Then came a heavy pattering upon the fallen leaves, and a
moment afterwards the mother bear appeared, growling and making directly
for us. Too terrified to move, my sister and I clung to each other,
uttering wild screams.”

Wilfrid himself could now have related the sequel, but preferred to hear
it from her lips. It was a pleasure to listen to her voice. The Duchess
saw his smile, and smiled in turn.

“Need I tell you what happened? The report of a musket rang out, and the
bear rolled over dead. The shot had been fired by a young man who came
forward with a smile in which I fancied there lurked a trace of contempt.
Of course, Lord Courtenay, you took us for what we seemed to be, namely,
two youths, and as such, we doubtless looked very silly, screaming and
making no attempt to save ourselves; and yet, perhaps, if you had been
without a musket, you might not have looked so brave as you did just
then.”

“Quite true, your Highness.”

“Naturally, we did not like to say that we were girls, and so, after
thanking you, we hastened off and reached Silverstein without our
escapade having become known.

“Now, in our confusion we had forgotten to ask the name of our deliverer.

“‘We must try to find out who he is,’ said my sister, ‘and show our
gratitude by something more than words.’

“So, later in the day, and this time dressed in a manner suitable to good
girls, we drove forth in our carriage accompanied by our duenna.

“Fortune favoured us, for as we were proceeding along the high road that
skirts one side of the forest, my sister pressed my arm with the words,
‘There he is.’

“Sure enough it was our rescuer coming out of the Kronprinz, a pretty
little hostelry by the roadside. He mounted a phaeton that had been
standing at the inn door, and drove off. The innkeeper was known to
us, and from him we learned that the stranger was an English nobleman,
Viscount Courtenay by name, who had been staying in the neighbourhood
during the previous fortnight. He had received the Prince’s permission to
shoot upon the castle lands and to fish in its waters.

“We hesitated to put further questions, lest our duenna should ask us the
reason for our interest in this stranger; but as soon as we returned to
the Schloss we got from the library a book on the British Peerage, and
learned what little we could concerning Lord Courtenay, his family, and
his ancestry.

“We went on the following day to take a look at the bear’s den; this time
armed foresters accompanied us. While I was walking round the spot, my
eye was caught by a sparkle amid the fallen leaves. I stooped, and picked
up a golden locket. We knew at once by whom it had been lost when we
found within a miniature of yourself.”

Wilfrid had often wondered what had become of that locket, a locket he
had ordered to be wrought after a special design, intending it as a gift
to his mother.

“‘The restoring of this locket,’ said my sister, ‘will give us an
opportunity of speaking with Lord Courtenay. We will take it to the
“Kronprinz,” and tell him that we are the two youths whom he saved from
the bear.’ But on coming to the inn we found you had that very day left
for England; so the locket remained with me.”

“And you have kept it ever since?”

For answer, she pointed to her throat, and Wilfrid saw the long lost
locket hanging from a slender gold chain.

“Is it necessary at this late day to restore it?” she asked, making as if
to detach the locket from its chain.

But Wilfrid gently restrained her.

“It could not be in a fairer place.”

The Duchess’s story cast light upon some matters hitherto dark; it
explained, for example, her recognition of him at the inn of the Silver
Birch.

And she had kept his miniature for more than eight years, ever since she
was a girl of fourteen! It was upon her breast now! Was that its usual
place? If so, and if the fact had become known to Baranoff, it would
explain why that minister had concluded that the Duchess must be in
love with Wilfrid; if love, a seemingly hopeless case, since it was not
probable that she would ever meet again the man that had saved her life.
Did she often look at the portrait within the locket? he wondered. And
now that the original was beside her, with what sentiments did she regard
him? Gratitude for saving her life? gratitude deep and sincere, but
nothing more? Wilfrid made up his mind that he would find out that very
night.

“Question one having been answered in full,” he smiled, “there comes
question two—your name?”

“I should like first to hear whom you think me to be? You must have
formed some notion.”

“Am I right in supposing that you are a grand-daughter of the Czar, Ivan
VI.?”

The Duchess received this question with a merry laugh, the first Wilfrid
had heard from her, a laugh so rippling and sweet that he was sorry when
it had ceased.

“What gave you that idea?” she asked.

“A paragraph in the English _Times_,” replied Wilfrid, repeating the
passage; for, under the belief that it referred to the Duchess, it had
been no task, but a pleasure, to learn it by heart.

“And you took me to be the lady meant? She never had any existence. If
you had seen the _Times_ just a week later you would have found that same
correspondent withdrawing the story as an idle rumour, and apologising
to his English readers for having led them astray. A grand-daughter of
Ivan! I have not a drop of Muscovite blood in my veins. I am as you are—a
foreigner in Russia.”

Somehow Wilfrid was pleased to think that she was of a nationality other
than Russ, although her statement increased his perplexity since, as
she was not connected by blood with the Imperial house of Romanoff, how
came she to be politically so great, as she undoubtedly was, according
to the account both of herself and of Baranoff? Was she a member of some
other royal house of Europe, and being, for some reason or other, viewed
with jealousy by the reigning head, had she been sent into a sort of
quasi-banishment to the Russian Court, whose orders were to exercise a
strict surveillance over her conduct, and, above all, to see that she did
not fall in love? Why would she not explain, and end all this mystery?

“I was born Princess Marie,” she continued, “and Princess Marie is the
name I love, and the name my friends still call me by.”

“Then you shall be Princess Marie to me, and——”

He paused. The clock-tower of the Sumaroff Palace chimed the hour.

“One o’clock!” said Princess Marie—to use the name favoured by
her—speaking with a sort of dismay in her voice. “I have stayed too long.
I must return, Lord Courtenay, will you escort me to the ballroom, and
there—there we must part.”

“Part! We have but just met. If we part, when are we to meet again?”

“Never, I fear.”

“Never is a hard word.”

“Do you think it is not hard for me to say it?” murmured the Princess, as
she rose to her feet, evidently bent on going.

“Stay, Princess. You have not yet redeemed all your promise. There is
your present name, and—the—the kiss.”

“You will not let me off?”

“I kept _my_ word, Princess. Will you not keep yours?”

As Wilfrid rose to his feet she receded a pace or two, with hands put
forward as if to keep him off.

“What pleasure will you have in a kiss given on compulsion?”

“Shall you give the kiss, then, from no other feeling than to get rid of
the duty?”

“In what other spirit should I give it?”

“If the Princess can give only a reluctant kiss, let her give none at
all.”

Princess Marie hesitated for a moment.

“I ... I will keep my promise,” she said. “But not ... not here ... on
the open terrace. There ... in the shadows. It is death if ... if we are
seen!”

Wilfrid took her little hand—how it trembled!—within his own, led her
across the terrace, and stood beside her under the gloom of the pine
trees.

“It was not stipulated that you should wear a mask,” said he.

She withdrew her vizard, revealing her beautiful face, made more
beautiful by the sweet colour that mantled it.

She looked round on all sides to make sure that no one was within sight.
Satisfied that they were alone she turned to Wilfrid. Never had he so
trembled as at this moment when the Princess set her hands lightly upon
his shoulders and looked him full in the face with eyes that, striving to
be bold, were yet full of timidity.

Her lovely face drew near to his; he caught the fragrance of her breath;
their lips met in a kiss, given on her part with a warmth that could
spring from but one feeling. The tender glance of her dark-blue eyes told
him, as plainly as words, what place he held in her heart. Moved by an
uncontrollable impulse he clasped her in his arms. She did not resent the
action; on the contrary she clung to him in that wild, sweet, thrilling
embrace that comes but once in a life-time.

“Princess!” he whispered in a voice trembling with emotion, “you love
me—is it not so? I will not let you go back to your old life. You must
come with me—”

“Oh no, no!” she gasped, seeking to unwind his arms. “My God! what am I
doing? Lord Courtenay ... let me go.... Do not tempt me.... This ... this
cannot be!”

“Why not?”

She gave a wild laugh.

“You would not ask, if you knew me. I am the—”

The words suddenly froze on her lips. Wilfrid, gazing upon her face,
saw its loveliness distorted by a terrible change. With blanched cheek
and open mouth she was staring at something or somebody behind him. Her
strange set expression almost suggested the wild fancy that there had
risen from out the foliage the head of Medusa, whose chilling stare could
turn the beholder to stone. Something of her feeling communicated itself
to Wilfrid; for a few seconds he stood, still holding the Princess in his
arms, scarcely daring to turn lest he should see at his elbow some awful
apparition.




CHAPTER XX

WILFRID RECEIVES A CHALLENGE


When at last Wilfrid _did_ turn his head he beheld a tall masked figure,
motionless, silent, watchful; the very Crusader who had glanced angrily
at him in the ballroom.

Now when one gentleman comes upon another in the act of kissing a lady,
politeness suggests immediate retirement on the part of the first.
But this was a course the intruder did _not_ take; instead, he kept
his ground as if he had come there for no other purpose than to watch
the pair, manifestly indifferent as to whether his presence caused
embarrassment or not.

Wilfrid could have slain him without the least compunction.

Here was a lovely princess, clinging to his embrace, listening to his
love-avowal, and lo! the charming situation must come to an end—for a
time at least—by reason of the new-comer’s clownishness!

As he withdrew one arm from the Princess she made a movement as if to
flee.

“Stay, Princess,” he whispered. “Do not go. You are safe with me. Do you
know this man? Who is he?”

She seemed too frightened to make reply; she glanced, now to the right
and now to the left, along the moonlit terrace, apparently deliberating
which way to flee; finally, with a strength born of despair, she suddenly
broke away, and before the surprised Wilfrid could stop her, Princess
Marie was lost to view among the darkness of the pines. For a moment he
hesitated whether to follow or not, but as running off might look like
cowardice, he chose to remain, and turned upon the Crusader, with whom he
was now doubly angry.

The new-comer moved forward from the shadow of the trees, and, with an
air of dignity, now stood in the clear moonlight, looking at the other as
if requiring from him an explanation of his recent conduct.

“Qualifying for the spy service, sir?” Wilfrid asked. “I am told ’tis a
remunerative profession.”

“In dealing with dishonourable persons,” was the reply, “nice rules of
courtesy must be laid aside.”

Wilfrid was convinced that the speaker was Ouvaroff, and that, for some
reason or other, the Prince was seeking to disguise his voice.

It was not so much the voice, however, to which he gave heed as the
words. Dishonourable? As Wilfrid recalled the Princess’s sweet face and
innocent eyes, still greater grew his anger against the man who thus
ventured to charge her with wrong-doing.

“Dishonourable, my eavesdropper?” he repeated with a dangerous gleam in
his eye.

“I said the word, sir.”

“To whom do you apply it—to me or to the lady?”

“To both.”

“’Tis a word you shall withdraw, or justify.”

“The lady’s last action justifies it. If innocent, why flee? She knows
me, and knowing, dares not face me.”

“In knowing you she has the advantage of me. Let me declare myself. I am
an Englishman, Viscount Courtenay; my face you may see,” and as he spoke
Wilfrid removed his mask. “May I ask for a similar return on your part?”

For though Wilfrid had little doubt that the other was Ouvaroff, still
the lifting of the mask would bring certainty.

“Is it possible that you do not recognise me?”

“Can _your_ eyes see through a silk mask?”

The Crusader hesitated for a moment.

“You do not know me? It is well!” He seemed to derive satisfaction from
Wilfrid’s failure to identify him. “To-morrow morning you shall see my
face and learn my name.”

“And why not to-night, my Crusader?”

“It is my pleasure for the present to reserve my identity.”

“But how if it be mine to know it now? How if I do not choose to wait
till the morning? How if I take off your mask, and compel you at the
sword’s point to reveal your name?”

“You are welcome to try,” responded the other, moving backward a pace or
two to prevent Wilfrid from snatching off his mask.

“Good! got the right sort of stuff in him,” thought Wilfrid as he saw the
other grasp his sword-hilt and prepare to defend himself.

“In the morning,” continued the stranger, “when you shall have learned
my name you will readily acknowledge that I have valid reasons for
preserving to-night my _incognito_.”

“Egad, you are very mysterious, my one-time friend,” thought Wilfrid.

“Nothing would give me greater pleasure,” continued the other, “than to
cross swords with you here and now, but that in so doing we should be
abusing the hospitality of our princely host, Sumaroff. Moreover, the
clash of our steel is certain to draw around us a crowd who would seek to
stop our fighting; and,” added he, with a grim and deadly earnestness,
“when we have once begun there must be no stopping till we make an end.”

In Wilfrid’s opinion Ouvaroff must have attained considerable proficiency
in swordsmanship to hold language such as this. Always having a respect
for the man willing to fight, he replied with a bow—

“Be it so; since you wish it, retain your mask and your _incognito_,
which,” added he to himself, “is no _incognito_.” Aloud he continued,
“Your desire to cross swords with me meets with a ready response. May I
point out, however, that it is somewhat unusual to invite a man to a duel
without assigning due cause. You have not yet justified your reflection
on my honour.”

“Honour!” sneered the other in a voice quivering with suppressed passion.
“Honour! Are clandestine meetings consistent with the honour of an
English gentleman? You meet—” He looked cautiously round as he spoke—“Let
her be nameless, for who knows what ears may be within hearing? You
meet her secretly at midnight in the Michaelovski Palace; you meet her
with kisses and embraces at this masquerade; you are seen leaving her
bed-chamber in the inn at Gora. You, who have brought shame upon her—do
you talk of honour?”

Through the holes of his mask the man’s eyes glowed like fire; a great
rage seemed to hold him. He fingered his sword-hilt, as if longing to
hurl himself upon Wilfrid and end his life there and then, without
troubling to wait for the morning.

As for Wilfrid, the words of the other fell upon him with the shock of a
thunderbolt, filling him with a dreadful dismay, not so much on his own
account as on Marie’s. What had hitherto been a haunting suspicion was
now converted to a black truth; the bed-chamber incident was known to
Ouvaroff, might be known to others! All innocent as the Princess was, the
finger of scorn would now be pointed to her as one fallen from maidenly
purity. And the bitterest thought of all was there seemed no way of
refuting the slander. Vain would it be for him or for her to deny. The
mocking nobility, reared in the tainted atmosphere of Catharine’s Court,
and accustomed to measure others by their own standard, would accept as
true neither his word nor that of the Princess. She was branded with the
mark of shame, and the cause of it all was himself—Wilfrid Courtenay!

Well, he could have one satisfaction at least, the satisfaction of seeing
the original traducer fall dead at his feet, for he would give him no
quarter in the morning.

“The fight cannot come too soon,” he said, between his set teeth. “You
have cast a black slander on an innocent lady, and by Heaven! you die for
it.”

“Innocent! Am I to take the kisses and embraces of to-night as proofs of
innocence?”

“Why should _not_ the lady kiss me if she choose?”

The other drew a breath as of amazement, and for a few moments stared,
as if he doubted whether there were not something wrong with Wilfrid’s
mental calibre.

“You speak thus, knowing who the lady is?”

“Your pardon, I do not know who the lady is. I am under no obligation
to offer explanations to you, sir, but thus much may be tendered, that I
know the lady only by the name of Princess Marie—a name that conveys no
meaning to me.”

Wilfrid did not ask the other to enlighten him in any way respecting the
Princess; in his present haughty mood he would take no favours from him.

The Crusader looked at Wilfrid as if doubting his statement.

“Can this be true?” he muttered.

“It might not be, were I a Russian prince.”

As if confronted with some new and startling problem, the man turned
aside and took a few steps to and fro before he spoke again.

“Your statement sounds so improbable that I may well hesitate to accept
it. If the lady has _not_ told you her name, if you have been acting in
ignorance of her rank, then is the guilt hers, and not yours. Nay,” he
added in a milder tone, “I am ready to withdraw my reflections upon your
honour.”

“You are very good. But if I am honourable how can the lady be
dishonourable?”

“That will be seen in the morning.”

“Before the duel, I trust?”

“Why, truly,” said the other with a significant smile, “you will hardly
be in a condition to apprehend an explanation _after_ the duel.”

“That’s to be seen. But methinks you are somewhat inconsistent, for,
surely in admitting—as you have admitted—that my honour is stainless, you
have, from your point of view, removed all cause for the duel?”

“So one might think,” returned the other, who seemed to be growing more
calm, “but it is not so. Matters are in a fairer state than I had thought
them. This scandal may yet be kept quiet; it need not become the talk of
Europe. None the less, Lord Courtenay, you must pay the penalty of your
daring. You have done—unwittingly it is true—that which can be atoned for
only by death.”

“Where shall the place of our meeting be?” asked Wilfrid with some
impatience, for he was eager to hasten after the Princess.

“You know the Viborg Road running northwards from the city? Good! A
little way beyond the eight verst-post on the right-hand side of the road
is a path leading to a small glade. At eight o’clock—seven hours from
now—I shall be there, attended by a friend. And you?”

“Will not be a laggard in seeking the spot. And our weapons?”

“The choice belongs to you as the challenged.”

Wilfrid, mindful of Ouvaroff’s recent devotion to swordsmanship, and
willing to accommodate him in the matter, made the reply:—

“What say you to swords of three feet?”

“Accepted,” said the other with evident satisfaction in his tone.
“My second shall bring the weapons with him. A doctor,” he added
significantly, “we shall _not_ require.”

“If you will put that last remark in the singular,” said Wilfrid, “I will
have no fault to find with it. Why, then, matters being thus arranged,
we need not prolong this interview. The rendezvous, a glade near the
eighth verst-post on the Viborg Road; the time, eight o’clock. Till then,
farewell.”

With that Wilfrid turned away, in an agony of suspense as to what might
have happened to the Princess should she have come within view of the
four liveried hirelings. And now for the first time he began to realise
what a tool he had been in the hands of Count Baranoff. He had done
the very thing that Baranoff wanted. His coming into Russia with the
chivalrous purpose of defending a lady from the wicked intrigues of that
minister had ended in compromising her name and imperilling her safety!
She had given him the kiss of love in spite of her belief, “It is death
if we are seen!”

And they _had_ been seen, and that by an enemy!

Death might perhaps have been Wilfrid’s lot a few days earlier, but the
re-establishment of the British Embassy put a different complexion upon
matters. The Czar, the Court-party, the ministers, or whoever Marie’s
mysterious enemies might be, could not very well arrest the nephew of
Great Britain’s representative for a fault which, at its worst, was
merely an irregular _amour_; still, bent on compassing his end, they
sought to dispose of him in a manner speciously fair and open, by getting
Prince Ouvaroff, the newly-expert swordsman, to challenge him to a duel
to the death.

Well, _that_ part of the plot should fail; the combat had no terrors for
Wilfrid.

But what of Marie, the Princess of the sorrowful eyes, who in the
presence of a witness had given unequivocal proof of her love for an
Englishman? She was not a British subject; her liberty and life were at
the mercy of the Russian authorities.

Would the royal house to which she belonged, pleased rather than
otherwise, enjoin that the penalty for her fault must be seclusion for
life in a fortress or a nunnery?

Wilfrid’s immediate object was to find the Princess again, and he
determined, when he should have found her, not to leave her side till he
had seen her to a place of safety; and the safest place he could think
of just then was the British Embassy. True, she had already refused that
asylum, but fear, occasioned by the recent incident, might cause a change
in her resolve.

Not more than fifteen minutes had passed since she had fled from the
terrace, but in fifteen minutes one may do much in the matter of hiding
one’s self; and the Princess had hidden herself so effectually that
Wilfrid could not find her, though he several times traversed the gardens
as well as the ballroom.

Although tormented by the fear that she _might_ have fallen into the
hands of the four hirelings, Wilfrid adopted the more probable conclusion
that the Princess had retired altogether from the masquerade. Was it
likely that she would remain to run the chance of another meeting with
Prince Ouvaroff, of whom she evidently stood in fear? But no sooner
had Wilfrid formed this opinion than he dismissed it. The Princess had
with her a letter meant for the Czarina. Did she still adhere to her
intention of presenting it? Then, unless she knew the secret of the
Czarina’s costume, she would have to wait till the Empress had publicly
disclosed herself at the general unmasking, which was timed to take place
at two o’clock.

And here again Wilfrid was met by a perplexing thought. Why should the
Princess, presumably a member of the Court circle, choose the occasion of
a public masquerade for presenting a letter which, one would think, might
have been more suitably presented in private? And that letter, so she
had averred, contained something of vital interest, not only to her own
welfare, but also to Wilfrid’s. It was strange—passing strange—but then
so was everything else happening that night. Wilfrid had never known a
more mystifying time.

When the hand of the clock was upon the stroke of two he repaired to the
Hall of Mirrors, and, ascending a gallery, looked down upon the crowd of
masked revellers. He hoped in a minute or two more to obtain a view of
the Czar, and what was of more interest to him, of the Czarina, in case
the Princess should be by to present her letter.

But at the general unmasking, when everybody was looking expectantly
around for the imperial pair, Prince Sumaroff mounted the dais and gave
out that the pressure of State affairs had prevented the Czar from
honouring the masquerade with his presence; a slight touch of illness
had likewise kept the Czarina from attending. Wilfrid was, perhaps, the
only one present that did not hear this disappointing announcement,
his attention at that moment being absorbed by a fact of no importance
whatever to the thousand and one guests, but constituting for him a
startling discovery.

A moment before the unmasking he had caught sight of Pauline,
recognisable, of course, by her costume. She was leaning upon the arm of
a tall and majestic figure clad in the glittering mail of a Byzantine
warrior. Earlier in the evening when first entering the ballroom Wilfrid
had noticed the man, and had called Pauline’s attention to his splendid
and striking costume.

The lifting of his mask gave Wilfrid a sort of shock. The Byzantine
warrior was none other than Prince Ouvaroff!

Clearly, then, unless Ouvaroff had changed his costume—a most unlikely
event—he could not have been the Crusading knight whom Wilfrid had met
upon the terrace.

What man was it, then, with whom he had to fight at eight in the morning?




CHAPTER XXI

“YOUR OPPONENT IS AN EMPEROR”


The unmasking of the guests was followed by a simultaneous movement
toward the supper-tables, set forth in an adjoining room, a room scarcely
inferior in size and grandeur to the Hall of Mirrors.

Tormented by the thought of the Princess, Wilfrid was in no trim
for eating, even when the far-famed Sumaroff _cuisine_ offered its
temptations.

Having satisfied himself that neither Marie nor the Crusading knight
was among the guests, he withdrew from the palace, having first sent to
Pauline a servant with a brief note, in which, without stating the cause,
he expressed regret at finding it impossible to escort her home.

It was now past two o’clock. He had by eight of the clock to be at a
spot distant six miles from the city, and in the interval he must find a
second, and try to snatch a short repose. He had no time to waste.

Making his way to the entrance of the Sumaroff Palace he procured a car
and drove to his hotel, where he changed his antique garb for one more
modern, and this done, he went off at once to the British Embassy, with a
view of getting one of his uncle’s secretaries to act as his second.

“Unless indeed the old boy himself will volunteer, which isn’t very
likely,” thought Wilfrid. “He’d be compromising his diplomatic office.”

On reaching the Embassy Wilfrid learned that, late as the hour was, the
“old boy” had not yet gone to bed, but was sitting alone in his study.

Making his way thither Wilfrid found the Ambassador seated at a table,
upon which, in addition to cigars and wine, was a very large parchment
with seals attached thereto, and bearing every appearance of being an
important State document.

“Pouf! windows closed and curtains drawn this hot July night?” said
Wilfrid, glancing at the heavily-draped casements.

“Put your head out of the window, and you’ll soon scent the reason.
Fontanka Canal below. What do the Russian Government mean by putting me
in this malodorous hole? Damme! they’ll have to find me fresh quarters.
See my new Diana over there? Winkelman! Bought it yesterday. Cost seven
hundred roubles—think it’s worth it?” And then, seeing Wilfrid’s eyes
attracted by the document upon the table, he continued, “Ah! the editor
of the _Journal de St. Petersbourg_ would give much for a copy of this.”

“It is, I presume——?”

“A duplicate of the secret Anglo-Russian Treaty of Peace. I am studying
it for the twentieth time. Must leave no loophole for the enemy to creep
through.”

“The Czar hasn’t signed it yet?”

“He signs to-morrow night, or rather, as it’s long past midnight, to-day.
And yet,” continued the Ambassador, a queer look coming over his face,
“and yet—who knows?—he may never sign it.”

“His autocratic Majesty is so changeable?”

“No, but life is. The Czar may be dead by to-morrow.”

“For the matter of that so may I,” remarked Wilfrid, thinking of the
coming duel. “So may you; so may all of us.”

“Ah! but in the Czar’s case there is special cause for fear. But there!
I’m talking too fast. I mustn’t betray State secrets.”

This assumption of reticence was a mere preliminary to disclosure, as
Wilfrid very well knew. The Ambassador had a tale to unfold, and was
burning to unfold it, and, anxious as Wilfrid was to get to the subject
of the coming duel, he was not unwilling to be a listener, impressed by
his uncle’s air of subdued excitement.

“It was told to me in confidence,” continued Lord St. Helens, “but I
see no reason why I should not tell you. The story is certain to be made
public property within four and twenty hours. Well, here it is then.
Like the rest of the diplomatic body, I received an invitation to this
Sumaroff fête, and looked in for a short time just before supper; and am
not sorry at having gone, for there, in spite of his mask, I recognised
my old friend Panine. He was in a state of great agitation, caused by
something he had just heard from Alexander.”

“Alexander was at the fête, then?”

“Of course he was.”

“Prince Sumaroff publicly announced that he wasn’t.”

“Never believe public announcements—in Russia. He _was_ there, but
retired before supper-time. As you will see he had very good reason for
wishing to be alone with his thoughts. Talking of Alexander, I suppose
you know that he was married when only sixteen years old—that is, at an
age scarcely capable of forming a just judgment. As a matter of fact he
had no voice in the choosing of his wife; she was chosen for him by his
grandmother Catharine, and our poor Alexander had no alternative but to
obey.

“It is obvious that a marriage of this sort, contracted for political
reasons merely, cannot yield that happiness arising from a union based
on mutual affection. Far be it from me to speak one word adverse to the
young Czarina Elizavetta; she is beautiful, she is charming, she is good;
but still, you know the remark of the old Roman to the persons who were
praising his wife: ‘This to you may seem an excellent sandal,’ he said,
taking it off. ‘I alone know where it pinches.’ So of the Czarina. To us
she may seem an ideal consort; Alexander alone knows where the sandal
pinches.”

“It is easy to see to what all this is preliminary.”

“Just so. The usual result when kings are forced to mate from policy. Our
Alexander looks round to find a companion more to his taste.”

“And the lady’s name?”

“Is a secret unknown to Panine, and therefore to me.”

“Has the intrigue reached a guilty stage?—but no, it cannot have.”

Lord St. Helens wondered at the husky voice and at the strange look with
which his nephew put this question.

“Panine thinks not. In fact, judging from what happened to-night at the
masquerade, it must be inferred that the love is on the Czar’s side only.”

“Why, what _did_ happen?”

“A masquerade, as you know, affords excellent facilities for an intrigue.
The Czar, aware that his inamorata would be at this fête, determined
himself to be present He came without state, masked, and costumed, and
sought eagerly, as we may suppose, for his lady-love, and at last found
her.”

“Alone?”

“Hardly. She was with another man, and—one can scarcely refrain from
smiling—the pair were in the act of kissing each other as the Czar came
upon them.”

“How did you learn this?”

“It was witnessed by Panine.”

“By Panine!” repeated Wilfrid.

“He was meditatively walking amid a grove of trees when he happened to
see the lady bestow a kiss upon a gentleman, no unusual occurrence at a
masquerade, but this affair began to assume a serious aspect when there
stepped forth into the moonlight a figure whom Panine recognised to be
that of the Emperor. At sight of him the lady instantly fled as if in
fear, leaving the Emperor and the man together.

“An animated conversation followed, inaudible to Panine, who, out of
respect, kept his distance, nor did he venture forward till the man had
left the Czar’s presence.

“‘Count,’ began Alexander—I repeat Panine’s words to me as nearly as I
can remember them—‘Count, you know that in the abstract I am opposed to
duelling; but occasionally it may happen that a gentleman has no other
way of defending his honour. Now there is a certain man who wishes to
fight a duel to-morrow. As his cause is just, will you do him the favour
of acting as his second?’

“Panine, naturally concluding that the Czar’s recent interlocutor was the
man referred to, made reply:—

“‘Your Majesty’s command is my pleasure.’

“‘You promise to be this man’s second?’

“‘Most certainly, Sire.’

“‘Look to it, then, that you keep your word,’ said Alexander with a face
sterner than Panine had ever before seen it, ‘for _I_ am the duellist.
Honour leaves me no alternative but to fight. Stop! no words, I pray
you. I know beforehand what you would say; that, if any one offends me,
it is within my power to banish, to imprison, to execute the offender.
Granted: but that were an ignoble vengeance. None hereafter shall say
that Alexander took advantage of his position in order to slay a rival.
The man must die, and his death shall come by my hand in fair and open
fight. I waive my imperial prerogative, and meet him as one gentleman,
when affronted, should meet another. My opponent’s name?—let it remain a
secret. The rendezvous? Well, that you’ll learn when we set out. Be at
the palace at seven this morning ready to attend me. And, as you value
your life, not a word of this to any one.’ And with that the Emperor
strode away.”

“Did Panine tell his tale to any besides you?”

“When I left him he was in doubt whether or not to communicate it to his
fellow ministers.”

“And he doesn’t know who the Czar’s opponent is?”

“Hasn’t the least notion. The man was masked, you see.”

“But his costume should serve to identify him.”

“It would, if Panine could remember what the fellow wore. I should very
much like to know the name of the man. To cut the Czar out in love, and
then to stand up to him in a duel! Gad! the fellow must have the audacity
of the devil!”

“Audacity, my dear uncle, was always the mark of a Courtenay.”

For a moment the Ambassador stared blankly at Wilfrid; then the truth
burst upon him.

“Good God!” he gasped! “You don’t mean that—that——!”

“The Czar’s opponent is distant from you by no more than the length of a
table.”

It would not be true to say that Lord St. Helens’s hair rose on end, but
it very nearly accomplished that feat.

“I accepted the challenge to-night,” continued Wilfrid, “from a masked
stranger, whose anger apparently had been kindled at seeing me receive a
kiss from a certain lady. The fellow refused his name, but from his voice
I took him to be Prince Ouvaroff. It seems now that I was wrong, and that
my opponent is a much more august character.”

Overwhelmed by the startling news the Ambassador could do nothing for
a few moments but gaze in a sort of speechless terror at his nephew.
Finding his voice at last he said: “This is a devilishly awkward affair.
Let me know how it all happened?”

Wilfrid related the whole story from his first meeting with Baranoff in
Berlin down to that night’s scene at the masquerade, adding:—

“How was I to know it was the Czar? He talked exactly like an ordinary
mortal. You told me yesterday that it was Ouvaroff’s intention to pick a
quarrel with me, and as the stranger had a voice very like Ouvaroff’s I
naturally concluded——”

“Alexander and Ouvaroff are half-brothers, as you know. Their voices
_are_ very similar. Now, what’s to be done in this matter?” continued the
Ambassador with a thoughtful regard for his nephew’s safety.

“My first care must be to communicate with Panine. It will relieve him to
know that the duel will not come off.”

“But why shouldn’t it come off?”

“Your opponent is an emperor.”

“And are not we Courtenays the descendants of emperors? ‘Equal to
Cæsars,’ is not that our motto?”

“Come! this is mere bravado. You cannot really be serious in saying you
will fight the Czar.”

“The Archangel Gabriel himself, if he came between me and the woman
I love. It is easy to see how matters stand with the Princess. She
hates the Czar’s addresses, but does not know how to repel them. And
diplomatists like you would bid me stand aside and let him work his
libertine will with the sweet lady who loves me, because, forsooth, he
is a Czar, between whom and me an awful gulf is fixed! Czar me no Czar!
On this condition only will I withdraw, that he hands the Princess over
to me; if not, he fights.”

Lord St. Helens became full of dismay, as he realised that Wilfrid was
perfectly serious in his utterance. If Alexander were equally determined
there was no power on earth to stay the duel; and since Wilfrid had no
peer in swordsmanship, what but ill would befall the Czar in a mortal
combat? In cooler moments Wilfrid might not wish to kill the Emperor, but
in the hot excitement of the duel, when he saw before him the man who was
persecuting the Princess with unwelcome attentions, there was no knowing
what might happen, especially if Wilfrid’s anger should be aggravated by
the smarting of a wound.

“And pray, sir,” said the Ambassador after vainly expostulating with his
nephew, “pray, sir, who is to be your second in this infamous business?”

“I am going to ask _you_ to officiate in that capacity.”

The Ambassador felt as if he were choking.

“Go to Gehenna!” he yelled.

“You won’t? What will the family think when they hear that you have
refused to stand by me in an affair of honour. Who’s to conduct my
funeral if I fall?”

“I’d be most infernally happy to conduct your funeral at this present
moment. Cease this foolery, and talk sense—if you can. Should this freak
end in the wounding or it may be, the killing of the Czar—which heaven
forbid!—to whom do you intend to look for safety?”

“To you, of course.”

“To me?”

“Most certainly. Doesn’t the nation pay you £10,000 a year to look after
British subjects in Russia, of whom I am one?”

“_I_ to protect you?”

“If you don’t the British public will want to know the reason! Remember
that the duel is not of _my_ seeking; he challenged me, not I him. In an
autocratic realm what can a man do when its ruler insists on fighting
him? It’s useless to go against the will of a fellow who can send you to
Siberia for disobedience. And if he fall, whose is the blame?” “Well, I
must be off,” continued Wilfrid, glancing at his watch; “but before going
I should like—of course, with your permission—to see young Mulgrave,”
naming his uncle’s chief secretary. “He is a man of spirit, and will
stand by me in this affair.”

“Do you think——?” began the Ambassador angrily, and then broke off as if
hit by some sudden thought. “Well, I’ll send for him, and you’ll hear
what he thinks. Perhaps you’ll listen to him, if not to me.”

He pencilled a few words upon a card and touched a hand-bell, whose chime
immediately brought in a servitor in livery. Handing him the card, and
pointing to the name upon it, the Ambassador said with a meaning look,

“Tell him to come at once.”

The man had no sooner set eyes upon the card than he gave a slight start,
glanced oddly at Wilfrid, and withdrew without a word.

“Oho, my uncle,” thought Wilfrid, who had observed this little by-play,
“why did you give a written message, when an oral one would have
sufficed? There is something on that card you do not wish me to see. Very
good! Forewarned is forearmed.”

After a brief interval there came a tapping at the door.

“Wait a moment, Williams,” cried Lord St. Helens. “Stay outside till I
call.”

“Williams? Why, I thought it was Mulgrave you sent for?” said Wilfrid in
mock surprise.

Ignoring this question, the Ambassador said with a stern air:—

“I am to take it, then, that you have quite made up your mind to fight
this duel?”

“Certainly.”

“Well, I have made up my mind that you shall not.”

“And how do you propose to stop me?”

“You are not in Russia now, remember. This Embassy is Great Britain,
or rather, a part of Great Britain in Russia. As the representative
of His Majesty King George, I am, so long as you are in this house,
your sovereign, and you are my subject. In the exercise of my lawful
authority——”

“You’ll put me under arrest,” said Wilfrid, smiling amiably. “Yes, I
thought that was the idea when you sent out that little note.”

Somewhat disconcerted at Wilfrid’s guessing his intention, and uneasy,
too, at his air of unconcern, the Ambassador called out: “Come in.”

At the summons there trooped in five athletic men, lackeys apparently.
Their attire, consisting of shirt and breeches only, showed that they had
been hastily roused from sleep. They advanced a little way into the room,
and then stood still, awaiting orders. Wondering what the trouble was
about, they glanced alternately from the flushed uncle to the cool nephew.

“This madman,” said Lord St. Helens, indicating Wilfrid, who bowed
sarcastically, “my nephew, I regret to say, is an enemy to Great Britain.
In the name of the King, I call upon you to arrest him and to take
him to the Green Chamber, where he must remain till he has renounced
his treasonable designs. Sorry, Wilfrid, my boy,” he added, in a side
whisper; “but I’ve no other course. Go quietly, like a sensible fellow,”
he added, as he saw the fighting spirit gleam from Wilfrid’s eye. “You
can’t contend against five men.”

But Wilfrid, having formed his plan, proceeded to act. The only light in
the room came from the six tapers in the chandelier above his head. As
the five men moved slowly forward, Wilfrid, with one swift bound, sprang
aloft and hung his whole weight upon the chandelier. Down it came in an
instant, and almost before it reached the floor he had extinguished the
six lights by the easy process of flinging the table-cloth over them.

By this action, the work of not more than four seconds, the room was
plunged into sudden darkness.

“Look to the door,” screamed the Ambassador.

Tumbling over each other in their haste the five raced back, and ranged
themselves in fighting order before the door, the only exit from the room.

In the dead silence that followed, the Ambassador and his satellites
strained eye and ear, endeavouring to discover by sight or sound what
Wilfrid’s next movement would be.

They had not long to wait.

From the far end of the apartment there suddenly darted intermittent
rays of light, apparently caused by the wavering of a heavy curtain that
draped one of the windows overlooking the canal. Simultaneously all were
seized with the same idea. Wilfrid was going to—

Crash!

The sound was like that of a sheet of glass shivered to atoms by the
impact of a heavy body, and was instantly followed by the splash of water.

“Good God! He’s leaped into the Fontanka, through glass and all,” cried
the Ambassador.

Men falling into that shallow canal have been known never to rise again
from its deep deposit of mud!

The Ambassador ran to the window, thrusting the heavy curtain on one
side. Moved by a common impulse, the five men ran too.

The Ambassador unfastened the catch, flung open the window, and, with
his body half out, looked down upon the water, whose surface had upon it
a rippling ring that grew wider and wider each moment, a ring obviously
caused by the fall of a body.

The watchers kept their eyes fixed upon the centre of this ring, waiting
for Wilfrid’s head to appear. The circle spread outward farther and
farther, till it became imperceptible to the sense of sight. The surface
of the water grew smooth again; one minute passed, two, three, and still
Wilfrid was not to be seen, nor any trace of him.

“By God! he’s gone! Caught in the mud at the bottom,” said the Ambassador
in awe-struck tones.

“Still alive, dear uncle!” said a voice, coming from the direction of the
door.

So deep was the amazement of the Ambassador and his lackeys at hearing
the voice of one whom they had just taken for dead that for the moment
they were powerless to do anything except to stare, vacant-eyed and
open-mouthed, at Wilfrid’s smiling face, which in the dim light could be
seen peeping in at them from the other side of the half-open door.

“I knew that crash would fetch ’em from the door. Your attempt to
imprison me, dear uncle, has cost you seven hundred roubles, for your
marble Diana is lying at the bottom of the Fontanka. Well, good-bye! I’m
off to that meeting!”

Recovering from their stupor, the five men, mortified at being thus
fooled, rushed forward, too late, however, to repair their blunder.

During their three minutes’ watch at the window, Wilfrid had quietly
removed the key from the inner side of the room to the outer, and before
his foes had time to reach him, he shut the door, locked it, put the key
in his pocket, walked downstairs, and escaped safely to the street.




CHAPTER XXII

“THIS DUEL MUST NOT BE”


Wilfrid’s statement that he would face the Czar in duel was no boast, but
who should be his second?

Having no very high opinion of the Czar’s honour, Wilfrid considered it
advisable to have a friendly witness to see fair play. But who would care
to be his companion in a venture so perilous? He rapidly ran over in his
mind the limited circle of friends, or rather of acquaintances, he had
made in St. Petersburg, and knew full well there was not one upon whose
spirit he could rely. Second the Czar’s adversary! The very idea would
take away their breath.

Without knowing it he had stopped short before the French Embassy, a fact
of which he was made aware by observing a covered carriage whose panels
bore the armorial device of the Marquis de Vaucluse.

A moment afterwards the French Ambassador appeared, descending the steps
of his mansion.

“Ah!” murmured Wilfrid, an idea striking him. “Perhaps M. de Vaucluse can
recommend a man bold enough to act as my second.”

The Marquis, about to step into his carriage, stopped on seeing Wilfrid,
and advanced with outstretched hand.

“I must apologise,” said Wilfrid, “for returning from the masquerade
without the Baroness, but a grave event has called me away. Can you
favour me with a word in private?”

De Vaucluse led the way into the entrance hall, and thence into a small
cabinet.

“To be brief, Monsieur, I have been challenged to a duel. It is to take
place within four hours, and at some distance from St. Petersburg. At so
short a notice I have a difficulty in finding a second, especially as I
have but few friends in this city. Can you recommend a gentleman, one of
resolute courage, inasmuch as my adversary is a high political personage?”

“Supposing that I cannot name one?”

“In that case I must proceed alone.”

“That shall not be. It shall never be said that a _seigneur_ of old
France was lacking in chivalry. Permit me to have the honour.”

“The honour is mine; but will you not be compromising your own character
as ambassador?”

“Hasn’t Pauline told you what has happened? No? France has at the present
moment no representative in St. Petersburg. Two weeks ago I forwarded
my resignation to the Consulate. It was accepted, and my successor will
arrive within a few days. My resignation,” he continued in answer to
Wilfrid’s look of inquiry, “has no connection with politics. It has been
made on purely personal grounds. I desire Pauline to leave Russia, and I
see no other way of accomplishing my end than by leaving it myself.”

While speaking he glanced keenly at Wilfrid, as if to mark the effect of
his words, and seemed to derive satisfaction from Wilfrid’s blank look;
for, the Princess excepted, there was no one in St. Petersburg whom
Wilfrid liked better than Pauline, and therefore he heard the news with
deep regret.

“Your offer to be my second is extremely generous, but you will do well
to refrain till you shall have heard the name of my adversary.”

“A _seigneur_ of France knows not fear. I am your second whoever be
your adversary. A high political personage? Humph! One of the Czar’s
ministers, I suppose?”

“Higher than a minister.”

“_Ciel!_ Surely not a Grand Duke?”

“Higher than a Grand Duke.”

The Marquis looked hard at Wilfrid.

“There is no one higher than a Grand Duke except the Czar.”

“Incredible as it may appear, my adversary _is_ the Czar!”

The Marquis showed surprise, yet that surprise was not so great as
Wilfrid had expected. There was about him an air of satisfaction, as if
he were pleased at the situation.

“With what weapons do you fight?”

“With swords.”

“And you are deadly with the sword, I understand,” said the Marquis. “As
most duels are caused by a lady,” he went on, “I presume yours is no
exception to the rule?”

“No exception.”

He begged for a little light on the matter, and Wilfrid accordingly gave
a hurried account of the events that had brought him into connection
with the Princess Marie, making no mention, however, of the compromising
adventure at the Silver Birch. The Marquis was deeply interested, and—a
puzzling point to Wilfrid—even pleased. He seemed to brighten more and
more as the story reached its climax.

“I thought I was well acquainted with all the personalities of the
Russian court,” he remarked at the close of Wilfrid’s narration, “but I
must confess that this Princess Marie is to me an unknown person. And the
duel is to be to the death?”

“So said the Czar.”

“Then I hope you will kill him!”

“Monsieur!” said Wilfrid, surprised at the vehemence of the other’s
utterance.

“I hope,” repeated the Marquis, slowly emphasising each word,
“that—you—will—kill—him!”

“You have suffered a wrong at his hand?”

“Not yet, but it is certain to come if his life continue. It were better
for—for some of us that he were dead. Therefore, as I have said, I hope
you will kill him.”

“He mayn’t give me the opportunity,” smiled Wilfrid. “Should I find
myself his superior, I shall just show him what I _could_ do with his
life if I chose; but as to killing him, what would Paul—the Baroness
say if I were to slay the Czar? Is he not her hero? But, monsieur, on
reflection I will ask you to withdraw from this affair. Though Alexander
may pardon my wounding him his ministers may not prove so chivalrous.
Should the Czar be brought home injured there will be a hue and cry for
his assailants. Why should I imperil your life as well as my own?”

“In asking me to be your second you have conferred a high honour upon
me. This affair is certain to be famous. We shall live in history—you
and I. You see,” he went on with a smile, “that vanity has something to
do with my motives. Now, as your second, let me urge you to leave St.
Petersburg at once, lest your uncle or Panine should communicate this
matter to the police. The Czar they dare not meddle with, but they would
not hesitate to seize his opponent. Did you tell your uncle the place of
the rendezvous? You did not? And Panine does not know it? Good! Set off
this minute. Take my carriage; it is drawn by my two fleetest horses. A
little beyond the eighth verst-post you say? Ah! that is very fortunate,
since near that same verst-post, but on this side of it, lives Ruric,
the charcoal burner. He is one of Pauline’s freed serfs. You have but to
mention her name, and there is nothing he will not do to serve you.”

“I do not understand.”

“To meet the Czar you must be near the rendezvous, but not too near.”

“Why so?”

“Supposing the secret of the rendezvous has become known, what more
likely than that a band of Cossacks will be despatched to the spot to
carry you off before the Czar arrives? Now this Ruric resides a little
way past the seventh verst-post in a hut not visible from the road, which
at this point is bordered on both sides by dense forest. He dwells on the
left side of the road; the appointed glade, you say, is on the right.
While you remained concealed within his hut, he can reconnoitre for you
without exciting suspicion. Should he report the presence of police or
soldiers, you will know that you have been betrayed, in which case you
will do well not to show yourself. As for me, I will join you later, not
leaving the city till the last moment to mark if anything suspicious
takes place. When you are passing the seventh verst-post Ivor will drive
the carriage close to the trees, and when opposite the path spring out
without stopping the carriage, and by following the path you’ll come to
the hut. Meanwhile, the carriage will drive on, returning to the city
by a circuitous route, so that should any mounted spies be following,
they’ll be thrown off the scent. For the present, farewell, and good
fortune attend you.”

With that the Marquis wrung Wilfrid’s hand and accompanied him to the
door, and having first taken a precautionary glance along the street he
pushed Wilfrid into the carriage.

“I am unarmed, monsieur,” observed Wilfrid. “A sword would be——”

“No, no! Don’t play into the enemy’s hand. They’ll do no hurt to a nephew
of the British Ambassador if you yield quietly. But offer resistance, and
that’ll be a convenient excuse for putting a bullet through your head.
Your single sword will be no match for a dozen carbines.”

He whispered a few words of instruction in the driver’s ear, and Ivor set
off at the furious gallop common to all Muscovite coachmen.

“So he intends merely to wound him,” murmured De Vaucluse as he walked
slowly back to the cabinet. “Ah, but accidents may happen! It were better
for Pauline that he were dead. It is the only way to save her from——”

The sound of light footsteps came tripping along outside the cabinet, and
the next moment his daughter appeared.

On seeing her father Pauline sprang forward to kiss him. Full of a
pleasurable excitement, she did not notice that he gave her but a cold
reception.

“Ah! _mon père_, why were you not at the masquerade to-night to witness
my triumph? See, I bring home the tiara given as the prize for the
daintiest costume. Do I not look beautiful?” she added, placing the
ornament upon her dark hair and glancing with pardonable pride at her
image in the mirror.

“’Twere better if you were less beautiful!”

There was in his words an intonation that caused Pauline to look hard at
him as if she were trying to read his thoughts. He returned her look, and
for a few moments they stood gazing at each other.

Pauline did not, however, seem at all disconcerted.

“_Mon père_, how grave you are! I will show you by and by that you have
reason for joy.”

“Pauline, my mind is made up. Within a few hours we set out for Lovisa.”

“Lovisa! In Finland?”

“And thence to Sweden. You and I are leaving St. Petersburg for ever.”

“For ever! That is a long time, _mon père_, especially when I have the
best reason in the world for remaining in Russia.”

“Your reason—I know it well—for remaining is the very reason that induces
me to remove you.”

A smile of triumph appeared on her lips.

“I fear that you misapprehend the situation. Nay, I am sure you do. When
you hear all I have to say you will change your mind.”

“Nothing that you can say will induce me to change my mind. You will set
out first; I will follow later. Lord Courtenay will perhaps accompany us:
at least, I will do my best to persuade him. It will not be safe for him
to remain any longer in Russia.”

“Why, what new piece of mischief has that knight-errant been doing?”

“This morning at eight o’clock he commits the most daring deed of his
life.”

Pauline elevated her pretty eyebrows in surprise.

“A daring deed! He did not tell me of it to-night. You are more in his
confidence than I am. You have a story to tell, is it not so? Eh, _bien_,
tell it me. See, I am listening. I am, as the English say, all ears.”

“Had you returned two minutes earlier you would have met Lord Courtenay.”

“What! has he been here?”

“He was in this room with a story that should interest you—you, perhaps,
more than any other person,” said her father drily. “At the masquerade
Lord Courtenay chanced to meet a certain lady.”

“I was hoping that he would.”

“A lady whose true name he has never been able to learn.”

“Her reticence on that point is a high tribute to his sense of virtue.
She knows very well that on his hearing it he would have no more to do
with her.”

“What! you know this lady?”

“My enemy. Siberia would now be my home could she have her way.”

“Who is she?”

“That’s a surprise I’ll keep in reserve. You shall learn by and by.
Continue your story, _mon père_.”

“Do you know that this lady is loved by Alexander?”

“You should put that remark in the past tense,” said Pauline with an odd
smile.

“This favourite of the Czar was so gracious as to bestow a kiss upon Lord
Courtenay, and, unfortunately for her, the Czar himself witnessed the
act.”

Pauline laughed softly.

“The very result desired by me,” she said.

“You are pleased. Yes, I can quite comprehend your motive in wishing that
this lady should forfeit the Czar’s regard. You will not find the sequel
so pleasing. The Czar and Lord Courtenay came to words.”

“Over the lady! Strange, when matters were taking a course acceptable to
all three! And I suppose that Lord Courtenay, so bold before Paul, was
equally bold with Paul’s son?”

“He did not know at the time that he was speaking to Paul’s son, since
Alexander would neither remove his mask nor disclose his identity. But
Lord Courtenay has learned his name since.”

“And what was the end of the affair?”

“The end comes this morning at eight, when the Czar and Lord Courtenay
cross swords!”

In a moment Pauline’s airy manner was gone. She rose from her seat,
trembling in every limb, but sank down again apparently powerless.

“A duel!” she gasped.

“To the death! Such is Alexander’s determination.”

“A duel!” she repeated in hollow tones. “Between those two! Oh, it can’t
be! You say this to frighten me. Emperors don’t fight duels.”

“Alexander acted, perhaps, on the spur of the moment in giving a
challenge to the finest swordsman of the day, but having given it he will
keep his word.”

“Lord Courtenay must be persuaded to withdraw.”

“Pshaw! As well bid the sun not shine! That his opponent is the Czar
lends added zest to the fight.”

Pauline shuddered.

“He dare not kill the Czar.”

“Not purposely, perhaps, but in the hot excitement of——”

“Speak the truth, _mon père_,” interrupted Pauline with an indignant flash
of her eyes. “Say that you are hoping to see the Czar killed!”

“That _is_ my hope.”

“Why?”

“Can _you_ ask why?” returned the Marquis. “To preserve the honour of
Pauline de Vaucluse. And that is the reason why I, her father, am acting
as Lord Courtenay’s second. Can he have a more suitable one?”

“Your daughter’s honour was never at hazard,” said Pauline haughtily,
rising to her full stature and facing her father. “Do you think that I
would ever consent to become the Czar’s mistress? You doubt my word, I
see.”

Taking from her bosom a small scroll of parchment, she unfolded it, and
held it before the eyes of the Marquis.

“Perhaps this will convince you. Here you have the reason why I have
consorted so much with Alexander.”

The Marquis took the scroll in both hands, which trembled with suppressed
agitation. Though there was not much writing on the scroll he had to read
it several times before he could grasp its meaning. And when at last its
meaning _was_ grasped, his face wore a ghastly smile, the half-believing,
half-sceptical smile of the pauper, when suddenly told that he is heir to
stores of gold.

“You see what a traitress I have been to your diplomatic policy? But you
forgive me, _mon père_; is it not so? You give up Bonaparte from this day
henceforth. The Bourbons must be your friends now as they once were.”

“Can this be true?” murmured the Marquis hoarsely, lifting his eyes from
the document to his daughter’s face.

“There is the signature. You have seen it many a time, and should know
whether it is genuine.”

Bewildered, the Marquis sank upon a sofa. A new feeling stole over him as
he contemplated his beautiful daughter—a feeling of admiration bordering
upon awe.

“Then,” said he, “who on earth is the lady whom Lord Courtenay met at the
masquerade?”

“Did you say that Lord Courtenay has been here?”

“Yes.”

“In this room?”

“Nowhere else.”

“And didn’t notice that?” said Pauline, pointing to a lady’s portrait
hanging upon the wall.

“My God!” gasped the Marquis, more startled than ever. “Is _that_ the
lady?”

“None other. Now you see why this duel must not be.”




CHAPTER XXIII

WILFRID’S ABDUCTION


It was past five o’clock when Wilfrid sprang from the coach on the Viborg
Road and disappeared down the narrow path that wound through a forest of
pines, while the vehicle continued on its way northwards.

After a few hundred paces the path opened out into a little clearing,
in the middle of which stood a rough log cabin, such as the Russian
peasant raises with his own hand. Ornamental carving marked the eaves and
doorposts, and on the straw thatch rested heavy stones, placed there to
prevent the cottage from being unroofed by tempest.

The tenant was already at work preparing a pile of timber for charcoal
burning. Wilfrid liked the look of the man, and felt that any trust
placed in him would not be betrayed.

First hailing the fellow with a cheery “Good-morning,” Wilfrid went on to
speak of the Baroness Runö, at the mention of whose name the peasant’s
eyes glistened with a grateful light. It was clear that if he could do
anything to serve her or her friends he would do it. So Wilfrid in a few
words explained the object of his visit, without, however, mentioning the
name of his august opponent.

“Now, good Ruric, you understand my position. The Baroness’s father,
who is my second, advised me to leave the city before him lest the
authorities should stop the duel by arresting me.”

“Surely, surely,” nodded the man. “’Twas wise.”

“To keep a clear head and eye I must have two hours’ sleep. But while I
sleep what is to prevent my enemies from coming upon me?”

“Little father, they shall not do that. I will keep watch for you.”

“Good! Well, then, while I rest in your hut, do you from the shelter
of the trees keep an eye upon the road near the eighth verst-post, and
should anything suspicious occur come at once and rouse me. You shall
have roubles for your trouble.”

“It is enough reward for me,” returned Ruric, “to know that I am serving
a friend of the Lady Pauline.”

He led the way into his hut, which consisted of one room only, with
furniture of a primitive type. Ruric lived all alone, it seemed, having
neither wife nor child.

Left to himself Wilfrid sat down upon a wooden bench and soon dropped off
into unconsciousness.

He was roused from sleep by the touch of a hand upon his shoulder.
Lifting his head he was startled to see, standing around him, nine men.
Their flat features and peculiar dress seemed to bespeak a Finnish
origin, a remark not applicable to the one who acted as chief, for he was
a man of handsome and aristocratic appearance, middle-aged, and wearing
a costume that might have belonged to a French gentleman of the old
_régime_.

“You are Lord Courtenay, I presume?” said this gentleman, bowing politely
and speaking in French.

“That is a name I never deny.”

“I am Dr. Beauvais, physician at one time to his late majesty Louis XVI.”

“And why this visit? ‘They that be whole need not a physician—’ You know
the rest.”

“Pardon me, monsieur, it is my humble wish that you accompany me to a
carriage that stands hard by.”

“And how if I decline to come?”

Dr. Beauvais shrugged his shoulders.

“Monsieur will surely not oblige us to use force?”

Force? Oh, why had De Vaucluse refused him a sword? With that in his
hand he would have faced the nine. But without a weapon he was entirely
in their power. Good-bye now to his hopes of a duel with the Czar! He
saw that some one, friendly to Alexander, had got to know of the coming
fight, and, with a view of preventing it, had sent these men to carry him
off.

“Use force,” he said, repeating the other’s words. “That may bring
trouble upon you. I am here to meet the Czar by his special desire.
Remove me, and you make a mock of his majesty.”

“It is because we know the nature of this intended meeting that we are
here to prevent it.”

“You are prepared to face the Czar’s displeasure?”

“We are prepared to do the bidding of the person that sent us. Time
presses; I must ask you to accompany me.”

Vain would it be for Wilfrid to threaten Beauvais with the name of his
uncle, Lord St. Helens. If the doctor cared little for an emperor, he
was likely to care still less for an ambassador. Physical resistance
was certain to end in his humiliation, at least in the hut; but outside
in the free air it might be possible to break through the ring of his
captors and escape by fleetness of foot.

But the doctor had read his thoughts.

“You must pledge your word of honour as an English gentleman that you
will not seek to escape; that when in the coach you will raise no cry for
help, make no sign to passers-by; nay, that you will not venture even to
peer through the blinds. Of course, if monsieur, instead of travelling
pleasantly and comfortably, prefers to be corded and gagged——”

Wilfrid gave the required pledge, adding, with a hard smile:—

“Lead on. At present you are master of the situation; ere long I may be;
in which case, Dr. Beauvais, a mere apology will not content me.”

The little procession moved out of the hut into the open sunshine,
traversed the winding path, and came to the high road, where stood a
covered carriage with drawn blinds. Wilfrid stepped into the vehicle,
followed by the doctor only, who closed the door after him. It seemed
that the eight men were not accompanying them, a fact that showed
Beauvais’ faith in Wilfrid’s word of honour. The horses’ heads were set
in the direction of St. Petersburg, and since the carriage moved off
without turning round, Wilfrid concluded that he was being taken back
to the city. After half an hour’s riding the sound of other vehicles
blending with the hum of human voices convinced him that he had now
reached the outskirts of the capital. Noting the slant of the sun’s rays
as they came through the carriage windows he was of the opinion that the
vehicle was going due west. If it continued in this direction long he
would soon be out of the city again and in the district known as “The
Islands,” or delta of the Neva, a region of groves and waters, adorned
here and there with bungalows. These islands, left in winter to snow and
wolves, become, in summer, flowering and leafy paradises, the favourite
resort of the fashionable world of St. Petersburg.

The coach stopped at last without having deviated much from its westerly
course. Beauvais alighted, and Wilfrid following suit, found himself in a
quiet spot upon the northern shore of the Neva, close to the water’s edge.

Westwards, as far as the horizon, stretched an expanse of blue sea,
the bay conducting to the island-fortress of Cronstadt, distant about
eighteen miles. Southwards, and separated from them by a channel not more
than a furlong wide, was a small isle consisting of green lawns and pine
woods; and, rising prettily above them, a castle, built in true Gothic
style.

Wilfrid recognised the edifice in a moment as being the original of
the needlework picture that hung in Pauline’s boudoir. He was casting
eyes for the first time upon her island and Castle of Runö, the insular
demesne that furnished her with the title of baroness.

A real old feudal castle, with Pauline for its queen, would have been
welcomed at any other time; but, as matters were then, Wilfrid was
possessed by a feeling of bitterness towards its fair owner, for it
scarcely admitted a doubt that he had been carried off by her orders.
On her return from the masquerade she had learned from her father of
the intended duel, and had planned this abduction for the purpose of
preventing it.

On the river bank, waiting for Beauvais and his companion, were two
sturdy Finlanders in charge of a small rowing-boat. It would have been
easy for Wilfrid to take to his heels; but, honouring his plighted word,
he stepped with the doctor into the boat, was rowed across the channel,
and was soon treading the green turf of Runö.

Entering the castle, Wilfrid was led through several corridors and
apartments, till his conductor stopped at last before a certain door, at
which he tapped thrice.

“Come in,” said a sweet and familiar voice.

Beauvais drew aside, and Wilfrid entered the room alone.

Of the size, character, and furnishings of this apartment, he took no
note; his eye rested on one object alone, the figure of Pauline, the sole
occupant of the room. She had risen to receive him, and stood looking
somewhat paler than usual. Her half-smile of greeting died away as she
beheld his stern glance.

“So it is to _you_, then, that I owe this abduction?”

“Am I not acting for the best?” she said, in a faint voice.

“I compliment you upon your new greatness,” he continued sarcastically.

“My new greatness?” she faltered.

“Yes. If the Czar may not fight a duel when he is so disposed, then it is
not the Czar that rules, but the Baroness Runö.”

She looked at him with a sort of fear in her eyes, as if detecting some
hidden meaning in his words.

“Do you know that you have made me lose my honour?” he continued.

“In what way?”

“You have caused me to break my word to be at a certain spot by eight
this morning. My absence will be attributed to fear.”

At this point Pauline’s pent up excitement bubbled over in a quick
agitated flow of words.

“You have no right,” she cried, “to undertake this duel. A chance slip of
your blade, and all might be over with Alexander. And how would you save
yourself from death? Whither would you flee? To the British Embassy? Do
you think that the people of St. Petersburg, roused to fury by the death
of the Czar, would care anything for the law of nations? You, and the
uncle that gave you protection, and all the English within the building,
would be dragged forth into the streets and massacred. Think of others,
if you will not think of yourself. The Czar, in condescending to waive
his rank and to meet you in duel, is acting like a gentleman, but you are
not acting as such in taking advantage of his condescension. Indifferent
as to whether you kill Alexander, indifferent as to whether the Peace
Treaty be signed, indifferent as to whether you plunge an empire into
mourning, or cover European politics with inextricable confusion, you
wish for the duel merely to boast of being the only man in history to
cross swords with a Czar, merely to be talked about. Not honour, or
truth, or justice, calls you to this duel, but sheer vanity, and vanity
alone.”

She paused, completely out of breath, with her rapid speaking. Never had
Wilfrid seen her looking so angry; and he was fain to confess that her
lifted hand, the unstudied grace of her figure, the sparkling of her eye,
and the colour that burned on her cheek, gave a new aspect to her beauty.

“I want to be talked about?” said he, taking up her words with a feeling
that he had been somewhat hard hit by them. “Well, and what if I do?
Call it vanity, if you like. The poet will style it fame; the soldier
glory; the statesman ambition. As to this idol of yours, this unclean
thing called a Czar, the craven who shrank from punishing his father’s
assassins, who let a printed lie go forth to the world, who continued his
father’s war, and then made peace as soon as he heard the British fleet
was coming—whether he be worthy of your fiery defence is a question I
shall leave to the judgment of history.”

At the word “unclean,” the scarlet glow of anger on Pauline’s face gave
way to a deathly white. Wilfrid could see that her teeth were set, and
that she breathed hard. Her look of anguish was so keen that he almost
regretted his use of the word. And yet, was it not applicable?

She was silent for a few moments, and when she spoke it was in a humbler
key.

“The one desire of my life, as you know, is to see the Bourbons restored
to the throne of France. Alexander has advanced a step in this direction
by breaking with the First Consul, Napoleon; his next will be to declare
war against him. If, then, Alexander should fall by your hand, and such
accident _might_ happen, that barbarian Constantine would be Czar, and
then, good-bye to my bright hopes, for he favours Bonaparte. No, Lord
Courtenay, you shall not imperil my plans. For this seizure of your
person I have the sanction of the British Government——”

“What?” cried Wilfrid incredulously.

“That is, if Lord St. Helens be the representative of the British
Government, as I suppose he is. I had a ten-minutes’ interview with him
early this morning, and he approved this plan of mine.”

“He did, did he?” muttered Wilfrid, a little confounded to find that
Pauline was acting with a sort of quasi-legality. “And pray, how long do
you propose to detain me here?”

She hesitated; and then, adopting a gentler tone, she said, with a
persuasive look:—

“Promise me—promise that you will give up all thoughts of this duel, and
you are free now.”

“Such promise I will never give.”

“Then here you will remain,” she said firmly, “till you be of a better
mind.”

“That answer cancels all friendship between us. Baroness, I have said my
last word to you.”

With a look that cut her to the heart, he turned his back upon her; and
then, seized with the sudden hope of being able to force his way from the
castle, he made quickly for the door by which he had entered, only to
find that it had been locked on the outside by Beauvais. He turned back
just in time to see Pauline disappear through the only remaining door.
Ere he could cross the room she had closed this door and turned the key
in the lock.

Foiled in his attempt Wilfrid looked angrily round upon the place
appointed for his detention. It was an apartment dainty with pictures
and tapestry, with velvet carpeting and costly furniture. The bookcase
contained the works of those English authors for whom he had once
expressed a preference in Pauline’s hearing. Upon a table was an epergne
crowned with fruit of different kinds. Various sorts of wines glowed in
decanters, and Wilfrid, reading the silver labels, saw in them another
tribute to Pauline’s memory. A box of fragrant Havanas was likewise to be
seen. It was evidently the aim of the Baroness to make his captivity as
pleasant as possible.

To avail himself of these luxuries would, to a certain extent, placate
Pauline; for this very reason he resolved to abstain from them.

After a long and careful scrutiny of the apartment, with its barred
windows, locked doors, solid walls, and flooring of oak, Wilfrid sat
down to think out some plan of escape; but whatever shape the attempt
might take, its execution must be deferred till nightfall. The numerous
servants, moving in and around the castle, would make his flight in the
face of day difficult, if not impossible.

His natural longing for freedom was intensified by the wish to see the
Princess again, the desired of the Czar! As he contemplated his position,
nameless terrors for her safety seized him. He was tormented with a mixed
sensation of love and jealousy, fear and despair; in this mood he sprang
to his feet again, and paced the apartment, inwardly raging against the
Czar, Lord St. Helens, Beauvais, and above all, against Pauline, the
originator of his present misfortune.

The grating of a key caused him to sink quietly with folded arms into a
chair that faced one of the open windows, through which came a pleasant
breeze.

He did not even turn his head to notice who was entering, but the rustle
of silken skirts showed that the new-comer was a woman, and he supposed
that it was Pauline. He would abide by his word, and treat her with
silence.

Pauline—for it was she—suddenly stopped. The fruit and the wine had been
arranged by her own hand; she saw that neither had been touched. She
turned her eyes to the bookcase; not one volume had been lifted from its
shelf. With a strange sinking of heart she realised that he would take no
favour at her hands.

Though well aware that Pauline was standing by his chair, Wilfrid took
not the least notice of her, but continued to gaze fixedly through the
window over the Cronstadt Bay, whose waters glittered in the rays of the
afternoon sun.

“Lord Courtenay,” she said, with an air of humility, very rare in her,
“I regret that this—this state of affairs should have arisen between us.
Promise that you will not seek to renew this duel, and I will let you go.”

The colour of shame tinged her cheek as she spoke. What right had she
to detain him a prisoner against his will? Even the sanction of that
great potentate, Lord St. Helens, was proving but a sorry salve to her
conscience. Her cheek paled again when she found that Wilfrid remained
indifferent both to her presence and to her words.

“Give me your parole not to attempt escape, and you are free to wander at
will through the castle and the isle.”

There was no reply. With a fresh sinking of heart she recalled Wilfrid’s
utterance that he had spoken his last word to her.

“You are angry, I see; but I, too, have cause for anger in your resolve
to do hurt to the Czar. Give me credit for good intentions. I am acting
for the best interests of both parties. Why should two good men seek to
slay each other?”

Still Wilfrid sat staring stonily at the sea.

Observing in what direction his eyes were set she drew near to the
window, ostensibly to arrange a curtain, in reality to come within the
sphere of his vision. It would be a pleasure if only she could attract
his look. His glance fell on her form, apparently without noticing it;
his eyes seemed to look through and beyond her.

Humiliated beyond measure Pauline turned away, and with a quick step
quitted the apartment.

The moment she had gone Wilfrid allowed his hitherto grim face to relax
into a smile.

“You are not so hard in grain as I thought, Mistress Pauline. You are
beginning to feel remorse, and that remorse, if I err not, will work for
my good.”

Time flowed quietly on. The sunlight stole from point to point along the
tapestried wall, till finally it took its leave of the room altogether,
and still Wilfrid sat in silent meditation.

Again the grating of the key and an opening of the door; and again
Wilfrid showed his indifference by not turning his head.

This time it was two prettily attired maids who entered, each bearing
a tray laden with hot dishes, which they proceeded to arrange upon the
table.

“Will the little father be pleased to dine?”

The little father paid no attention, though being mightily hungry he had
secretly to confess that the savour arising from the dishes was very
appetising.

The maids repeated their words. Receiving no reply they glanced in
surprise at each other, whispered together for a moment, and then
withdrew.

“They will tell their mistress that the Englishman refuses to eat. She
will come here again.”

Nor was he wrong. Ere the lapse of an hour Pauline was again in the room,
and saw that the repast was cold and untouched.

“You cannot live on air.”

Wilfrid sat, the same impassive figure as before; to her eye it looked as
if he had not moved a muscle since her previous visit.

She contemplated him with secret terror. This grim silence, the silence
of one who seemed to have taken a vow upon him; this abstention from
food, served vividly to bring to her mind an anecdote he had once told
her of a certain Viking ancestor of his, who, enraged at some insult,
went home, sat by his fireside, refused to take food, and so died! Was
Wilfrid going to do the like?

Though secretly piqued, grieved, angered—there is no one word to describe
properly her strange feeling—by Wilfrid’s manner, she could not refrain
from addressing additional remarks to him, remarks whose tenor showed an
interest, and even a tenderness, in his welfare.

She might as well have talked to a statue. Animated by a spirit of
despair she at last put the question point blank:—

“Lord Courtenay, will you not speak?”

No! he would not; and to hide her vexation and tears, she flung herself
from the room.

“The woman is yielding,” was his thought. “Her next coming will be to set
me free.”

An opinion that proved correct. From the moment when she had first locked
the door upon Wilfrid, Pauline had been miserable. She could not see him
mortified without being mortified herself. What her head bade her do, her
heart bade her not do. All day long this struggle had been going on in
her mind, and when night came the struggle was too great to be borne any
longer.

The key turned in the lock, the door swung wide, and Pauline entered.
With timid steps she drew near to Wilfrid.

“Lord Courtenay,” she said humbly, “forgive me for carrying matters with
so high a hand. It has been done with good intent, to avert bloodshed;
but it—it pains me to keep you a prisoner. See! the door is open. My
Finland henchmen are withdrawn. You are free.”

Then, overcoming a sort of shame that had hitherto kept her from the act,
she knelt before him.

“Say that you forgive me, for I—I have been most wretched all the day.”

Hard indeed would have been the mortal who could have resisted the
wistful light of her dark eyes when added to the pleading tone of her
voice.

Moved by a sudden and natural impulse, Wilfrid took her hands within his
own and carried them to his lips; and by that act Pauline knew that she
was forgiven.




CHAPTER XXIV

THE FIGURE IN THE GREY DOMINO


“I have tasted nothing all the day,” said Pauline, “I could not eat while
you were fasting; but now, if you will give me your arm, Lord Courtenay,
you shall conduct me to a chamber below, where there is a dinner set
forth for us.”

Wilfrid, who received this news with a good deal of pleasure, for he
happened to be terribly hungry, escorted Pauline to the room in question.

The two maids who were preparing to station themselves at the table, were
dismissed by their impulsive mistress.

“Let me be your serving maid,” she whispered to Wilfrid.

There was about her an odd yet pretty air of penitence, an air that
gave place at times to soft laughter when some jest fell from Wilfrid;
then, as if conscious that gaiety did not become her so soon after her
ill-treatment of him, she would become grave again; and so, what with her
obvious desire to please him, and what with her winning glances, the last
trace of resentment faded from Wilfrid’s mind.

He could not help thinking it strange that Pauline, who had evidently
learned from her father all about the proposed duel, should betray no
curiosity as to the lady that had caused it, but so it was; and, since
she was silent on the matter, he himself maintained a similar reserve.

“Can you tell me,” he asked, “if the Czar attended the rendezvous?”

“Not if he believed in the lie of Lord St. Helens.”

“What was that?”

“A lie to which—what will you think of me?—I gave my sanction. At six
this morning your uncle was to repair to the Czar with the news that
Lord Courtenay, having discovered his opponent’s identity, had not
only retired from the combat, but was travelling post haste to Narva,
intending to take ship for his own country. In fact, it is your uncle’s
plan that you be kept here under my care while he arranges to have you
shipped and carried off to England. And in so doing he thinks he is
consulting your best interests. _My_ part of the plan,” added Pauline,
with a mock-mournful air, “has broken down. Now that you are free how do
you intend to act?” she added, a little nervously.

“The Czar must learn that I have not played the coward. I shall go to St.
Petersburg and somehow let him know that I am still in his capital, ready
to meet him in duel, if he be so disposed.”

Pauline sighed over Wilfrid’s romantic obstinacy.

“The Czar will learn,” said she, with a rueful little smile, “that you
were spirited away by Pauline de Vaucluse.”

“No, Baroness, no. I will suppress your name. You shall remain hidden
under the title of a—a—ahem! a misguided patriot.”

“You are not going to set off for St. Petersburg to-night, I presume,
seeing that it is now past ten o’clock?”

“No, I’ll defer my journey till the morning.”

Pauline sat in silence for a few moments, and then an odd light came into
her eyes, and she smote her forehead with a pretty little gesture.

“_Ciel!_ how stupid of me!” she exclaimed. “Strange, is it not, that
ideas the most obvious never seem to strike one at the time they should.”

“And what,” smiled Wilfrid, “is the obvious idea that you have
overlooked?”

“That I need not have taken the trouble to imprison you when a sentence,
one short sentence, would extinguish in you all desire for this duel.”

She spoke with a confidence such as half-disposed Wilfrid to believe her
statement true. But though pressed as to her meaning, she refused just
then to satisfy his curiosity.

“I will explain in the morning. You have had gloom enough for one day.
Let me not act the part of a kill-joy to-night.”

The dinner being over, Pauline sent for Dr. Beauvais,—her steward, as
well as physician—who, on entering, seemed surprised at beholding the two
on friendly terms again.

“Now mind, sir,” said Pauline to Wilfrid, with an air of mock command,
“no duelling with Dr. Beauvais, for I hear that you threatened him with
one this morning.”

“Dr. Beauvais, as a loyal servant of the Baroness, is a man for whom I
have the highest respect.”

“Then, in that case,” she smiled, “I can leave you safely with him.
You will pardon my retiring, but I have not closed my eyes since the
masquerade.”

Upon her withdrawal Beauvais proposed a cigar, and the pair sallied forth
from a portcullised archway.

“I did not expect to see a feudal-looking castle in this part of Europe,”
remarked Wilfrid.

“An architectural whim of the first Catharine,” returned Beauvais. “Built
in imitation of one in Livonia, that she had often admired when a peasant
girl.”

Before them in that faint, lovely twilight, which is the only night St.
Petersburg has in the month of July, lay a smooth, verdant lawn, fringed
by a dark pine-wood, whose vistas terminated in a distant shimmer of blue
water.

“If you are hesitating which way to go,” observed Wilfrid, “let us turn
to the Silver Strand.”

“Ah! Good! The view from that point is particularly fine.”

It was not the view that Wilfrid was thinking of, but the remark
overheard at the masquerade that the lady’s fan that had dropped into
the river would be carried by the current to this strand; and an
unaccountable impulse came upon him to verify the statement.

Smoking and conversing, the two men strolled leisurely onward through a
woodland path that finally opened upon a beach of glistening grey sand.

The view from it, as the doctor had said, was very fine, so fine that
Wilfrid forgot all about the fan.

Pauline’s island of Runö was situated near the entrance of one of the
deltoid arms of the Neva. Standing upon the Silver Strand and looking
eastwards Wilfrid had before him a long perspective of broad water, its
shores on each side dark with woods of birch and pine. Amid this night of
groves gleamed many a white villa, whose twinkling lights were mirrored
in the water. The beauty of the night had drawn the dwellers forth;
gondolas glided to and fro; the laughter of men and women, mingling with
the sweet strains of the guitar, came, mellowed by the distance, over the
smooth, blue water.

“A midsummer night’s dream,” murmured Wilfrid.

Turning to his companion he found that _his_ eyes were set, not upon the
river-view, but upon a part of the Silver Strand itself, and following
the direction of the doctor’s gaze, Wilfrid saw, some distance away, and
a few feet from the water’s edge, a recumbent figure bearing resemblance
to that of a woman.

She was lying at full length upon her left side, her face being turned
from them, lying in a somewhat singular attitude, Wilfrid thought; for
both arms were extended behind her back in such fashion as almost to
suggest that they were tied at the wrists; distance and the twilight
prevented him from seeing clearly whether such were the case.

“One of the Baroness’s girls asleep?” said Beauvais, taking the cigar
from his teeth. “_Parbleu!_ she chooses an odd hour and an odd place for
sleeping.”

Thinking to rouse her, he gave utterance to a shout, loud enough, one
would have thought, to awaken the soundest sleeper.

The woman did not stir.

The doctor looked at Wilfrid; Wilfrid looked at the doctor. There was
something weird in the sight of this lonely figure as it lay there,
silent and motionless, in the ghostly starlight, with the river plashing
faintly at its feet, above its head the night-wind sighing through the
pines.

Strange that both men hesitated to take the few paces necessary to solve
their doubts!

The doctor perhaps would have been puzzled to give _his_ reason. Far
different was it with Wilfrid; he hung back from facing the truth. All
the fear he had ever known, gathered up and sublimated into one tense,
overwhelming sensation, would have failed to equal the dread that fell
upon him at this moment as he discerned that the figure had fair, sunny
hair and a costume whose silvery grey colour was scarcely distinguishable
from the sand it touched!

What if it should be——?

Suddenly the doctor, throwing away his cigar, set off at a brisk run
in the direction of the figure, an action that caused Wilfrid to run
likewise.

He was the first to reach the silent woman, and saw that her ankles and
wrists were bound with cords. The face was hidden by a mask of grey silk
that had lost its crispness, apparently by saturation in water, for it
adhered to her features like a second skin. It had slipped downwards a
little, so that the eyes and mouth were hidden.

Wilfrid stooped and lifted the mask.

And it was the Princess, cold and dead!




CHAPTER XXV

THE DOCTOR’S PLOT


When Wilfrid saw the Princess manifesting every sign of death, there came
over him that strange feeling that often follows a fall from a great
height, a numbing of the limbs and a dulling of the senses.

He could hear the melancholy lap-lap of the water upon the sands and the
distant strains of music, without understanding the origin of the sounds;
he knew that he was supporting the head of the Princess, not because his
arm felt the weight of what he was holding, but because he could see the
arm performing the task; he knew that he was looking down upon a face,
beautiful and still, but could not for the moment tell why the sight of
this face should cause him to feel a gnawing pain at his heart.

As for Beauvais, he, too, looked quite confounded when the mask was
lifted; indeed, his expression of fear at the sight of the dead
countenance seemed somewhat out of place in a physician, especially in
one who, having lived through the September Massacres and the Reign of
Terror, should have grown familiar with death in whatever shape it came.

Wilfrid, wrapped in stupor, saw nothing of this strange perturbation on
the part of Beauvais.

The latter, becoming suddenly conscious of his professional duty, drew
forth a penknife, severed the cord that bound Marie’s wrists, and applied
his trained fingers to the pulse, while Wilfrid, dimly comprehending what
the other was about, waited in a state of suspense more dreadful than any
he had ever known.

“She is past my art,” said Beauvais, in an awe-struck tone. He rose
to his feet, and eyed Wilfrid curiously, as if wondering what effect
the statement would have upon him. One might have thought that he knew
something of the relationship previously existing between Wilfrid and
the Princess.

As Wilfrid realised the fell meaning of Beauvais’ words, there broke from
him a cry of anguish; his arm relaxed its hold, and the Princess’s golden
head slid gradually down on his arm to the sands again.

Brought by the swift-flowing river to the Silver Strand, she must have
reached it alive, for the body was too high upon the beach to have been
cast there by the current.

“Syncope!” murmured Beauvais. “The joy of having escaped from the waters
proved too much for her, and she dropped dead upon the sands.”

Wilfrid, who had never once removed his eyes from the Princess’s face,
suddenly thrilled with a new sensation. For the first time in his life he
found it a struggle to speak. He could get his words out only in husky,
staccato tones.

“Doctor ... she’s ... not ... dead ... I ... saw ... this eyelid ...
quiver.”

Beauvais dropped like a stone upon his knees, lifted the lid, and
scrutinised the eye while holding her pulse again.

“The _rigor mortis_, and yet not dead? Catalepsy, by heaven!” he cried.
“She’s just rousing from it. There’s life in her. But—but, it may ebb.
Brandy, hot water, chafing—without delay.”

“Will it do hurt to carry her thus?” asked Wilfrid, tenderly lifting the
still form.

“Not at all.”

“Then in heaven’s name run on first to the castle, and rouse the
women-folk.”

Beauvais required no second bidding; he set off with fleet feet, while
Wilfrid, bearing the Princess in his arms, followed as fast as he was
able.

At the castle-entrance he was met by a wondering-eyed maid, who,
apprised of his coming, asked no questions but at once led the way to
a bed-chamber that was being rapidly prepared for the reception of the
patient. Two other maids were there under the doctor’s directions,
getting ready the necessary restoratives.

“Now, girls, to work!” said he cheerfully. “It’s a struggle betwixt life
and death, and we’re not going to let death be the winner.”

Leaving the still comatose Princess to their ministrations Wilfrid
withdrew to the corridor, and there met Vera, Pauline’s chief maid, and,
it may be added, confidante.

“My lady is in a sleep so sweet that it would be a pity to awake her,”
she observed. “Still, if you think—”

“Let her sleep on. Why should we disturb her? She can do no more good
than is being done. Besides——”

But Wilfrid thought it best to let his next thought remain unspoken. He
recalled the Princess’s expressed aversion for Pauline, and though he
doubted whether that aversion had any real justification, still it might
tend to retard her recovery if, upon opening her eyes, the first person
seen by her should be the one whom she regarded as her deadliest enemy.

So Pauline was permitted to continue her sleep in ignorance of what was
happening.

While the doctor was busied in his work, Wilfrid, sitting in the corridor
without, tried to picture the circumstances that had brought the Princess
to the shores of Runö.

Though her clothing had felt quite dry to his touch, it bore the
appearance of having been saturated, proof that the body of the Princess
had been carried to the Silver Strand by the current of the Nevka.

That her plight was due neither to accident nor to attempted suicide was
shown by the fact that her hands had been fixed behind her back in such a
fashion as to preclude the possibility of their being self-tied. As she
was still wearing her mask and domino, it scarcely admitted a doubt that,
falling into the hands of the four hirelings, she had been flung into the
river from the terrace of the Sumaroff gardens before the _bal masque_
had come to an end.

Her white satin shoes, he had noticed, were deep stained with black
ooze, matter not to be found on any part of the Silver Strand; hence
her feet must have touched the bed of the river, once at least. As the
Nevka is remarkably deep, it followed, in Wilfrid’s opinion, that her
feet could not have descended so far, unless they had been attached to
some heavy weight; this must have somehow slipped from its fastenings,
with the result that the body of the Princess rose immediately to the
surface. She was evidently versed, to a greater or less extent, in the
art of swimming, for though bound hand and foot, and weighted by heavy
clothing, she had contrived to maintain her breathing during a course of
three miles. Swimming or floating as she best could, her head now above
water and now below it, blinded by her mask that had slipped down over
her eyes, battling desperately for life, she was borne along on the broad
bosom of the rushing river till, by happy chance, she found her feet
touching ground, and making her way through the lessening depth of water,
ended her course by crawling up the shelving shore.

The sudden revulsion of joy at this escape from death proved too much for
her; catalepsy supervened.

So, by a singular destiny, during the whole term of Wilfrid’s captivity,
and for some time before and after it, the Princess had been on this
island, separated from him by a distance of less than a quarter of a mile!

While he had been anxiously wondering what had become of her, there, upon
the warm sandy shore, the Princess had lain all day long, nature alone
attentive to her. The sunlight had dried her clothing, the breeze had
played with the tangles of her golden hair, but till nightfall no denizen
of the isle had drawn near. As for passing boats, their occupants, unless
they had come very near the shore indeed, would have been unable to
distinguish the silver grey of her costume from the silver grey of the
hollow in which she lay.

Such was the train of thought pursued by Wilfrid during the suspense of
waiting.

By means of Vera he was kept informed as to the state of the patient.
After a lapse of two hours a turn for the better was announced; each
succeeding report became more and more favourable, till at last, his
work apparently over, Beauvais himself made his appearance, his face
expressive of pleasure at having come off victor in his wrestle with
death.

“A tough struggle,” he said, “but we’ve won it. Talk? No, she didn’t talk
much. Wanted to, but I enjoined silence. She’s sleeping peacefully now,
a natural, healthful sleep. She’ll wake up as bright as a new silver
rouble.”

This was all Wilfrid wanted to know. With a sense of relief he bade the
doctor good-night, and, under the guidance of one of the maids, repaired
to the room appointed him.

Upon Wilfrid’s departure Beauvais went back to the Princess’s bed-chamber
and dismissed the second maid, by which act Vera was left the sole
attendant. Standing at some distance from the bed the doctor beckoned her
to approach. She came forward on tip-toe. Keeping a watchful eye upon the
sleeper, Beauvais said in a whisper:—

“I saw that you recognised her, and cannot sufficiently commend your
prudence in keeping a silent tongue. Those who attempted her life may
attempt it again, should they find that their plan miscarried. Hence
we must exercise caution, and keep her name and whereabouts a secret.
So far you and I are the only two to recognise her. The Baroness will
make a third, and perhaps we shall have to admit Lord Courtenay into
our confidence, but that’s my business; yours is to be mute and to know
nothing. It may be that our patient herself for reasons of her own will
wish to keep her identity a secret, even from Lord Courtenay. In such
case not a word to him. You may be quite sure that I should not give you
this advice were it not for the good of the Baroness. Now show me where
you have put our patient’s clothing.”

Vera indicated the place, and the doctor, walking thither, proceeded to
examine the Princess’s garments. Discovering a pocket within the domino,
he placed his hand within and drew forth a sealed envelope, crumpled and
discoloured. Its exterior was a blank.

“Now what does this envelope contain?” muttered Beauvais pressing it
between his fingers. “I must know its contents. Perhaps it’s the key
to the mystery. It may—or may not—explain how she came to be in the
river. Vera, should our patient or Lord Courtenay question you on this
point, you will be pleased to say that you searched the clothing and
found—nothing.” He moved towards the door as he spoke. “I will send you
a companion, and as soon as our patient awakens let me know, for I must
have a talk with her before the Baroness or Lord Courtenay sees her.”

Having summoned another maid Beauvais betook himself to his own room.

“In the Baroness’s service,” he remarked, “everything is lawful.”

And without the least hesitation he broke the seal of the envelope, and
read the letter it contained.

“A very useful document,” he observed with a smile of wonder and delight.
“The one thing wanting to round off my plan and make its success sure.”

He laid the missive aside. Its contents had set him thinking, and so
absorbed was he that he let the hours pass without taking any rest.

A message coming from Vera caused him to repair once more to the
Princess’s bed-chamber, from which, after the lapse of half an hour, he
emerged with a triumphant smile.

“Better and better!” he murmured. “Who’d have thought it? Why, there’s
little need to plot. Matters are taking of themselves the very course I
want.”

An hour later, when Pauline issued from her dressing-room, beautiful
for the day, she was surprised to see Beauvais waiting for her in the
corridor.

“A story for you, Baroness,” said he. “One that you must hear without
delay.”

His air brooked no refusal, and so with a little shrug of her shoulders
she took a seat within an embrasured window.

Her look of indifference vanished with his first sentence, and as he
proceeded her interest finally passed into vivid horror.

“Consider who she is,” concluded the doctor, “and then picture her lying
alone on that shore for nearly twenty hours, and a whole castleful of
people close by.”

“Tied hand and foot, and flung into the Neva!” Pauline gasped. “My God!
This must be Alexander’s work!”

“Not so, Baroness.”

“But I say yes. Who would dare lay a finger on _her_ except by his order?”

“Be calm, dear Baroness. Alexander is guiltless. The truth is, the
assassins made a terrible mistake. Did you not tell me that she went to
this masquerade in gold-brocaded silk? Just so! Well, when discovered
by us she was wearing a grey domino of common serge, which is a clear
proof that she must have exchanged her costume with some other woman, her
aim probably being to conceal more effectually her interview with Lord
Courtenay, and I strongly suspect that this other woman was one Nadia
Borovna, of the Inn of the Silver Birch. It is easy to see how one woman
might meet the fate intended for the other. In fact, the ruffians appear
to have made so sure of their victim that they did not even remove her
mask. This letter, written by the said Nadia and found upon the dress of
the victim, will partly help to prove my theory.”

Pauline took the missive and read it slowly.

“It must have been Baranoff’s doings,” she remarked, looking up from the
letter, intensely relieved to find her suspicions against Alexander
groundless.

“Seemingly. At any rate he is the one most interested in seeing that both
the letter and its writer are destroyed. When he learns what a mistake
his hirelings have made he’ll be ready to cut his throat. The Czar will
show him no mercy.”

“I never believed in Lord Courtenay’s guilt at the Inn of the Silver
Birch,” said Pauline, glancing over the missive again, “and this letter
vindicates my opinion.”

“True, but you’ll be unwise to show it to him.”

“Why?”

“Because if that event is allowed to receive an innocent interpretation,
it will be still easier to explain away the kiss given by her at the
masquerade. It was simply a reward for service done to the State. No, no,
Baroness; it must be our duty to see that her return to Alexander is made
an impossibility, and as matters are at present the way is still open
for a reconciliation between them.”

“What, then, do you advise?”

“Why, this. Let her remain here for a time in concealment. She’ll not
object. She is evidently in love with Lord Courtenay; he with her. Let
matters, then, take their natural course. Isn’t it to your interest to
promote this love affair?”

“Didn’t you tell Lord Courtenay last night who she was?”

“I kept it a secret for—for reasons.”

“Lord Courtenay is a man of honour. When he learns the truth his love
will cease.”

“Just so, and therefore we must not let him know the truth, till—till it
be too late.”

“You talk foolishly. How can he be kept any longer in ignorance?”

Beauvais smiled mysteriously and triumphantly.

“My dear Baroness, everything is working beautifully for our ends, so
beautifully that I am tempted almost to think that Providence——”

“Providence!” she repeated significantly.

“I’ll say fate, to please you. Fate must have had a hand in bringing her
and Lord Courtenay under this roof.”

“You are not answering my question. How can we keep him from learning her
name, if she chooses to reveal it?”

“There’s the point, the very point in our favour. She _can’t_ reveal it.”

“In heaven’s name, why not?”

“Because, though her intellect be otherwise as clear and as bright as
your own—and that’s saying a good deal, Baroness—it is accompanied by
one defect. The awful shock occasioned by her sudden plunge into the
waters of the Neva has had the effect of depriving her, not of her whole
memory, but of a part of it—that part relating to her personal identity.
She cannot recall her own name. You don’t believe it, I see,” smiled the
doctor, noting her look of scepticism, “but you can soon test my words.
Go and see your rival. She won’t know you!”




CHAPTER XXVI

WITHOUT A MEMORY!


While Pauline repaired to the Princess’s chamber, the doctor went off to
Wilfrid’s room to acquaint him with the strange news.

Being new to mental phenomena of this sort, Wilfrid received the
announcement with every token of unbelief.

“Do you mean to say,” he asked in amazement, “that she cannot tell how
she came to be in the Neva?”

“Has no recollection whatever of the event. Her mind is a complete blank
as to her past: cannot recall the name of a friend or the name of any
place where she has dwelt.”

“In what mood is she. Sad?”

“Not at all. Smiles at her own perplexity—in fact, her loss of memory
seems rather to amuse her.”

“And how long is this state likely to last?”

Beauvais shrugged his shoulders.

“One cannot say. A week: a month: a year. Perhaps for the rest of her
life.”

“And you have no idea who she is?”

“Not in the least; nor has the Baroness. Am I justified in supposing from
your agitation last night that she is the lady that set you and the Czar
at feud?”

Wilfrid replied that such was the case.

“Ah! Then of course you give up all thoughts of this duel?”

“Honour calls me to it.”

“But the lady’s safety calls you from it. Now that, thanks to your
uncle, the name of the Czar’s opponent is known to Count Panine, your
appearance in St. Petersburg will be instantly followed by your arrest
and deportation to the frontier. In such case what help can you give the
lady, should her enemies discover that she is still alive? Her state
calls for a protector, and your past relations with her entitle you to
assume that rôle.”

This way of putting the case modified Wilfrid’s views, and—“Postponed
indefinitely,” became his decision on the question of the duel.

The Princess’s loss of memory filled Wilfrid with extreme disquietude.
When he last saw her she had been in a vein bordering upon love; this new
state of mind on her part would now cause her to be ignorant of his very
existence. He would have to begin his love-making all over again, and
might—fail!

He breakfasted with the doctor, who, the meal ended, paid another visit
to his patient, returning almost immediately with the good news that she
was strong enough to be up and dressed.

So, as soon as word came that the Princess’s toilet was completed,
Wilfrid sought her presence.

Attired in a dainty sarafan of soft muslin, supplied from Pauline’s
wardrobe, she was reclining in a deep _fauteuil_ with the Baroness by her
side.

Although she had occupied so large a space in his mind Wilfrid had seen
her but four times, and, by a singular coincidence, at night only. Her
beauty underwent no diminution by day; on the contrary it seemed to be
enhanced by the soft morning light. Her delicate pallor was the only
evidence of her recent grapple with death.

It was the same Marie, and yet different. The pensive melancholy hitherto
marking her aspect had vanished; a new and happier light glanced from
her eyes; the passing of her memory seemed to have brought with it the
passing of sorrow.

As Wilfrid recalled the bitter language which the Princess had applied
to Pauline, it was with a somewhat odd feeling that he now beheld the
two conversing with the familiarity of old friends. It was difficult
to believe that the sudden return of the Princess’s memory would be
accompanied by hostility to Pauline again.

A slight movement on his part caused the Princess to lift her head and
look at him.

It was with a sense of disappointment that Wilfrid met her calm, quiet
gaze. He had been fondly hoping that whomsoever else she might have
forgotten she could not have forgotten _him_. But alas! her dark blue
eyes betrayed no sign of recognition; their expression was simply one of
curiosity to know who he was. Her manner differed in nothing from that of
a woman meeting with a stranger, a manner that Wilfrid felt to be genuine
on her part, and not assumed.

“This is the Lord Courtenay of whom I have been speaking,” said Pauline.

Wilfrid bowed gravely. That he should need an introduction to her!

“I am sorry,” smiled the Princess, “at having to meet you in the present
circumstances. You must think me a very stupid person not to be able to
recall my name and history; yet so it is. Try as I will I cannot carry my
memory farther back than this morning. That I awoke a few hours ago in
a certain bedroom of this castle is all I know of myself. Unless I have
dropped ready-made from the skies I must have lived for twenty years and
more, and yet of this long time I can remember nothing! Is it not absurd?”

So absurd that she broke out into a laugh; and one more sweet and silvery
never rippled from woman’s lips, at least in Wilfrid’s opinion.

“The Baroness has been telling me that you can perhaps help to revive my
memory, as you have seen me amid other surroundings.”

“You have been known to me as the Princess Marie.”

“Yes, but on looking into the Court Register,” she answered, pointing to
a book at her feet, “we cannot discover that there is a Princess Marie.”

“Whose suggestion was the Court Register?” asked Beauvais, who had
accompanied Wilfrid to the presence of the Princess.

“Mine!” answered Marie.

The doctor tapped his forehead significantly at Wilfrid to intimate that,
however defective her power of remembering might be, that of reasoning
remained intact. Indeed, but for her own confession no one would ever
have supposed that any faculty of her mind lay dormant.

Princess Marie was now all eagerness to know on what occasions she and
Wilfrid had met, a request that put him in a somewhat embarrassing
situation. Was she to be told, for example, that he had once spent an
hour in her bedroom?—that she had kissed him at their last meeting? and
that she had always expressed enmity towards Pauline?

He looked at Pauline for guidance, who in turn looked at the doctor,
while the Princess herself looked from one to another, wondering why
there should be such hesitation in telling her a plain story.

“It will be as well,” said Beauvais, addressing Wilfrid, “to tell all
you know, while the Princess follows you in mind, striving to recall
the situations in which your story places her. Such effort will perhaps
stimulate her memory.”

So spoke the hypocrite, hoping that her efforts would do nothing of the
sort.

After a moment’s reflection Wilfrid proceeded to relate not all, but as
much as he thought needful, for the Princess to know; and it was with a
strange sensation of pleasure that he found her eyes fastened on him with
a wistful attention, that never once wavered during his recital. Leaving
out Baranoff and his infamous proposal Wilfrid began with the bedroom
incident; then went on to tell how he had been requested by her to paint
his now historic picture, saying nothing, however, as to the reward he
had demanded; and coming finally to the masquerade, he led Marie to
suppose that the meeting was merely a formal one on her part to thank
him for his services. As for the Czar and his presumed aim towards her,
Wilfrid suppressed this part of the story altogether.

“How long ago is it since this fête in the Sumaroff Gardens?” she asked.

“Only two nights ago.”

“Only two nights ago!” she repeated with breathless incredulity. “And I
have no recollection whatever of it!”

She closed her eyes, knitted her brows thoughtfully, pressed her
forefinger hard upon her forehead, evidently making a strong effort to
recall the past, but could not succeed.

She was silent for a few minutes, pondering her mental state, which
was not only inexplicable to her, but also to Beauvais, the student
of psychology. For, observe the contradictory nature of the case: her
struggle in the water had formed a dividing-line in her history; over
this dividing-line she was able to bring into her new life all, or most,
of the knowledge acquired in the old, and yet she was unable to bring
with it the knowledge of her own personality. Why her mind, able to
retain so much of the past, should become an absolute blank upon one
point—there was the mystery that humbled, nay, frightened her. Better for
her to lose, say, her knowledge of languages or of music, than to lose
the knowledge of herself. A gulf seemed to separate her from her three
companions; they could carry _their_ minds back to childhood’s days; for
her life began with that morning only. Her previous history lay hidden
behind a black curtain. A native from the planet Mars, new-dropped upon
the earth, could not have felt less at home than did Princess Marie at
that moment.

“What is this that has come upon me?” she murmured with fear in her
voice. “If I lose my memory, what is to prevent me from losing my reason?”

“Now you are distressing yourself unnecessarily,” said the doctor,
cheerily. “Why did I ply you this morning with so many questions upon
this, that and the other topic, but to ascertain whether there is any
ground for what you fear. And the result? My dear lady, if all the heads
in the Czar’s cabinet were half as sound as yours, Russia would be well
governed. Your mind is perfectly sane, have no fear upon that point. As
to your loss of memory—humph! I’ll call it a misfortune, to please you.
But there are many persons, Prince Ouvaroff for example, who would be
glad to obtain an oblivion as complete as yours. Patience, my good lady,
patience. Time will restore your memory.”

These optimistic remarks, and many more of the same sort from Beauvais,
combined with Pauline’s caresses, gradually brought the distressed
Princess to a calmer state.

“I am justly punished,” she said with a sad smile, addressing Wilfrid.
“I have so long kept my name a secret from you that it is now a secret
from myself. And you say I was found last night lying insensible upon the
shores of this island? How did I come there?”

Pauline and the doctor could both have answered this question more fully
than Wilfrid, but for reasons of their own they chose to be silent,
leaving him to tell as much as he knew of the matter. To his story Marie
listened with a troubled air.

“Have I enemies so malignant that they seek to murder me?”

“It would seem so,” replied Wilfrid, adding for her consolation, “but
since they must now look upon you as dead they will molest you no more.”

“It is not for me,” said Pauline, “to dictate your course of action, but
in view of the recent attempt upon your life, you will do well to remain
in hiding here, for a few days at least, until we learn what is best to
be done. In the meantime you must look upon the castle and the isle as
your own.”

A proposal that found a warm seconder in Wilfrid, who foresaw the
facilities it would afford him for pushing his suit with the Princess.

So it was settled that she should stay at Runö.

Now, although Marie’s companions were three in number, it was to Wilfrid
principally that her remarks were addressed, and Pauline and the doctor,
well pleased to have it so, presently withdrew to another part of the
room, and had a little _tête-à-tête_ on their own account.

“Our plan promises to work smoothly,” said Beauvais. “She favours him as
much in the new state as in the old.”

“Yes, but how long can we keep her here in concealment? She has now been
absent from the palace for more than a day. By this time the Czar’s
agents must be swarming everywhere on the look-out for her. Not a spot,
not a house, in and around St. Petersburg will remain unvisited.”

“We must keep them from visiting Runö,” said Beauvais.

“How can it be done?”

“Very easily. Will not Count Baranoff and his brother Loris, Chief of
the Secret Police, have the direction of this affair? And have we not in
our possession a letter containing matter enough to hang them ten times
over? We must go at once to St. Petersburg and make this compact with
them, that unless they are prepared to do our bidding we shall reveal
their guilt to the Czar. And our bidding is that they instruct their
subordinates to let this island alone. We need not shrink from stating
the reason. Has it not been Baranoff’s aim to make yonder pair fall in
love with each other? What are we doing but pursuing the same plan,
though for a different reason? Freed from the intrusion of police agents
Runö thus becomes a sacred asylum, an enchanted garden, in which our two
wards may make love to their hearts’ content without the knowledge of the
Court.”

“And the end of it all?”

“When her love is sufficiently strong she will be willing to fly with him
from Russia. Cronstadt harbour is distant by water but eighteen miles.
A swift boat and a dark night, and they are on board a vessel bound for
England.”

“But should we in the meantime be detected in our plot by Alexander——”

“What then? Will he be very much vexed when we are supplying him with the
pretext he wants?”

Pauline sighed.

“Ah me! If only I had told Lord Courtenay yesterday who his inamorata
is, it would have prevented me from beginning this course of deception.
Not till nightfall did it suddenly occur to me that knowledge of this
fact would have been the best way of making him cease from the duel; and
then from very pity I refrained from the telling, knowing what pain the
revelation would bring him, and now—now it is too late! What will he
think when he learns—as learn he must—how basely I am deceiving him?”

“Pooh! what matters what he thinks?”

“Much—to me,” she answered moodily.

At this point the pair found themselves appealed to by Wilfrid.

“Was there not a letter in the Princess’s dress-pocket?” he asked, giving
his reason for the question.

“I can of myself testify that there was not,” said the unabashed doctor,
“for I examined her clothing in the hope of finding some clue to her
identity. If it were the object of the four ruffians to get hold of a
compromising letter we can scarcely expect them to leave it upon her
person.”

A specious argument that answered the purpose intended.

The Princess here put to Wilfrid a very sensible suggestion.

“This Prince Ouvaroff, who as you say acted as my escort from some
unknown place to St. Petersburg, must surely know who I am. Is it not
possible to communicate with him?”

“You echo my thoughts,” said Pauline. “Dr. Beauvais and I will go to St.
Petersburg this very day for the purpose of seeing the Prince upon this
matter.”

This proposal on the part of Pauline was more acceptable to the Princess
than it was to Wilfrid.

“Supposing,” he whispered to Pauline, “that Ouvaroff suspects the motive
of your questioning, and springs to the conclusion that Princess Marie
must be at Runö?”

“Why, in that case,” whispered Pauline in turn, “she would be restored
to her old surroundings. But have no fear. I’ll approach the matter so
cautiously that he shall suspect nothing. I must not delay, however, lest
I be too late, for he told me at the masquerade that the Czar was about
to send him on a diplomatic mission to Berlin.”

So, accompanied by Beauvais, Pauline went the same day to St. Petersburg,
but made no attempt to see Prince Ouvaroff.

While the doctor was transacting some private business, Pauline
visited first the British Ambassador, and had an interview with him,
which terminated with these words on her part: “Never mind how he
was persuaded to give up the duel; you have my word for it that St.
Petersburg and the Czar will see him no more. _That_ surely ought to
content you.”

And it did, the Ambassador breathing a sigh of relief that the awkward
business was over.

The bureau of Loris Baranoff, Chief of the Secret Police, was the next
place to receive a call from her, and to judge by her smile as she
quitted his office the result of her mission was a complete success.




CHAPTER XXVII

THE CZAR’S PORTRAIT


While Pauline was absent on her mission to St. Petersburg Wilfrid was
spending a pleasant time with the Princess, who, avowing herself to be
quite well again, refused in defiance of the orders left by Dr. Beauvais,
to remain any longer confined to her chamber, but went forth, under
Wilfrid’s escort, for a ramble around Pauline’s insular demesne.

It was a still summer day, and the island with its pine-groves and green
lawns lay like a lovely garden upon the bosom of the Neva, whose waters
were tinted with the delicate sapphire of the sky.

Wilfrid was certainly a fortunate fellow. Resident at the fairest season
of the year in a picturesque old castle upon an island lovely by day,
more lovely perhaps by night, with a beautiful young Princess for his
companion—what more could he desire?

The pair had reached in their rambling a blue tarn, so smooth and
beautiful as to have received from Pauline the pretty name of the
Fairies’ Mirror. By the water’s edge was a rustic seat, and here the two
sat down.

“Lord Courtenay,” said the Princess, turning her deep serious eyes upon
him, “let me hear again the story you told this morning. I am naturally
curious to learn all I can about myself.”

Compliant with her wish Wilfrid repeated his narrative, finding a
pleasure in the telling of it, partly because he loved to dwell upon
everything connected with Marie, partly because it was pleasant to have
so fair and interested a listener.

“You seem to have remembered my words very well,” she murmured, noting
that he had repeated her utterances with little or no variation.

“I trust you do not impute that to me as a fault?”

“And have you told me all? Have you kept nothing back?”

Just a trace of embarrassment appeared upon Wilfrid’s face, but, faint as
it was, it did not escape her quick glance.

“I can see it! No, do not equivocate. You are hiding something from me.”

Wilfrid’s manner confirmed the Princess in her opinion. What was he to
do? Tell her that she was suspected of being the Czar’s favourite? No,
much as he hated deceit he would rather tell a downright lie than let a
thought such as that rankle in her mind!

“Why do you hesitate to tell me all?” she asked.

“In telling all, I must tell of my own folly.”

“Folly in which we were both participants? Yes? Then I must know it. It
is not fair to hide my past doings from me. What was this folly?”

“Well, since you will have it. In asking me to paint _The Death of Paul_,
you made offer of fifty thousand roubles, which I declined in favour of a
sweeter guerdon.”

“And that was——?”

“Perhaps you will show as great anger now as you did when you first heard
the proposal.”

“Tell me, and you can judge.”

“I declined to paint the picture except on promise of—a kiss from you.”

“And what was my answer?”

“You gave the promise.”

The colour stole over Marie’s cheek. Was ever woman so unfortunately
circumstanced as she—compelled to accept whatever this Englishman said
about her? If he should go farther yet and say that she had promised to
marry him, how could she refute his statement?

“Did I redeem my promise?”

Wilfrid assented.

The Princess’s colour deepened. She longed to deny the action attributed
to her, and yet—and yet—the story brought with it a certain relief to
her perplexed mind. With drooping eyes, and speaking in a low tone, she
said:—

“I am glad you have told me this. It seems to settle a—a certain
question. Seeing that I must be twenty-three or twenty-four years
old, Pauline has—we have both—been wondering whether—you must not
smile—whether ... I ... am ... married. And now I think I know. Were I a
wife, a true wife, I could not have acted as you say I did.”

Wilfrid thought this reasoning just, and was very glad to think it such.

“You speak,” he smiled, “as if a husband would be a calamity.”

“He might be—in present circumstances. You forget there are two Maries,
the old and the new. The new, through no fault of her own, may turn her
face from what the old one liked. Would it not be dreadful to be claimed
as wife by a man whose appearance, in my present state of mind, might
fill me with aversion? And I ... I ... kissed ... you? We were alone, I
trust?”

“Humph! I regret to say that in the very act we were surprised by no
less a dignitary than the Czar, who, for reasons best known to himself,
appears to have been playing the spy.”

Here Wilfrid proceeded to relate how he had been challenged by the Czar,
and how the duel had been averted by Pauline’s action; and to every part
of the story Marie listened in wonder mingled with regret that she should
have been the cause, however unwitting, of such trouble to Wilfrid.

Vainly did she try to force her mind to recall the incident in the
Sumaroff Gardens, and as Wilfrid saw her knitted brow and pained look,
and guessed their cause, he urged her to cease troubling herself over the
loss of her memory, but to leave its recovery to Time’s remedial hand.

He himself tried his best to divert her thoughts, and by resorting
to a string of pleasantries, he succeeded after a time in moving her
to smiles, and once or twice to laughter, laughter so soft and sweet
as quite to captivate Wilfrid, and to make him wish—for he never for
a moment forgot the person of his great rival—that the Czar had been
present to hear it.

On betaking themselves to the castle again they found Pauline and
Beauvais just returned from their visit to St. Petersburg. Great was
Marie’s disappointment to learn that Prince Ouvaroff had, on the previous
day, left for Berlin, being sent thither on some diplomatic business by
Alexander.

“So Princess Marie,” smiled Pauline, addressing her guest, “must remain a
mystery to us for some time longer. It is unfortunate, but patience: Time
reveals all things.”

As the two guests had not yet seen all that the castle contained,
Pauline proposed to spend an hour in sauntering through its apartments,
a proposal to which both readily assented, and so, with Beauvais
accompanying them, they set out on the round; and as the doctor kept
close to Pauline’s side, it of course fell to Wilfrid’s lot to escort the
Princess.

As became a place that had once been the residence of an empress, and
that had seen little change in its furnishings since her death, Castle
Runö contained much to interest the new-comers.

With dramatic reserve Pauline kept to the last her fairest surprise,
namely, the Hall of the Czars, a gallery so called because its walls were
decorated with all the procurable portraits of the Russian emperors. To
Catharine’s original collection additions had been made by the castle’s
successive tenants, including Pauline herself, whose contribution was
represented by two pictures, one being the likeness of the late Paul, and
the other that of his son Alexander.

Of the many portraits the last-named was naturally the one to attract
most attention. Very keen was the look bestowed both by Pauline and the
doctor upon Marie as she gazed at the face of the reigning Czar. To
judge from their manner one might almost have thought them imbued with
the belief that the sight of this portrait would effect the instant
restoration of Marie’s memory, and they felt a sense of relief on
finding themselves wrong. Certainly the Princess stayed longer before
this portrait than any other, but her lingering was due to the story
told her by Wilfrid. This was the Czar who had challenged him to a
duel for a fault—if fault it were—that was hers and not Wilfrid’s.
Thinking of this, she felt more than ever drawn towards the daring young
Englishman who had gone forth to vindicate her honour with his sword.
She contrasted Wilfrid’s countenance with the Czar’s as portrayed on the
canvas before her, and unhesitatingly gave the preference to Wilfrid’s.
If the character of a man is to be learned from his personal exterior,
then in her opinion Wilfrid’s disposition was frank and open, Alexander’s
secretive and ambiguous. A similar conclusion forced itself upon Pauline,
for she, too, had been making a mental comparison between the two men.
Her sigh, noticed only by Beauvais, drew from him the whispered comment:—

“You are repenting?”

“Never!” she exclaimed emphatically.

“For the sake of _la belle France_,” murmured Beauvais encouragingly.

“What,” said Pauline, addressing Marie, “what is your opinion of
Alexander’s face?”

“It is a handsome one, but—but there is something about it I do not
like,” she replied, speaking in a somewhat lower tone as if afraid that
the portrait, overhearing the remark, might do something to show its
resentment. “See how cold the eyes are! It—seems to be frowning at me,”
she continued timorously. “What do you think of it, Lord Courtenay?” she
added, turning to Wilfrid.

“Our hostess,” he replied, bowing towards Pauline, “has so high an
opinion of Alexander that in her presence I hesitate to say anything
derogatory even of his portrait.”

To this Pauline did not reply, but continuing to address Marie, she said
with an odd smile:—

“Then I may take it that you would not like to be his wife?”

“His wife!” echoed Marie, opening her eyes wide, as if it had been
seriously proposed to marry her to Alexander. “What a strange
question!”—To judge by his quiet chuckle it was one in which the doctor
seemed to find some amusement.—“After what I have said of his portrait
you can guess my answer. Besides, has he not a wife already?”

“A wife whom he is ceasing to love,” remarked Pauline quietly.

“Why?”

“A childless empress is always a disappointment both to her husband and
to his people. Hence the reason, according to this morning’s newspapers,
of her visit this week to the Convent of the Holy Madonna, not the first
of such pilgrimages. There, prone upon the cold stone pavement, before
the picture of Our Lady, she will spend nights of devotion, praying that
her husband’s desire, her own, her people’s, may be answered. If Heaven
will not take pity on her tears, then will the Czar grow colder and
colder.”

Marie shivered all over with sudden fear. If the Czar’s alienation
from the Czarina should reach a point such as to cause him to obtain a
divorce, he would be free to set his love upon any woman he pleased.
What if he had already made her his choice? What if his anger at the
masquerade was prompted by a jealousy that saw in Wilfrid a successful
rival? How could she, one weak woman, offer resistance to the will of the
mighty Czar? She glanced again at his likeness, deriving from it a more
distasteful impression than before. During her course round the hall she
had surveyed more than twenty portraits, but none of them had exercised
so strange a fascination over her as this one. It seemed to defy her to
remove her gaze from it. Whether she stepped to the right or whether
she stepped to the left, its eyes, like those of a living being, would
follow her movements with the stare as of a person reproaching her for
some wrong suffered at her hands; and the longer she gazed, the more this
fancy grew upon her.

“Perhaps,” said Wilfrid, in answer to Pauline’s remarks, “it is as well
that Alexander should have no children.”

“Why?” asked Pauline, with an intonation so sharp as to show Wilfrid that
he had said something to offend her, and he wondered wherein lay his
offence.

“There must be a touch of madness in his blood,” replied he.

“Why _must_ there be?” asked Pauline, looking almost as much concerned as
if it were her own mental state that was in question.

“If the father Paul were mad is it reasonable to believe that the son
Alexander can be altogether sane?”

“And so you think that if Alexander should have a son——?”

“That son might develop the madness that may be dormant only, not
extinguished, in Alexander. Such a fear would ever be present to the
Empress. Picture her, in the long, slow course of months and years,
hanging over her child, studying every look and every word of his, every
mood and every act, watching and waiting for the fatal sign——”

“That might never come,” interrupted Pauline, in her voice a touch of
contempt, very unusual with her, at least when speaking to Wilfrid.

“Quite so, but to a mother’s heart this suspense would be almost killing,
and the Empress Elizavetta would do well to consider this point.”

These words seemed to put Pauline in a state of uneasiness.

“M. Beauvais,” said she, “there is a portrait, in feature and in
expression faithful to the original. Can you, as a physician and disciple
of Lavater, read insanity in that face?”

“One cannot judge of a man’s sanity merely from seeing his portrait,”
replied the doctor. “Let it suffice that Alexander, now in his
twenty-fifth year, has so far shown not the faintest sign of a disordered
intellect.”

Marie was disposed to regard the Czar’s quixotic challenge to Wilfrid
as a sign pointing in this direction, but perceiving the theme to be a
distasteful one to Pauline she refrained from expressing her opinion.

As they had now seen everything contained in the Hall of the Czars they
withdrew. Marie could not resist the temptation of casting a backward
glance at Alexander’s portrait, and observed that it seemed still to be
following her with eyes of reproach; in fact, so strange an impression
did this picture make upon her mind that she resolved for the future to
keep out of the Hall of the Czars.




CHAPTER XXVIII

PAULINE REPENTS


A month passed, during which Runö remained untroubled by visits from
police or soldiery, nor did anything occur to create a suspicion that the
isle was under espionage.

This month had been a time of the purest happiness both to Marie and to
Wilfrid. Their intercourse was not confined to the walls of the castle;
they went out daily, keeping, for safety’s sake, to the woods and never
venturing within sight of the shore. These walks were necessarily
circumscribed, but, as Pauline remarked, they suffered far less hardship
in that respect than the voyagers on the deck of an East Indiaman.

The loss of her memory had ceased to trouble the Princess: nay, she was
now apprehensive lest the revelation consequent upon its recovery should
cause a return to her former life. With very little knowledge of that
former life she had, nevertheless, a profound belief that it fell far
short of her present happy state. At any rate it had been a life apart
from Wilfrid, and Wilfrid was now the chief, if not the sole, object of
her thoughts. It was no secret to her that she was loved by him, for
though he had not said it, his homage showed his feelings as plainly as
if he had spoken.

It was sweet to have such power over him; a source of pride to her that
she should be preferred to all others. It was wonderful, for example,
that he had not fallen in love with the beautiful Pauline, but it was
certain that he had not. In his eyes Pauline was a friend—the dearest,
staunchest friend, it might be—but still no more than that. At least,
that is what Marie usually thought, but, once or twice, when she was
sitting close to Wilfrid, Pauline had drawn near, in her eyes a wistful
look, as if yearning for the affection that was being bestowed upon
another.

One day when Wilfrid was in the armoury teaching Beauvais some secrets in
swordsmanship, Marie ventured to question the Baroness on this matter.
And she came to the point without any skirmishing.

“Pauline, do you love Lord Courtenay?”

The Baroness gave a start.

“Have I ever shown that I do?”

“No,” answered Marie, not altogether truthfully.

“Then why should you ask?”

“Because,” said Marie evasively, “Lord Courtenay is so brave, so
handsome, so—so winning—that’s the word—that—that——”

“It is difficult for woman to avoid falling in love with him. Is that
what you would say?” smiled Pauline. “Well, you see, it would be foolish
to love one that does not love me.”

“Ah, but you are not answering my question!”

“Would it please you if my answer were, ‘I do love him?’”

Marie coloured and was silent.

“Ah! you are not answering _my_ question,” smiled Pauline. And then after
a pause she continued:—

“Lord Courtenay is never likely to ask me to be his wife, but if he were
to ask, my answer would be, ‘No.’”

She spoke in a tone that carried instant conviction to Marie’s heart.

“Why?” she asked simply.

“Because I have promised myself to another.”

This was indeed a surprise to Marie—a welcome one, as her looks
testified. Pauline was not her rival, then.

“I am willing,” said Pauline, “to tell you his name, on one condition.”

“And that is——?”

“That you will keep it a secret, especially from Lord Courtenay.”

Marie thought it hard that Wilfrid must not be permitted to share this
new knowledge with her.

“I should not tell the name, even to you,” continued Pauline, “but that
it will prove beyond a doubt that I am not aiming at the affections of
Lord Courtenay.”

This remark decided Marie; she consented to observe secrecy as to the
name.

“Learn, then, that I am pledged to marry the Czar Alexander!”

If Pauline had said that she was pledged to marry the Archangel Gabriel,
Marie could not have been more startled. Her bewilderment was at first
too great for words. The fact that Pauline was not of royal blood did not
make her statement doubtful, for had not the great Peter mated with a
peasant girl? But—but——

“How can that be, when the Czar is already married?”

“An emperor can always find an archbishop willing to pronounce sentence
of divorce.”

Marie, unconsciously perhaps, drew away from the speaker.

“You are trying to steal a husband from his wife! You would put an
innocent woman away in order to gratify your ambition! Oh, Pauline!”

There was on Marie’s face a look that went directly to Pauline’s heart.

“Listen, Marie, and see whether there be not some justification for me.
It is some months ago since I first guessed Alexander’s feelings towards
me. Knowing the love of a wedded Czar to be dishonour I avoided all
places where I was likely to meet him. But one night, quite by accident,
we met at a masquerade. No, not the Sumaroff fête; this was one that took
place a few days before Paul’s death.—Before I had seen Lord Courtenay,”
she murmured to herself.—“He came upon me when I was alone; he held my
hands in his, and asked why I had of late avoided him. Then all in a
moment he uttered a flow of wild passionate words that—that—well, I will
not deny it, they were sweet to me. But, remembering from whom they came,
I strove to put them aside. ‘Your love must be given to Elizavetta,’
I murmured, ‘and to her only.’ Ah! if you could have seen his look of
sorrow. ‘Elizavetta,’ he answered, ‘has already taken to herself a
lover.’ If this be true, if the Czarina be faithless to her husband, is
he justified in retaining her as his wife?”

“You are dealing in ‘ifs,’” replied Marie. “Have you any proof that the
Czarina is false?”

“The Empress has been under espionage for some time; her conduct is very
equivocal. When she has given clear proof of guilt her divorce will come.”

“In other words you and Alexander are waiting for her to take the
irrevocable step?”

“Something of the sort.”

“And will she?”

“I think so.”

“And you will be pleased when it is taken?”

Pauline was silent.

“She is gliding on towards wrong, and you are letting her! You can stop
her by a word of warning, and yet will not! Pauline!”

Marie could not have spoken with more touching earnestness had she been
pleading her own cause. Involuntarily Pauline turned from the look of
disapproval in those grave, innocent eyes.

“If the Czarina,” said Pauline—and none knew better than she the
sophistical character of the self-justification she was now attempting,
“if the Czarina knew that a hundred eyes were secretly on the watch for
her fall, she would of necessity be virtuous. But why should she, more
than other women exposed to similar temptation, be put on her guard?
Respect for her fair name, the memory of her altar-vows, the imperial
diadem itself, should each be a sermon to her. To warn her would be to
put her into a state of enforced virtue. Why should Alexander retain
a wife willing to go wrong but kept in the right only by the fear of
discovery? No! let her be tried by the fire of temptation. She must
fulfil her destiny, as I must fulfil mine.”

The Princess was silent, not knowing very well how to refute what she
felt to be sophistry. No wonder Pauline was anxious to keep the matter
a secret from Wilfrid! The knowledge of it might lead him, with his
sense of honour, to decline any longer the hospitality of a hostess so
questionable in her ways.

“You may gain a crown, but you will not gain a hero,” said Marie with a
touch of scorn. “A man who sets spies to watch his wife, and, before his
suspicions are verified, promises to wed another woman, cannot be a very
honourable character.”

In her haste Marie forgot that the same charge was equally applicable to
her hostess. Pauline felt the point of the rebuke.

“I cannot imagine Lord Courtenay acting so,” continued Marie proudly.

Nor could Pauline. Wilfrid was a man of very different stamp from
Alexander.

“How can you trust one that acts so dishonourably?” continued Marie.
“What guarantee have you that Alexander will fulfil his promise?”

“I have here his written pledge,” said Pauline, taking from her bosom
that same scroll of parchment whose contents had evoked such emotion on
the part of her father.

This secret document would certainly have sent a thrill of amazement
throughout the various European chancelleries, for it was nothing less
than a statement to the effect that, in certain circumstances, the
Empress Elizavetta should be divorced in favour of Pauline de Vaucluse!
The document was signed, “Alexander Paulovitch, Czar and Autocrat.”

That her friend Pauline might one day wear the diadem did not appear to
afford much gratification to Marie.

“You aspire to a crown,” she said. “Remember the fate of the Hungarian
King Bela; his throne one day broke beneath him and its pieces crushed
him in their fall—an apt illustration of the dangers attending a throne.
It will bring you more sorrow than joy, especially if gained by the means
you contemplate. Pauline, will you let me destroy this?” she continued,
seeming as if about to tear the document in two.

The Baroness hastily recovered the scroll.

“Why,” asked Marie, “did you not destroy it on first receiving it?”

“Why should I have done so?”

“To show your trust in Alexander. What sort of love is it that needs
a written guarantee? Pauline, you dare not burn it, and that very fact
shows you have no real faith in him.”

It was true, poignantly true. Though it had not appeared to her in this
light before, Pauline began now to realise that the satisfaction arising
from the possession of this document and the care with which she guarded
it, were but so many proofs of distrust in Alexander. Nor could she
help reflecting, at the moment, that she could have implicitly trusted
Wilfrid’s spoken word.

As Pauline contrasted the English peer and the Muscovite Czar, a pang of
jealousy seized her that Marie should be the chosen of Wilfrid, while
she herself, though the chosen of an emperor, could find little joy in
the fact. The diadem that had looked so splendid, when viewed from afar,
seemed a bauble now that it was well-nigh within her grasp.

“What have you been saying to Marie?” said Wilfrid later in the day, on
finding himself alone with Pauline. “She is quite grave and pensive.”

“She is wondering, perhaps, whether Lord Courtenay’s attentions to
her are to be interpreted merely in the light of friendship. Are all
Englishmen so cold and tardy in their wooing? You love, and yet you
hesitate to say so to her, who would be but too willing to listen.”

“It is precisely because I _do_ love her that I hesitate to say it. Her
present state of mind is not normal. Supposing that with the recovery of
her memory there should come a reversal of her sentiments towards me?”

“You are over-scrupulous,” answered Pauline. “A return to her former
state should not be so very unfavourable, if she voluntarily kissed you
in the Sumaroff Gardens. The fairest woman in Russia is waiting for your
love, and by your hesitancy you are adding to her suspense. See, yonder
is your Princess taking her way to the woods. Go with her, and on your
return let me hear that you have said the words that will gladden her
heart.”

Wilfrid went off, bent on following this advice, and Pauline, knowing
this, watched him, at her heart a pain such as she had never before known.

Turning, she saw Dr. Beauvais by her side.

“There was a time,” she said to him, “when I hated her, or thought I did;
you know for what reason. And now——”

“And now?” repeated Beauvais as she paused in her utterance.

“And now, during the past month, she has won her way to my heart and this
makes my task difficult. I have been telling her of my ambition, and
she has been pleading prettily with me to save the Empress Elizavetta
from dishonour, little thinking that she was pleading for herself! What
a shock when she learns how I have deceived her! when she realises the
guilt from which a word of mine could have saved her!”

“Her own fault. If blame is to be apportioned, she must take the initial
share; for, to her encouragement of Lord Courtenay is due our present
imbroglio. We are but helping her onward in the path she entered of her
own accord.”

“True,” assented Pauline, glad to snatch at any argument in justification
of her wrong-doing. “And to-day the goal is in sight, for to-day she
entrusts herself and her future to his keeping.”

“That’s good,” murmured the doctor. “I have all but completed the
arrangements for their departure, and her flight will prevent the Empress
Elizavetta from ever returning to her husband.”

“The sooner they go the better,” observed Pauline, “or I shall be
repenting my share in the plot.”

She turned from him and, entering the castle, proceeded to a little
oratory which, originally Byzantine in character, had been altered by
Pauline to a style more in harmony with Latin art.

The sunlight, coloured as it passed through stained glass, slanted upon
an altar surmounted by an ivory crucifix, a symbol forbidden by the Greek
Church.

To this place came Pauline in a devotional spirit. For, as Italian
bandits put up prayers to the saints for a successful haul, and as
Cornish wreckers of old went straight from church to kindle beacons on
the cliffs, so did Pauline attend daily to pray to the Virgin for the
furtherance of a scheme that required for its success a continuous course
of deception.

She was about to light a candle in honour of the Madonna, when a voice
seemed to whisper, “Hypocrite!”

The taper dropped from her hand and she sank trembling upon a seat, her
gaze wandering slowly around as if expecting to encounter some speaker.

For the first time she became conscious of the incongruity of her
devotions. There broke in upon her mind a light that revealed her past
doings in their true character. She was at the parting of the ways. If
she must pray let her cease deceiving; if she must deceive, let her cease
praying.

Her eyes, moving slowly round as if in the hope of receiving guidance
from some object in the oratory, rested finally upon the western oriel,
whose stained glass showed a divine face, lit up by the setting sun. She
had seen this face many a time, but never before had it exercised so
potent an attraction. The eyes seemed to be looking at her with infinite
pity. Pauline thrilled.

Her intrigue for the diadem of empire was receiving a silent rebuke from
a crown of thorns!

       *       *       *       *       *

Vera, her face white and her eyes full of fear, came flying along the
corridor that led to the oratory.

She tapped at the door once—twice—thrice.

Receiving no answer she entered and found her mistress in a swoon on the
marble floor. Vera stopped short, her hands partly raised.

“She must have seen! But no! She could not from these windows.”

She flew to Pauline, dropped at her side, and, happening by good fortune
to have her _vinaigrette_ with her, employed it with such effect that
before long Pauline opened her eyes and smiled faintly.

“Dear Baroness, what has happened? You are looking like the dead.”

“It is nothing,” replied Pauline as she rose with the help of her maid.
“Only a swoon.”

Vera could see that for herself; she wanted to know its cause.

“Your coming has been so timely,” observed Pauline, “that I must not
scold you for disobedience. Tell me why you are here when I have said
that I am not to be disturbed at my devotions?”

This question reminded Vera of her mission.

“My lady, if I tell my news you will swoon again.”

Pauline’s face became transfigured with a smile, such as Vera had never
before seen, a smile that perplexed and awed her.

“Speak on, Vera,” she said gently. “Nothing that you may say can alarm me
now.”

Vera hesitated, and then, taking courage from her mistress’s manner,
said:—

“My lady, the Czar is in the castle!”

To Vera’s surprise the Baroness did not faint. True, she gave a great
start, but grew calm again in a moment.

“Is this an answer to my prayer?” she murmured to herself. “An invitation
from heaven to speak the truth and fear not?” Aloud she said, “What
brings him here? Does he suspect that——?”

“I think not, my lady. He is taking a quiet sail on the Neva in his
gondola with his equerries, Princes Ouvaroff and Volkonski, and has
pulled up off Runö for the purpose of paying his _devoir_ to the
Baroness. He is in the entrance hall awaiting my lady.”

“Where is Lord Courtenay—and—and—?”

It was with a ghastly smile that Vera replied—

“Lord Courtenay is by the lake making love to the Czarina!”




CHAPTER XXIX

WOOING A CZARINA


Wilfrid and his Princess occupied their favourite seat by the Fairies’
Mirror. Marie was musing upon her kinsfolk—she supposed she had such—and,
with a mind dominated by her love for Wilfrid, had come to the conclusion
that should they now appear with intent to restore her to her former life
she would be disposed to resist their action. Her life at Runö had been
so happy that she felt that any change must be for the worse.

“You saw me in my old life,” she remarked. “Tell me, did I seem very
happy in it?”

“Truth compels me to say you did not.”

“How did I appear?”

“You looked like—like—well, like the moonlight, beautiful, but sad.”

“And now——?”

“Now I may liken you to—to the sunshine.”

“Radiant and happy?” smiled she. “Yes, I feel so. The difference must
be due to changed conditions,” she continued, “and I am resolved not to
return to the old state. What I lose by this resolve, I do not know;
therefore, I do not grieve. I—heaven forgive me, if my act be a wrong
one!—but I am bent on separating myself entirely from the past.”

Prompted by a sudden thought, she rose to her feet.

“Which way does St. Petersburg lie?”

Wilfrid pointed to the east.

“St. Petersburg! city that was once my home, you are my home no more.”

And she flung out her arms as if casting something from her.

“Friends and relatives, if such there be to me, you are discarded.”

She repeated her action.

“My old life, farewell! I turn my back upon you.”

Suiting the action to the word, she turned upon her heel and stood facing
the west. Wilfrid being an artist could not help admiring the curves of
her graceful figure. Her hat had fallen off and some golden rays glancing
obliquely through her hair seemed to illumine it as with an aureole.
Wilfrid saw in this last attitude a happy augury for his hopes; she was
facing the west, and the west was the direction of his home.

Though her words and gestures were not in any way meant to influence
Wilfrid, being entirely spontaneous on her part, they none the less
appealed to his sense of chivalry. Her new state required that she should
have a protector; and who should that protector be, if not Wilfrid?

“If you are really bent on severing all connection with your former
life,” said Wilfrid, as Marie again sat beside him, “we must not leave
this spot without settling what your future course must be. For, to
remain at Runö is to run the risk of being drawn back again into those
old surroundings that you seem to dread. Now, I am going to suggest a
plan that I trust will be for your welfare.”

He certainly _had_ a plan, a delightful one; the difficulty was to find
courage enough to put it into words. A delicious sensation of expectancy
stole over Marie. Her eyes dared not meet his.

“Well, what _is_ this plan?” she murmured, after waiting for a while.

“I am beginning to think that you might not accept it.”

“How can I say till I hear it?”

“Cannot you guess its nature?”

“I might guess wrongly. _Please_ tell me,” she said, stealing a witching
glance at him from beneath her dark eyelashes, and encouraging him with a
smile that showed a dazzling set of teeth.

Wilfrid still fenced with the question, making it a matter of wonder to
Marie that he, who had never been lacking in courage, should show such
hesitation with her. How sweet to have such power over him! but how much
sweeter it would be if he would only say the words she was longing to
hear!

“You said just now,” he remarked, “that you have been happy here. What
has made you so?”

“Many things. The malicious joy of being alive, when my enemies think me
dead; the beautiful summer air; the waving woods of Runö; the quaint old
castle, with its books and antiquities; the sweet doing-nothing all day
long; the sense of freedom and irresponsibility; above all, Pauline’s
kindness.”

“Nothing more?”

“Your—your friendship.”

“You put that last, I see.”

“No, Lord Courtenay, I put that first,” she said softly.

And then——!

Who made the first movement towards the other neither ever knew. Certain
it is that Marie suddenly found herself returning Wilfrid’s passionate
kiss and clinging to his embrace as if she meant never to part from it.

In the stillness that followed, she could hear the wild beating of her
heart above the ripple of the forest leaves.

       *       *       *       *       *

“And do you really love me?” asked Marie, breaking the long spell of
silence.

“Do you doubt it?”

“No, but you have not yet _said_ it. It will be sweet to hear it.”

So Wilfrid said it, not once, but many times.

“And is this,” she asked, with a significant pressure of her arms, “is
this the plan you were speaking of?”

“Yes; that you will entrust your future to my keeping: that you will come
with me to England and be the Countess Courtenay.”

The sound of this name gave her a sweeter sensation of pleasure than any
she had yet felt.

“And you will marry me, knowing so little of me?” “I see you to be
beautiful, and I know you to have a sweet, lovable nature—what more can I
desire?”

He turned her happy glowing face upward to his own, kissed it again, and
softly stroked her hair. She thrilled at his caresses, finding it the
most natural thing in the world to nestle in his arms.

“I never realised till now,” he said, gazing downwards upon her face,
“the full force of the poet’s words—

    ‘When I lie tangled in her hair,
    And fettered to her eye.’

“What a pretty hand yours is!” he continued, taking it in his own. “Snow,
thou art not so white, after all. Will you hold it up for me?”

And Marie the next instant found her finger encircled with a ring.

For a moment she was dumb with a new pleasure, all her soul sparkling
from her eyes.

“Now I am linked to you,” she said, kissing the gift.

“For ever. The ring was my mother’s. The stones are amethysts. See how
they mock the violet lustre of your eyes!”

Marie laughed softly.

“Am I the first woman you have ever loved, Wilfrid?”

“The first and the last. Why do you ask?”

“Because you seem to speak so well for a novice.”

She accompanied her words with a smile, but the smile soon gave place to
a pensive expression.

“Dearest, why that sorrowful look?”

“You have made me so happy,” she said, “and yet, amid my happiness there
comes a thought that fills me with fear. I am not mistress of my true
mind. Supposing I should recover my memory and forget my present self,
I—I——”

Wilfrid finished the sentence for her.

“You might not regard me in the same light as now? Is not that what you
would say? Well, I am willing to take the risk. But ease your mind,
dearest, on that point. I do not think that in your former state you
viewed me with indifference. Is not your kiss at the masquerade a proof?”

Though Marie took courage from this last incident, she was still troubled
with doubts of another sort.

“I have cast aside all former ties. I want to be yours, and yours only.”
She clung to him as if he were her life itself. “But supposing a father
or a guardian should appear, forbidding our union?”

“They may forbid: they won’t prevent!”

“Or one saying that I had betrothed myself to him?”

“He must resign you.”

“You will not hand me over to any one who shall claim me?”

“Not even to the Czar himself if he should want you.”

“Remember this promise,” she said, raising her forefinger with a pretty
air. “You do not know how soon you may be put to the test.”

And so in happy talk they sat, drawing bright pictures of the future,
till the coming-on of twilight reminded them of the passing of time.

“Shall we return to the castle?” said Wilfrid. “I am eager to present
Countess Courtenay to Pauline.”

Marie rose and took Wilfrid’s arm. As she quitted the dell she cast a
backward lingering look at the spot, now rendered sacred in her eyes by
reason of Wilfrid’s love-vows there.

They emerged from the wood to the open space surrounding the castle, from
whose windows twinkled numerous lights, more numerous than usual, Wilfrid
thought.

Upon entering the castle they soon learned the cause. A very
distinguished visitor was beneath its roof. The Czar had paid the
Baroness Runö the high honour of an unpremeditated visit, and was now
holding converse with her in an apartment that, from the colour of its
upholstery, was known as the Blue Chamber, while in the entrance hall his
equerries Princes Ouvaroff and Volkonski were discussing some excellent
wines with Dr. Beauvais.

Wilfrid was one of the very few men who are not dazzled by titles, a
sentiment arising, perhaps, from a magnificent faith in his own lineage.

“The Czar!” he whispered to Marie. “The very gentleman I am wanting to
see, since he can explain who you are. You do not fear to face him?”

“Not if you are with me.”

As it would be contrary to Court etiquette to enter the Czar’s presence
unbidden, or to send a message into the Blue Chamber while he was
conversing with the Baroness, Wilfrid’s plan was to wait till that
interview was over, and then, when the Czar should return along the grand
corridor to the castle entrance, step forward and ask for the favour of a
few words.

“And then,” he remarked in philosophic vein, “we shall see what we shall
see.”

With a view to keeping an eye upon departing majesty Wilfrid chose as his
place of vigil a chamber whose door opened upon the corridor.

Among other ornaments decorating the walls of this chamber were several
sabres. Carefully inspecting these he selected one, and girded it at his
side, while Marie tremblingly asked his reason for this act.

“One may as well be prepared for emergencies,” he smiled.

Beneath the mask of his light and careless air Marie could see that he
apprehended there might be danger, and she began to realise more vividly
the nature of the coming ordeal.

What if the Czar, on seeing the man who had mocked him by not appearing
at the rendezvous, should order his attendants or Pauline’s to arrest
Wilfrid? Wilfrid, she well knew, would fight for his liberty against
any odds. Or supposing the Czar should be tempted to renew his duelling
proposal, what could Wilfrid do but respond to the challenge? Or what,
too, if the Czar, in the exercise of his legitimate authority, should
insist upon her returning with him to St. Petersburg?

Wilfrid, true to the promise she had exacted from him, would endeavour
to prevent this; but what could his single sword achieve against the
power of the Czar? Her lively imagination began to picture scenes of
altercation and fighting, of bloodshed and death.

Let the mystery of her origin remained unsolved for ever if its
attempted solution must bring danger upon the head of Wilfrid.

Her quick changing colour, the trembling of her hand within his, spoke
eloquently of her fears.

Folding her within his arms Wilfrid tried both by words and caresses to
infuse her with some of his own spirit.

“It is for you I fear,” she said, as she clung convulsively to him. “Let
us leave the castle till the Czar be gone. Nothing but harm will come
of this meeting.” All in a moment that frowning portrait in the Hall of
the Czars rose vividly before her. If a mere picture could fill her mind
with a nameless terror, what would be the effect of the living original?
“Oh, Wilfrid, don’t—_don’t_ make me face him!” she gasped. “I dare not—I
_don’t_ know why, but I dare not! If he sees me ... there is something
... something at my heart ... that tells me this embrace ... will be our
last! Let us.... My God! he is coming ... it is too late!”




CHAPTER XXX

BEHIND THE CURTAIN


The door by which Wilfrid and Marie had entered was not the only one
giving access to the room; at the opposite end was a second, partly open,
and along the corridor leading to this came the sound of voices, two in
number, a woman’s and a man’s.

Pauline and the Czar were approaching. A moment more and they would be
within the room.

Marie’s terrified air alarmed Wilfrid. She must be kept from the trying
ordeal of facing the Czar. As it was too late, however, to escape from
the room, he hastily drew her behind a curtain that hung across the
entrance of an alcove, and, seating her in a _fauteuil_ that happened by
good fortune to be there, placed his finger upon her lips as a warning
for her to be silent, a warning that was scarcely needed.

A moment afterwards the Czar and Pauline were in the room.

The drapery of the alcove consisted of two curtains, hung so as to leave
from top to bottom an opening of about an inch in width, that enabled
Wilfrid to see the Czar.

Tall and handsome, Alexander was endowed with a presence that, majestic
in itself, was rendered more so by a grand and brilliant uniform.
Wilfrid, despite his prejudice, was compelled to admit that here was a
_man_ as well as an emperor. His stately aspect seemed to breathe a sort
of challenge to Wilfrid, upon whom there stole that elemental feeling
that made the old heathen warrior raise his clenched fist to the skies
with the cry of, “I defy thee, O Odin! Come down from heaven and let us
try which is the better man!”

But Wilfrid’s desire to try conclusions with the Czar was immediately
lost in a new interest as he viewed that monarch’s manner towards Pauline.

As she entered, her hand resting lightly upon his arm, he was bending
over her with eyes that plainly spoke of love, though her reserved air
showed that she did not return the feeling.

Wilfrid’s gorge rose. Not content with making love to Marie, this
imperial libertine sought to lure Pauline also to his arms! Was this the
business of an emperor? Fortunately he seemed as little likely to succeed
in the one case as the other.

On seeing the two entering, Wilfrid thought that the Czar’s visit was
over, and that Pauline was conducting him through this apartment as being
the shortest way out of the castle. He was wrong. The two had come to
this apartment for a private talk, for the Czar, having led Pauline to an
ottoman, took his place beside her.

This was a development which Wilfrid had not anticipated. To continue
longer in concealment would be to play the spy, yet remain there he must,
on Marie’s account, since there was no way of quitting the alcove except
by revealing himself.

At first, with an odd sense of preserving his honour, Wilfrid tried not
to listen, endeavouring to fix his attention on other matters. But the
attempt was a failure; against his wish he was attracted by the words of
the speakers, and as the dialogue grew, so, too, did his interest.

“You were praying in the oratory,” said Alexander to Pauline. “Did _my_
name mingle with your prayers?”

“Yes, Sire,” answered Pauline gravely. “I prayed for you more earnestly
than ever I prayed before.”

The melancholy, seldom absent from the Czar’s face since his father’s
death, brightened into a smile.

“And what was the petition on my behalf?”

“That your Majesty might have a right judgment,” replied Pauline with a
meaning plain enough to Wilfrid, though not to the Czar.

“‘Sire!’ ‘Majesty!’” repeated Alexander, with what in a woman would be
called a pout. “Leave this formal style to ministers and courtiers. With
you I am Sasha. Ah! shall I ever forget the night when first you called
me by that name? Never did it sound so pretty as when coming from your
lips! And you said that your name to me must be no more Baroness but
Pauline. Do you remember?”

“I remember,” she answered with a sigh.

Becoming conscious of this restraint in her manner, Alexander eyed
her wistfully, failing, however, to divine the reason for her altered
demeanour.

He was not much more than a youth and a somewhat simple-minded one to
boot, but he had a high sense of his sovereignty, and it never occurred
to him that the gallantries of an emperor could be other than acceptable
to the object of them.

“Pauline, how beautiful you are!” he murmured after a moment’s silence.

Time was when she would have thrilled at such language. But to-night his
words had lost their old charm.

“Your Majesty must not speak thus.”

“‘Majesty’ again? But I let it pass. Why must I refrain from speaking the
truth?”

“You must reserve such language for Elizavetta only.”

“Elizavetta!” said Alexander, his face darkening with a noble but
mistaken scorn. “Elizavetta! A wife who from her wedding-day never loved
her husband.”

“I think your Majesty is wrong.”

“Nay, I will prove myself to be right. Do princesses ever marry for
love? Is it not their duty to take the suitor whom political interest
prescribes? Princess Marie of Baden was only fourteen when her parents
bade her prepare for her wedding. The Empress Catharine desired that she
should be the wife of her grandson Alexander, then a youth of fifteen.”

_Princess Marie!_ The title dropped lightly from the lips of the
speaker, but upon the woman behind the curtain it fell with a shock
more startling, perhaps, than if it had been the voice of the archangel
calling her to her final doom.

In one swift moment all the sweetness and brightness of life was
extinguished for Marie by the ghastly revelation that she was already a
wife. What booted it that her consort was a Czar? Better, far better, so
ran her wild thoughts, had she gone down in the waters of the Nevka, or
died on reaching the Silver Strand, than live to see this sudden mockery
of all her sweet hopes.

Her fingers were still locked within Wilfrid’s, but as she realised that
her love for him was now a sinful thing, that henceforth she must live
apart from him, that she must be handed over to a husband, who, at that
very moment was playing her false, a husband, who, in her present state
of mind was a stranger to her, nay more, utterly abhorrent, there broke
from her a low wail of anguish, which the Czar and Pauline would surely
have heard had not their attention been absorbed in each other.

As for Wilfrid, he, too, was completely stunned, as much by the thought
of losing Marie, as by the discovery that, purposing to deliver a
beautiful princess from the attentions of a too-amorous Czar, he was
really guilty of attempting to steal a wife from her husband. In the
matter of the duel it was now clear that the right had been on the side
of the Czar, a mortifying and humiliating thought for Wilfrid. Still, his
position was a blameless one, as far as he was concerned, being due, not
to intentional wrong-doing, but to ignorance.

“How could a girl of fourteen,” Alexander continued, “be expected to
love a man whom she had never seen? She married me because she was told
to do so. Without a murmur she accepted a new religion, the Greek; a new
name, Elizavetta. In the same way she would have accepted the Sultan and
Islamism.”

“In blaming her you blame yourself, who were equally submissive to
Catharine’s will.”

“For her submission I blame her not, but for—you shall hear.

“We married and at first were happy:—at least _I_ was. Her beauty, her
sweetness, charmed me. Yes, I truly loved her till—till I discovered that
I held only the second place in her heart.”

“I think your Majesty errs. How did you discover it?”

“In the early days of our betrothal she spoke to me of a certain
Englishman, Wilfrid Courtenay, and earnestly begged that she might be
permitted to continue wearing a locket containing his portrait on the
plea that he had saved her life.

“As heaven is my witness, I bore this man no jealousy: nay, I told her I
would love him for her sake, that when I was Czar I would invite him to
my Court and pay him high honour as one who had preserved for me a sweet
and fair bride.

“But mark the sequel.

“One night—it is now about two years ago—I entered her bed-chamber at a
late hour, and found her fast asleep. As I bent over her, admiring her
beauty, a smile curved her lips, and from them came a word softly spoken.
That word was—‘Wilfrid’!

“I started back as from the hiss of a serpent. The Englishman was in her
thoughts, his name was on her lips, his image within a locket lay upon
her breast!

“That night was the beginning of my suspicions.”

“Suspicions which Baranoff did his best to fan,” interjected Pauline.

“Baranoff has been the zealous guardian of my honour. ’Twas he who bade
me observe. And I observed. I watched and waited and found my suspicions
verified. Her guilt at the Inn of the Silver Birch rests on the testimony
of others, but at the Sumaroff Masquerade I had the evidence of my own
eyes. In a retired part of the gardens I surprised her, wrapped in Lord
Courtenay’s arms, submitting to his caresses. Detected in the very act of
guilt she durst not face me: she durst not return to the palace. She fled
that very night. Lord Courtenay disappeared at the same time. Is it not
plain that they went together?”

“Is that the talk of St. Petersburg?”

“Neither St. Petersburg nor the Court itself is aware of her flight.
Would you have me make my humiliation the theme of every gossip’s tongue?
No! the matter is kept a secret. The public journals have received
notification that the Czarina is spending a few weeks in religious
seclusion at the Convent of the Ascension. Meantime the police agents
have received their orders—to make diligent search for Lord Courtenay.
Where he is, there will Marie be found.”

“And when they are found?”

“For her, the nun’s cell; for him, the headsman’s axe.”

“Your Majesty is somewhat severe upon them. Seeing you have resolved that
Plato shall pronounce your divorce, why should she not be left free to go
with Lord Courtenay, if she will?”

“An ex-Czarina to re-marry! That were to put a premium upon adultery and
set a dangerous precedent. Let her have her lover? Give her the prize she
has been guiltily striving for? Let him parade Europe with an ex-empress
for his bride, boasting how he had won her from Alexander? That were a
humiliation too much to be borne. No! Death for him; for her, life-long
penitence in a convent.—She has chosen to forfeit my affection and my
throne; let me think no more of her.”

He took Pauline’s hand; she did not resist, but let her fingers rest
passively within his.

“Pauline, you know our compact?”

She knew, and the memory of it troubled her.

“I have not forgotten,” said he, “your sudden start when first I
confessed my love to you, your grave look, your pleading for Marie, your
little homily on virtue: ‘I may be the wife, I will never be the mistress
of a Czar.’ I loved you all the more for that saying. It was then I told
you of Marie’s secret longing, and you agreed that if guilt should be
found in her, and I should put her away, you would be my wife. Was it not
so? To prove how much I was in earnest did I not commit my promise to
writing?”

“You did, Sire. It is here,” she replied, withdrawing her hand from his
and taking the document from her bosom. “Let me return it to you. Or,
better still—”

She rose from the ottoman and, placing one end of the scroll to a lighted
taper in the chandelier, let the parchment burn till the flame all but
touched her fingers. The charred fragment floated from her hand to the
floor.

“It was a dishonourable compact. It shames me to recall it.”

The writer of the document had watched her action with a troubled look.

“Pauline,” he said gently, “in what have I offended? What has caused this
difference in you? Why are you so cold to-day? Speak, as you spoke at our
last meeting, or I—I——”

His voice trembling with emotion, he rose to his feet and, taking both
her hands within his own, strove to look into her averted face.

“Nay, do not turn from me,” said he. “It is a Czar that offers you his
love. Among the royal princesses of Europe is there one but would thrill
with pleasure to be as you are to me? All that I have is yours—palaces,
gold, jewels. You will be above queens. At my coming coronation you shall
sit beside me on the throne amid a blaze of glory, admired and worshipped
by all. Ten thousand swords will flash from their scabbards, ten thousand
of the noblest in the Empire will swear to shed their last drop of
blood in your defence. My ministers shall be nothing to me; it is your
sweet counsel I shall follow. Your policy shall be my policy. Do I not
know that the dearest wish of your heart is to see the exiled Bourbons
restored to the throne of France? That wish shall become a reality; at
your word armies shall march to overturn this Corsican adventurer.”

Pauline caught her breath at this last—of all his arguments the only one
that had power to move her. But her hesitation lasted for a moment only.
Strengthened by prayer, purified in mind, she had come forth from the
oratory a new creature, armed with a power that enabled her to set aside
the ambitious hopes that had dazzled her during so many months.

“It is useless to tempt me, Sire,” she said firmly, seeking to withdraw
her hands. “It must not be.”

“Why not?”

“I will not wrong Marie. I will not deprive an innocent woman of a
husband’s love, of an imperial diadem, to gratify my own ambition!
Once—with shame I confess it—I desired her to walk in the ways of
guilt; nay, I have plotted for that very end; her fall should be my
stepping-stone to glory and power; but now my eyes have become opened.
Equivocal as the Empress’s conduct may have seemed, I do not believe that
her love has ever seriously wandered from you. If your Majesty will sit
calmly down and listen to me, I will so prove her innocence that——”

The sentence was never finished.

Marie, overwhelmed by emotion, at this moment clutched at the _portiêre_,
and the curtain fell.

The fabric, though light, made a swish that caused the Czar to turn his
head toward the alcove. And there, clearly revealed in the brilliant
light, stood Wilfrid and the missing Czarina!




CHAPTER XXXI

“I BELONG TO WILFRID, NOT TO YOU”


There was a spell of terrible silence, followed by an impulsive cry from
the Czar.

“Marie!”

More dead than alive the Czarina leaned against the side of the alcove,
her eyes set with a dreadful stare upon the face of the man whom she
could not think of as her husband. To her he seemed a veritable stranger.
And yet he had the right to take her from Wilfrid and do with her as
he listed; and as her dazed mind realised this there broke from her
bloodless lips a shivering mournful cry, like water reeds when thrilled
by the evening breeze.

As for the Czar, his mind was filled with consternation, rage, and
embarrassment. Though he saw before him his missing wife secreted in an
alcove with her lover, he was conscious of the ludicrousness of posing as
an injured husband, seeing that he was himself caught in the very act of
making love to Pauline.

The latter was scarcely less agitated than Marie herself. The deception
practised by her during the preceding month was now laid bare to Wilfrid.
She had hoped, by making a voluntary confession that night, to dull the
edge of his anger. Too late now! After her first hasty glance at the
alcove she stood with averted eyes, fearing to meet his reproachful gaze.

Of the four Wilfrid was the least embarrassed, though he scarcely knew
how to act in this dilemma.

By the law of God and of man Marie belonged to her husband. Yet a rapid
review of the facts—in particular the Czar’s illicit love-making—made
Wilfrid hesitate to resign her unconditionally to a man whom she
abhorred, and who had vowed his intention of immuring her for life
within a convent.

The Czar was the first to break the silence.

“An interesting tableau!” he said with a bitter sneer. “The guilty wife
and her paramour hiding from the husband’s gaze.”

Wilfrid’s eyes flashed dangerously, though he was compelled to admit that
the accusation was natural in the circumstances.

“A word of caution, Sire. We Courtenays are not accustomed to take
insults, even from emperors.”

“Brave words from the hero that fled the duel!”

“There was no fleeing on the part of Lord Courtenay,” said Pauline. “He
would have met your Majesty, but when on his way to the rendezvous he was
seized by my orders and brought to Runö.”

“An act of treason!” commented the Czar, the autocrat asserting himself
above the lover.

“It was the saving of your life,” was Pauline’s answer, a tacit
assumption of Wilfrid’s superior swordsmanship that galled Alexander’s
vanity.

“Stand aside from my wife!” he cried angrily to Wilfrid.

“Your wife! How can that be when but a few minutes ago you disowned her?”

The charge was true and the Czar could not deny it.

Scarcely knowing what to say or do in his embarrassment he looked hard at
his wife, she at him. Usually so loving she now seemed a veritable piece
of marble. It was impossible to understand so strange a change. Pauline
in refusing his love had shown some pity for him, but Marie, in holding
aloof, displayed not a trace of affection or regret; her manner was as
though she had never known him.

As he looked, a new feeling stole over his heart. Four weeks’ absence
seemed to have made her more beautiful. With that inconsistency
characteristic of human nature he now began to desire what but a short
time before he had been willing to discard.

Whether this change of feeling was due to Marie’s very coldness, or
to Pauline’s rejection of him, or to jealousy of Wilfrid, or to all
three causes working together, certain it is that Alexander found his
affection, long-suspended, beginning to revive; if Marie had made but
one step towards him he would have been willing to receive her. It was
hard to believe that he had lost her for ever. He wished that Pauline and
Wilfrid were not present that he might take her by the hand and speak the
tender words of the old days; surely, then, her hardness would relent?

An impulsive step forward on his part caused the Czarina to cling
shudderingly to her new protector.

“Wilfrid!” she gasped. “Remember your promise! Do not—do not give me
up to this man. I shall die if he touch me! God forgive me ... if I do
wrong! I cannot ... I cannot let you go. I am yours ... yours only.”

The rigid moralist, reasoning from a distance, will say that it was
Wilfrid’s duty to retire immediately in favour of the husband: but let
that moralist be in the like situation, with a beautiful woman clinging
to him, her lovely eyes appealing for aid, the perfume of her dress
casting an intoxicating spell around her, and he would do as Wilfrid did,
who, casting aside nice ethical consideration, silently vowed that Marie
should not be led off against her will.

The Czar stood perfectly confounded at his wife’s declaration.

“She calls him ‘Wilfrid’! Says she is ‘his alone’! My God! is this the
language of innocence?”

“She is not in her right mind,” intervened Pauline hastily. “She——”

But the emperor cut her short before she could make the necessary
explanation.

“It is easy to see that. He has corrupted her nature.”

“The Czarina,” said Wilfrid, though it grated upon him to use the title,
“has lived at Runö as purely as a vestal maiden. My word of honour upon
it.”

In view of Marie’s attitude at that moment the Czar might be pardoned for
declining to accept Wilfrid’s statement.

“Your word! Yours!” he retorted with ineffable disdain.

“Mine,” returned Wilfrid. “And never yet did Courtenay speak falsely,
or—sign a placard that his father had died of apoplexy!”

“By heaven, you die for that saying!” cried Alexander, clapping his hand
upon his sword-hilt.

“Faith! ’tis hard if one must die for speaking the truth!”

“Get you from the side of that lady,” said the Czar, his eyes blazing
with wrath.

“Do not leave me, Wilfrid!” murmured Marie.

“The Czar bids, but the Czarina _for_bids!” returned Wilfrid. “Honour
enjoins me to obey the lady.”

“By what right do you constitute yourself her champion?”

“By the right of every man to protect a woman, even the wife of another,
from injustice.”

“Injustice?”

“You have threatened an innocent lady with life-long imprisonment in a
convent. From such fate it shall be my duty to defend her.”

Emboldened by these words, and moved by a sudden impulse, Marie kissed
Wilfrid, placed her arms about his neck, and, facing the Czar, said, with
a proud light shining from her eyes:—

“I belong to Wilfrid, not to you.”

She was never dearer to Wilfrid than at that moment as she stood with her
arms about him—to the Czar, proud and defiant, to him, all tenderness and
trust. However questionable the nature of his triumph, Wilfrid would have
been more than human had he not felt a thrill of pleasure. His dashing
audacity could rise no higher: henceforth it must descend; he could never
hope to surpass the feat of hearing an empress declare her love for him
in the very presence of her husband.

Alexander drew his sword with intent to wreak vengeance upon the man who
had stolen his wife’s heart.

Pauline, trembling all over, threw herself in his way.

“No, no!—for God’s sake—your Majesty—you are risking your life! Consider
your rank—_Sasha_!”

[Illustration: WILFRID DREW HIS OWN BLADE AND ASSUMED AN ATTITUDE OF
DEFENCE.

“_By Neva’s Waters._”

_Page 299._]

Putting aside her detaining grasp Alexander, his blade gleaming in his
hand, advanced towards the alcove amid the screams of the two women.

With a movement, as swift as it was gentle, Wilfrid detached himself from
Marie’s arms, placed her behind him, drew his own blade and assumed an
attitude of defence.

“Leave this apartment to me and to the Empress!” cried Alexander,
pointing with his sword the way Wilfrid should go.

“If the Empress bids me,” replied Wilfrid.

But no such bidding came from the white lips of the Empress, who had sunk
half-fainting upon the seat within the alcove.

Wilfrid’s words, the Czarina’s attitude, put the finishing touches to
the Emperor’s fury. With a cry of “Look to yourself!” he rushed upon the
defiant Englishman, but, on the very point of making a savage lunge, he
stopped short; his sabre dropped; and then, his face flushing purple and
his eyes rolling in their orbits, he fell prostrate on the floor.




CHAPTER XXXII

FLIGHT


Startled at the strange turn of events the three spectators stood,
staring in doubt and fear at the unconscious figure. Was this collapse
the stroke of death?

Before they had time to ascertain for themselves there came an insistent
knocking at the door, as of someone attracted by the screaming.

Wilfrid walked forward and, opening the door just wide enough to
ascertain who the new-comer was, beheld Beauvais standing without.

“The very man we want,” he said, pulling the surprised doctor within and
locking the door. “The Czar requires your aid.”

Beauvais, being a wise man, spent no time in asking irrelevant questions.
Hurrying forward he knelt down, and examined the body of the fallen
emperor.

“An apoplectic stroke. Takes after his father Paul,” said Beauvais, as he
loosened the Czar’s military collar and bade Wilfrid bring him a carafe
of water.

“Is it serious?” asked Pauline.

“I think not, but one never knows.”

“How long will it be before consciousness returns?” she continued.

“I cannot say. He may recover in an hour; in two hours; five; perhaps
more. It is impossible to tell. Let me have help, Baroness.”

With Wilfrid’s aid Beauvais laid the Czar upon the ottoman, while Pauline
summoned two maids to assist the doctor’s ministrations.

This done she gently drew Wilfrid and the Empress to a small anteroom
and, with downcast eyes and humble air, knelt before the latter.

“Your Majesty——” she began.

“Majesty!” exclaimed the other. It frightened her to see Pauline
suppliant at her feet.

“Yes, for you are in truth the Czarina——”

“Is this a conspiracy to mock me, or is it really the truth? I cannot—I
_cannot_ believe it. It is so strange that I—that I should be—Ah! would
to heaven that I were not! What do I gain by the change?—Would that I
were dead!” she murmured with a look of unutterable anguish. “O Wilfrid,
Wilfrid, we are lost to each other.”

If Pauline ever felt remorse, she felt it at that moment as she
contemplated these two, with whose affections she had wantonly sported
for the sake of her own ambition.

“Yes, reproach me,” she said, observing Wilfrid’s grave eyes set upon
her. “I deserve your bitterest censure. My only excuse is that it was
done for France—for France. I have acted wickedly, yet I repented,
but—but it was too late! And I, too, have suffered—”

She swayed and would have fallen had not the Czarina held her up by the
wrists. For a few moments they continued in this attitude, till the
Czarina, pitying Pauline’s unhappy look, stooped and kissed her.

“I forgive you,” she murmured, raising the other.

“Alas! I cannot forgive myself,” murmured Pauline bitterly.

An embarrassing silence followed, broken at length by Marie.

“If I am Empress,” she said with a sad smile, addressing Wilfrid, “show
your loyalty by doing my will. Aid me to escape. When the Czar recovers
he will order your arrest and mine. I will not lose my liberty. I must
fly at once.”

Wilfrid was quite alive to the necessity for her immediate flight. Her
relation with the Czar was, in his opinion, a question to be decided at
some other time; for the present she must not remain at Runö while the
Czar’s anger and jealousy were still hot upon him.

Yet how could he give her aid when police and spies—as the Czar had
said—were everywhere on the look-out for him? Should he be recognised,
not only his own flight, but that of the Empress would be frustrated.

“Your Majesty,” said he after awhile, “the only asylum that I can think
of is the British Embassy, which we can reach by water along the Neva
and Fontanka Canal, and thus perchance elude the police. Lord St. Helens
will be honoured by your confidence. Within the Embassy you may remain
concealed till some plan be devised for your escape, or till friends
shall have effected a reconciliation between you and the Czar.”—Marie
shivered.—“Even supposing your presence at the Embassy should become
known, you cannot be removed by force, nor can the Czar enter without
leave. You will, in fact, be able to treat with him on equal terms.”

Marie caught eagerly at Wilfrid’s suggestion. To get away at once was her
one desire. Pauline, too, approved of the scheme.

“A boat shall be ready at Silver Point within ten minutes,” she said, and
gave an order to that effect.

It now occurred to Wilfrid that to accompany the Empress would give a
tongue to scandal, and confirm the Czar in his suspicions. He whispered
this much into Pauline’s ears.

“I have thought of that,” she murmured, “and the Czarina’s brother-in-law
shall go with you, to see,” she added with an air of shame, “that there
be no more love-making between you.”

“The Czarina’s brother-in-law!” said Wilfrid.

“I refer to Prince Ouvaroff,” explained Pauline, “who is now beneath my
roof.”

“Ouvaroff will be more likely to intercept than to assist her flight.”

“Because he misjudges her. But I will undeceive him. Escort the Empress
to the Silver Strand and wait there for me.”

Wilfrid, taking the Empress under his care, stepped through the French
window and set off for the appointed place, while Pauline made her way to
the entrance hall.

Here the Czar’s equerries, Princes Ouvaroff and Volkonski, were whiling
away the time over a game of chess.

Upon her entering the two arose and bowed.

“The Czar——?” began Volkonski.

“Is taking a short sleep,” answered Pauline. “Prince Ouvaroff, may I have
a word with you?”

The Prince was only too pleased at such an honour. She drew Ouvaroff,
much to Volkonski’s surprise, from the entrance hall to the moonlight
outside and began to whisper her tidings.

“_She_ here!” muttered the Prince, confounded, “and preparing to fly.”

“She has been living in concealment here since the night of the Sumaroff
Masquerade. Now before you pronounce her guilty read this.”—She handed
him a letter.—“It is a confession written by Nadia, once maid at the Inn
of the Silver Birch.”

By the light of the harvest moon Ouvaroff rapidly ran his eye over the
document. His face wore at first an expression of surprise that finally
merged into joy.

“This establishes her innocence,” he said looking up from the paper, “at
least as regards the affair at the inn.” And then, with a look of deep
dismay, he added in a stammering voice, “And I—it was I who accused her
to Alexander——”

“Well, you can atone for that error by helping her now.”

“But—but,” exclaimed the perplexed Prince, as he handed back the letter,
“since she can now prove her innocence what need is there for flight?”

“Because the Empress has lost her memory, and—But we’ve no time to lose.
Come with me and I’ll explain matters as we go along.”

He followed Pauline, and, as they went, she put him in possession of the
chief events of the story, finishing her recital just as they reached the
Silver Strand.

Close to the shore with which it was connected by a broad plank, lay a
handsome gondola, _The Pauline_, capable of holding eight or ten persons.
Within it and resting upon their oars were four sturdy Finlanders, ready
to undertake any charge, however perilous, at the bidding of their
mistress.

Marie had no more recollection of Ouvaroff than she had of the Czar, and
gazed wonderingly at him as he knelt before her upon the sands.

“Prince Ouvaroff,” whispered Wilfrid for her enlightenment.

“Your Majesty,” said the Prince, “I—I have done you a grievous wrong, for
which I know not how to atone. If the taking of my life can afford you
any satisfaction it is yours to take.”

The Empress put forth her hand and raised the Prince.

“Aid me to escape, good Ouvaroff, and you are forgiven.”

The Prince vowed that he would do all he could to further her wish, for
he perceived that, till the recovery of her memory, it would be unjust
and cruel to force her return to the Czar. For his part, zealous to
retrieve his error, he desired nothing better than to die in her service.

“As I am of like mind with you,” said Wilfrid, addressing Ouvaroff, “what
is to prevent us from being the best of friends as once we were?”

The Prince grasped Wilfrid’s outstretched hand and thus the two, so long
estranged, were at one again.

“Are you not coming with us?” said Marie to Pauline.

The Baroness shook her head.

“Have you the courage,” continued the other, “to face the Czar’s anger
when he awakes and finds us gone?”

“I must try to repair the wrong I have done. I remain to act as
conciliator between you and the Czar.”

The Empress shook her head, kissed Pauline and, turning away, was guided
across the plank by Ouvaroff and Wilfrid. She seated herself beside the
latter in the bow of the boat, while the Prince took his place in the
stern and busied himself with the tiller. The oars dipped, and the next
moment the boat was shooting forward into deep water.

As Marie silently watched the castle fade in the distance and thought of
the happy time spent there, her eyes suffused with tears.

Wilfrid, too, was silent. He was glad of the presence of Prince Ouvaroff
and the four Finlanders; there could be no love-making so long as they
were by. A beautiful woman is a beautiful peril and she becomes doubly
perilous when in distress. Wilfrid, in spite of the claims of honour,
felt that he durst not trust himself alone with her, lest passion should
usurp the place of reason.

“_Wilfrid_,” said the Czarina softly. “How is this to end?”

“Your Majesty——” he began.

“Majesty!” she repeated reproachfully. “It was Marie once.”

“A treasonable word, for which I humbly ask your pardon.”

“Pardon, for giving me pleasure?”

There was fire in Wilfrid’s blood when she spoke like that, and he was
gladder than ever that they were not alone.

“It must be our aim to do the right,” he remarked. “There is something
higher in life than love—there is honour.”

“That means that you have ceased to love me,” she said; in her voice a
pathos that thrilled him to the heart.

“Your Majesty, I would gladly resign life itself to ensure your
happiness.”

“I know it and am grateful. But,” she faltered sorrowfully, “that feeling
is loyalty, not love.” There was a brief interval of silence, and then
she resumed:—

“The Czar loves Pauline; he will obtain a divorce and then—then—what is
to prevent us from being—happy?”

“That were to justify men’s suspicions of our relations. Your fair name
would be gone. No, your Majesty. You are an Empress and shall remain
such. The Czar will forget his fancy for Pauline when he finds that she
is set against him. He shall believe in your innocence—how, I do not at
present know, but all will come right in the end.”

Deep down in her heart Marie was fain to confess the justice of what
she felt was Wilfrid’s final decision, but—the hardness of it! Without
Wilfrid the future seemed black and joyless. What was the diadem of an
empress without Wilfrid’s love?

Under the vigorous strokes of the four oarsmen _The Pauline_ moved
onwards at a fair pace, Ouvaroff keeping to mid-stream, the better to
escape notice from the shore.

Heavy with thought the Empress took little heed of external things, but
was roused from her reverie by a sudden whisper from Wilfrid.

“The Sumaroff Palace.”

With some show of interest she turned her eyes towards the broad extent
of gardens stretching backwards from the river and gazed at the long
marble terrace from which, according to what had been told her, she
must have been flung on that dreadful night exactly four weeks ago. For
the hundredth time she thought how strange it was that her mind should
preserve no memory of that event.

With his eye still upon the terrace Wilfrid observed a tall figure
standing at the head of a short flight of steps leading down to the
water. He had an impression that it was none other than Prince Sumaroff,
a personal friend, and a very great one, too, of the Czar. He had just
taken leave of a gentleman, wrapped in a long cloak, who had entered a
small boat that was now being vigorously pulled by two men, not in a
transverse, but in an oblique line, that would bring them within a few
minutes across the bows of _The Pauline_.

As the gondola drew near, the two rowers in the other boat, without any
apparent reason, suddenly changed their course. With a warning yell
Ouvaroff swung the rudder round as far as it would go. All too late! A
snapping of oars and a grinding crash of woodwork, cries of men and a
woman’s scream—and the next moment both boats turned completely over,
their occupants being precipitated into the Neva, not, however, before
Ouvaroff had recognised the cloaked figure in the other boat.

It was Count Baranoff.

Wilfrid, seated in the bow of _The Pauline_ talking with Marie, had not
noticed the proximity of the other boat till roused by Ouvaroff’s shout.
Turning his head and seeing the danger, he made a sudden clutch at Marie,
but at that very moment came the shock of collision; her form eluded his
fingers, and he went down into the water without her.

Being an excellent swimmer he rose at once to the surface and looked
about for her. The two boats, keel uppermost, were a few yards away,
moving off upon the fast-flowing current. Two of the Finlanders were
clinging to _The Pauline_; the two others were struggling desperately in
the water; so, too, was one of the rowers in Baranoff’s boat. The five,
unable apparently to swim, were uttering piteous cries.

These five were all that Wilfrid could see. There should be four more.
Then, near by, arose the dripping head of Prince Ouvaroff. Like Wilfrid,
a swimmer, it was no trouble for him to keep afloat.

“The Czarina!” he gasped, treading water and staring around.

“I’m looking for her. She hasn’t risen yet.”

Seeing that Marie, though tied hand and foot, had yet contrived to drift
safely all the way to Runö, Wilfrid did not feel any alarm for a few
seconds, but as the moments passed without sign of her, his easy feeling
vanished.

Was she held a struggling captive, under one of the upturned boats?
Hardly, he thought; so good a swimmer as she could surely extricate
herself from such a position, unless she had been struck and rendered
senseless.

Filled with this fear he was about to dash off after the two boats when a
cry from Ouvaroff stopped him.

Looking where the Prince looked he saw a face, ghastly in the moonlight,
the face of Arcadius Baranoff.

“Save me,” he gurgled, his mouth full of water. “I cannot swim; I’m
drowning!”

“The Count must take his chance,” thought Wilfrid, and he was on the
point of turning away when he caught a gleam as of floating gold locks
beneath the hands of Baranoff. It was a sight that filled Wilfrid’s heart
with horror and sent a cry of vengeance to his tongue.

The coward Count was clinging to the struggling Empress! Unable to swim,
he was seeking to gain a foothold in the water by resting his hands upon
the head and shoulders of the Czarina, indifferent as to _her_ fate,
provided _he_ might be rescued. But for this grip Marie could easily have
made her way to the shore.

She slipped from his grasp and rose above the surface, fighting
desperately for breath. A moment only was her white face visible;
Baranoff had caught her again by the shoulders and the two immediately
sank.

“The coward! He’ll drown her!” cried Wilfrid.

A few strokes brought him to the place of their disappearance. Fearing
that she might rise no more Wilfrid swam downwards without coming upon
either of them. Unable to hold his breath longer he rose to the surface
and saw Baranoff, a few feet away, drifting with the current, still
clinging to the Czarina.

“I’m drowning! I’m drowning!” he screamed in a paroxysm of terror.

In another moment Wilfrid and Ouvaroff were by his side.

“Let go your hold, or I’ll kill you!” said the furious Prince, and,
clutching the Count by the back of his collar, he forced his head under
the water, a diversion that caused Baranoff to relax his grasp, while at
the same time Wilfrid seized the unconscious Czarina and holding her head
above the surface, struck out immediately for the shore.

Prince Sumaroff, who had witnessed the catastrophe without being able to
render any aid, descended the steps as Wilfrid drew near with his burden.

“I trust the lady lives,” he said preparing to assist her from the water.

“If not, Russia will mourn its Empress,” replied Wilfrid, revealing the
Czarina’s face to the gaze of the petrified Prince.




CHAPTER XXXIII

RECONCILIATION


For three hours the unconscious Czarina lay as one dead; then life
began slowly to return, news received with feelings of intense relief
by Wilfrid and Ouvaroff, who, seated by the cheerful light of a
log-fire—Prince Sumaroff, it seemed, hated the national stove—were
discussing the situation.

“It’s satisfactory to know that Baranoff has gone to his long account,”
remarked Wilfrid.

“It’s impossible to be sorry,” returned Ouvaroff, “though I would have
saved the unworthy wretch if I could, but he sank like lead, and never
rose again.”

The entrance of Prince Sumaroff put an end to this conversation.

“Gentlemen,” he said, taking a seat between them, “that the Empress
has been spending a month of religious seclusion in the Convent of the
Ascension, a story I have hitherto believed, is evidently untrue. You, I
think, can clear up this mystery. As you shall see by-and-by, I do not
ask this from idle curiosity.”

Thereupon Wilfrid frankly told the whole story of his dealings with the
Czarina, beginning with Baranoff’s offer at Berlin, and ending with the
events of that very night, Ouvaroff confirming him in such parts as he
was able.

When Wilfrid had finished, Sumaroff rose to his feet.

“Pardon my absence for a few minutes. When I return I shall have a
pleasant surprise for you.”

Wilfrid and Ouvaroff resumed their interrupted talk.

“And your suspicion of me——?” said Wilfrid.

“Was the prompting of Baranoff. Long before I met you at Berlin he had
assured me that the Czarina, the Grand Duchess Elizavetta she was then,
had a secret lover in some Englishman. He refrained from giving the name,
however, till the night of that ball. ‘To-night,’ said he, ‘I will point
out to you the favourite of the Grand Duchess.’”

“And he did it,” said Wilfrid, “by writing my name upon a card and
sending it to you as we sat together. And you could believe him! Serge,
my boy——”

Wilfrid stopped on seeing the Prince enter, leading by the hand a girl
who seemed reluctant to come forward.

It was Nadia of the Silver Birch, as pretty as ever, but deadly pale and
so timid that after one glance at Wilfrid she averted her eyes, and did
not look at him again.

“Now, Nadia, tell your tale,” said Prince Sumaroff. “It is the only way
to set matters right.”

So Nadia told how, bribed by Baranoff with the price of her own and her
father’s freedom, she had introduced the Englishman into the bedroom of
the Czarina—whom she then only knew as a great lady. Immediately upon
doing so she had apprised the Czarina’s maids, who (themselves in the
plot) were awaiting her summons. Then, having done the work assigned
her, Nadia had fled to a room above, where the removal of a knot of
wood in the flooring had enabled her to observe all that passed in the
chamber below. She could thus testify to the lady’s innocence and the
Englishman’s honour. Her father having died shortly afterwards, Nadia had
come to St. Petersburg and entered the service of Prince Sumaroff. One
day when she was on the Nevski Prospekt there rode by in state a lady,
whom she recognised with fear and trembling, and who, she learned from
a bystander, was the new Czarina. After a long struggle with herself
she resolved to confess her misdeed and chose for the occasion the
night of the masquerade. Putting her statement into writing and having
incidentally learned from the Princess Sumaroff in what costume the
Czarina intended to appear, Nadia had watched her opportunity to present
the letter to her, saying no more about it than that its contents would
exonerate her and Lord Courtenay from a false charge. The Czarina eagerly
took the missive, but said she would reserve the reading of it till she
should have returned to the Winter Palace. “‘And,’ she added, ‘since I
am known to you by my costume, I may be known to others, and therefore,
good Nadia, in order that I may be incognita, you and I in this quiet
nook here must exchange costumes for a time.’” It was agreed that they
should meet again in the same spot an hour after midnight; and so the
two parted, the Empress in the plain grey domino and Nadia in the rich
brocaded silk. The Czarina, however, failed to appear at the time and
place appointed, a fact that puzzled Nadia very much. The Empress during
a whole month having taken no notice of her and her writing though the
matter was one of vital interest to her good name that very day, Nadia,
moved by some indefinable fear, had revealed all to the Prince and
Princess of Sumaroff.

“And you are willing to tell this story in the presence of the Czar
himself?” asked Ouvaroff.

Nadia expressed her willingness, even though the telling should end in
her exile to Siberia.

“I will answer for it that no hurt shall befall you,” said Ouvaroff. “The
Czar will be more pleased than angry to hear your tale. But it’s as well
for Baranoff that he has gone to his account.”

At a sign from Prince Sumaroff, Nadia disappeared.

“I invited the Count here this evening,” he said, “and in Nadia’s
presence taxed him with his guilt. Unable to deny it and rendered craven
by fear, he implored me to keep the matter a secret from the Czar. Moved
by his entreaties, I said, ‘Write me out a confession and I’ll give you
three days within which to get out of Russia.’ I little thought when
he stepped into the boat that the hand of Death was already upon him.
Heaven, you see, would not let him escape.”

“He met with a just doom,” commented Wilfrid, “dying by the very death he
had appointed for another.”

For it was evident now that the four liveried ruffians at the masquerade
were Baranoff’s hirelings and that it was not the Czarina’s life they
sought, but Nadia’s.

“I think,” mused Sumaroff, “that we are now in a position to effect a
reconciliation between the Czar and Czarina.”

“I would give much to see it,” remarked Wilfrid. “Through me,” he added
moodily, “an empress seems destined to forfeit both husband and crown.”

“You have nothing to reproach yourself with,” said Sumaroff cheerfully.
“You have acted throughout as an honourable man. Let us review the points
in your favour. First, there’s the affair at the Silver Birch. _That’s_
satisfactorily explained.”

“The kiss in the garden witnessed by the Czar,” said Wilfrid.

“Merely a reward for a great service to the State.”

“She lingered very much over it.”

“Still the Czar must overlook it. Doubtless,” he added, with a twinkle
in his eye, “he, too, has lingered considerably over the kisses he has
bestowed upon the fair Pauline.”

“The four weeks of love-making at Castle Runö?”

“To be pardoned, when the circumstances are considered. _She_ had
forgotten her identity; _you_ believed her to be an unwedded woman. The
Baroness can testify to the truth of this—is testifying, perhaps, at this
very moment.”

“All very good,” returned Wilfrid. “But there’s another difficulty—the
greatest. The Czarina herself is opposed to a reconciliation. In her
present state of mind, Alexander is an object of dread to her.”

“He’ll soon cease to be so,” replied Sumaroff with a mysterious smile.
“But the hour is late; let us to bed. If the plan I have in view
succeeds, by this time to-morrow all will be in harmony again.”

And so ended the most memorable day in Wilfrid’s career, a day in which
he had won and lost the love of a wedded empress! It was a pleasure to
think, as Prince Sumaroff had remarked, that through it all his honour
had remained stainless.

Late in the forenoon of the following day Wilfrid was summoned to the
presence of the Czarina. At first he demurred. Better, he thought, for
the interests and happiness of both that they should never meet again.

“You had better see her,” said Prince Sumaroff, appreciating Wilfrid’s
hesitation. “The sequel will, I trust, prove the wisdom of this advice.”

So persuaded, Wilfrid was conducted to a small cabinet where, the Prince
retiring, he found himself alone with the Czarina.

She was seated, pale and stately, in an antique high-backed chair, her
eyes grave and sorrowful. Her manner was in singular contrast with that
of the previous evening. She was no longer the “Princess Marie” of his
love-dream; she seemed to have waked up to the consciousness that she was
an empress, between whom and Wilfrid was an impassable gulf. He had been
hoping that she might forget her love for him, and yet, now that his wish
was realised, it sent a pang to his heart.

“Be seated, Lord Courtenay.”

Grimly contrasting this formal title with the caressingly spoken
“Wilfrid” of the previous evening, he sat down and waited for her to
proceed.

She set her beautiful eyes upon him and said in a tone approaching almost
to awe:—

“Do you know who it was that came upon us last night in the Sumaroff
Gardens?”

_Last night!_ The event was distant by four weeks, yet she spoke of it as
occurring but a few hours previously. For a moment Wilfrid stared blankly
at her. Then the truth flashed upon him, and he realised the cause of her
altered manner.

There had happened to her mind one of those phenomena which, by no means
rare, are yet extremely puzzling to students of psychology.

The shock of her second immersion in the Neva had nullified the effects
of the first, and had caused the return of her memory, with this defect,
however, that the intervening period was a complete blank. She had no
recollection whatever of the love episodes at Runö.

Wilfrid’s silence, due to his surprise, drew from the Empress a
reiteration of her question.

“Do you know who he was?”

“I shall be pleased to learn his name from you.”

“He was my husband—the Czar, Alexander Paulovitch!”

She watched him keenly as if to mark the effect of her words. Wilfrid,
therefore, endeavoured to simulate amazement.

“You are the Czarina Elizavetta?” he said in a tone of feigned
incredulity.

“I am,” she answered proudly. “And you have dared to address words of
love to me, words heard by—by _him_!”

“He will surely pardon on learning that I was ignorant of your name and
rank?”

“You he may pardon; will he forgive me—me, who listened to you? It was
but for a minute, I know. For a minute only I was tempted to forget my
duty to him, when I remembered how he was neglecting me for the smiles of
Pauline de Vaucluse. One brief minute, yet I fear it will be a fatal one
for me!”

It was with a keen sense of anguish that Wilfrid marked her mournfulness.

“Why,” she murmured, “ah! why did I withhold my name on first meeting you
at the Silver Birch? It would have prevented many complications. But,
believing that I should never see you again, I deemed it best to keep my
identity a secret. And when I met you a second time, on that night in the
Michaelovski Palace and would have told you my name, you spoke so hardly,
so contemptuously of Alexander that somehow I shrank, foolishly shrank,
from telling you that I was his wife.”

“Your Majesty, had I known that, I should have refrained from all
comment, still less would I have dared to exact a kiss from——”

At this point he was interrupted by the Empress, eager to learn the
result of the interview between Alexander and Wilfrid.

“The Czar spoke to you,” she said breathlessly. “What did he say or do?”

“He did precisely what I should have done if I possessed a wife and saw a
stranger kiss her. He challenged me to a duel.”

The Czarina’s face showed signs of the liveliest disquietude; in her
agitation she half rose from her seat.

“Oh, but you did not fight! You have not accepted!”

“Your Majesty, do not distress yourself. The duel has not come off—never
will. Now, may I make so bold as to ask your Majesty what strange event
befell you after leaving me. How came you to be in the Neva?”

The Czarina trembled, partly with fear, partly with indignation.

“The recollection turns me cold. I, the Czarina, to be handled so! They
could not have known who I was. They could not have meant to kill their
Empress. I was seized by four men; one pressed his palm upon my mouth—the
others tied my hands and feet. It was the work of a few moments; then I
was lifted up and flung into the river. I have a faint recollection of
rising to the surface, of battling for life; but everything at this point
fades away into oblivion. It seems like a dreadful dream.” She shuddered
and added, “I am told by Prince Sumaroff that my life is due to you.”

“I—I had a hand in saving you,” said Wilfrid, referring to the second
immersion, while she, of course, was thinking of the first—to her the
only one. “I saw you floating on the water and brought you ashore.”

“Then this will be the second time you have saved my life,” she said with
a sort of resentment in her tone. “It makes it harder for me to say what
I _must_ say. Lord Courtenay, you must leave Russia at once. You are
anxious to serve me, I know. It is a cold saying, but the best service
you can do me is to put a thousand miles between us. Your continuance in
St. Petersburg exposes me to suspicion. You have been the means, though
innocently, of setting the Czar against me.”

Around her throat she still wore the gold chain with the locket attached,
containing Wilfrid’s miniature. She hesitated for a moment and then
detached the locket.

“The original cause of all the misunderstanding,” she murmured softly.
“But for this Alexander, prompted by Baranoff, would never have begun to
suspect me.”

She held forth the locket though her eyes told Wilfrid that she parted
from it with sorrow.

He rose, took the locket and remained standing, perceiving that her
interview with him was all but over. That pledge of his ill-starred love,
the gold ring that he had given her on the previous day, was not now on
her finger, and he wondered what had become of it.

“You will leave Russia without delay?”

“Your Majesty, I will.”

He had barely given this promise when he suddenly caught sight of a
startling apparition behind the Empress’s chair. Alexander himself!—no
longer the furious being of the previous night, but mild and gracious of
aspect: nay, with a half-smile upon his lips.

Secreted near he had heard every word freely and spontaneously uttered by
the speakers unaware of his presence, and thus had received convincing
proof that Wilfrid’s relations with the Czarina had been, from beginning
to end, of an honourable character.

The Czarina, apprised of strange happenings by Wilfrid’s stare, turned to
ascertain the cause and beheld—her husband!

Startled, she shrank back, hesitating, shivering, terrified, as she
recalled the kiss and the embrace in the garden; then, re-assured by his
tender and forgiving look, she gasped—

“_Sasha!_”

“Marie,” he whispered bending over her, “I have come to take you back to
my heart!”

Trembling with wild joy she rose to her feet and fell within the arms
that opened eagerly to receive her.

“Plainly I’m not wanted here,” thought Wilfrid, and he vanished from the
apartment.

He had not gone far before he met Prince and Princess Sumaroff, to whom
he gave an account of his interview and its dramatic termination.

They received his tidings with smiles of satisfaction.

“So my innocent little artifice has succeeded,” said the Prince. “Early
this morning I went to Runö and saw Alexander. The lapse of a few
hours had made him more amenable to reason. The Baroness had already
half-persuaded him of the Czarina’s innocence. I brought him here and he
listened to Nadia’s story and read Baranoff’s confession. That convinced
him. ‘If you require further proof,’ said I, ‘why not secrete yourself
and watch Lord Courtenay as he takes his farewell of the Empress? You
will be able to judge by their language whether their relations have been
guilty or not.’ For I knew, Lord Courtenay, that you would say nothing to
the Czarina but what would become an honourable man. You have vindicated
my opinion of you, with the happiest results.

“All’s well that ends well,” remarked Wilfrid philosophically.

“But the end has not _quite_ come,” said Princess Sumaroff with a
peculiar smile. “You must put the finishing touch to this reconciliation
by making it impossible for Alexander’s thoughts ever to wander again
towards the Baroness Runö.”

“And how can I do that?”

The Princess laughed sweetly.

“By making her Countess Courtenay, of course!”

Wilfrid started. Such an idea had never before occurred to him. How
could it, with his mind full of Marie? But now that love had become
part of his nature, who more capable of satisfying that sentiment than
Pauline, in whom he had always taken an interest bordering on affection?
Her recent course of deception, censurable as it was, had done little
to diminish his regard for her, seeing that she had not sought her own
aggrandisement, but the supposed welfare of France.

Princess Sumaroff drew forth a gold ring, set with amethysts, and gave it
to Wilfrid.

“Yours. I took it last night from the Czarina’s finger while she slept.
She might have been asking awkward questions about it, and it will be
better for her to remain in ignorance. Now, why not bestow this ring upon
the Baroness? She loves you,—not that she has ever said so—at least to
me. I judge by the warmth with which she speaks of your bravery, your
honour, your good looks, your accomplishments, your heaven-knows what.
It is my firm belief that you are the cause of her refusing an empress’s
crown when it was within her grasp. Don’t let her make the sacrifice in
vain. The Baroness is walking in the gardens at this moment, miserable
because she thinks she has lost your good opinion. Seek her, and on your
return let us have the pleasure of greeting her as the future Countess
Courtenay.”

Wilfrid, his heart beating with pleasurable sensations, walked out into
those gardens which four weeks before had been the scene of so much
mystery and romance.

He found Pauline alone, walking on the terrace that overlooked the river.
Her face, sad and pensive, brightened at his approach; and still more
when she learned the result of his final interview with the Czarina.

“That is good,” she murmured.

Side by side the two slowly paced the terrace in silence.

Wilfrid was thinking of the words spoken by Princess Sumaroff, Pauline
of Wilfrid’s coming departure. He had told her of his intention to leave
Russia within a few days; she received the news with a strange sinking of
heart. How desolate her future if deprived of his presence! Yet what had
she done to deserve his companionship? Nothing! but much to forfeit it;
and yet, if the true working of her mind could be known to him, he would
see that she was not _quite_ so bad as he perhaps thought her.

“And you have no word of reproach for me?” she said gently.

“It was wrong of you, but I am willing to forgive you on one condition.”

She looked at him, uneasy in mind as to what his next words would be.

“The condition is that you consent to be Countess Courtenay.”

Greatly daring, he put his left arm around her, and, taking her left hand
within his right, drew her towards him.

He had need to hold her: but for his strong grasp she would have fallen
to the ground in sheer amazement at words so unexpected.

Recovering somewhat, she strove to put aside his arms, saying many times
over, what she sincerely believed, that she was not worthy of him.

“Do you _really_ love me?” she said at last, raising to him eyes in which
tears were glittering.

“You are the dearest woman in the world to me—now,” he replied,
encircling her finger with a ring that had once adorned the hand of an
empress. “It would not be true to say that you are my first love, but
then, perhaps,” he added, thinking of Alexander, “neither am I yours.”

But Pauline repudiated this with warmth.

“I have never loved any one but you.”

And with this answer Wilfrid was content.


THE END.




THE SHADOW OF THE CZAR

By JOHN R. CARLING

Illustrated. 12mo. $1.50. _Fifth Edition_


“An engrossing romance of the sturdy, wholesome sort, in which the action
is never allowed to drag,” (_St. Louis Globe-Democrat_) best describes
this popular novel. “The Shadow of the Czar” is a stirring story of the
romantic attachment of a dashing English officer for Princess Barbara, of
the old Polish Principality of Czernova, and the conspiracy of the Duke
of Bora, aided by Russia, to dispossess the Princess of her throne.

It is not an historical novel—the author makes his own events after the
manner of Anthony Hope, and the _Boston Herald_ is of the opinion that it
“excels in interest Anthony Hope’s best efforts.” “Rarely do we find a
story in which more happens, or in which the incidents present themselves
with more suddenness and with greater surprise,” says the _New York Sun_.

“Mr. Carling has a surprising faculty of making it appear that things
ought to have happened as he says they did, and as long as the book is
being read he even succeeds in making it appear that they did happen so,”
says the _St. Louis Star_.

“The Shadow of the Czar” fairly captivated two countries. In England the
_Newcastle Daily Journal_ says it “transcends in interest ‘The Prisoner
of Zenda.’”

                     LITTLE, BROWN, & CO., PUBLISHERS
                              BOSTON, MASS.




_A New Romance by the Author of “The Shadow of the Czar”_

THE VIKING’S SKULL

By JOHN R. CARLING

Illustrated by Cyrus Cuneo. 350 pages. 12mo. $1.50


A tale full of stirring surprises.—_Philadelphia North American._

A capital tale of mystery and detection of crime and retribution.
The ingenuity with which its intricacies are threaded is really
wonderful.—_New York Times Saturday Review of Books._

It is a remarkably lively story, with a novel mystery, wrought out of old
Norse history, but the scene is modern England for the most part, and all
the characters belong to to-day.—_Chicago Record-Herald._

The reader who once becomes entangled in its meshes will sit up until
the small hours to finish it. It is a romance pure and simple from the
outset, and refreshing to a degree.—_Brooklyn Eagle._

An engrossing tale of love, adventure, and intrigue, the reading of
which makes hours fly on the wings of minutes. An ingenious, dramatic,
interest-compelling romance.—_Boston Herald._

                LITTLE, BROWN, &. CO., PUBLISHERS, BOSTON
                          _At all Booksellers’_




_A Surprising and Engrossing Tale_

THE WEIRD PICTURE

_By_ JOHN R. CARLING

Author of “By Neva’s Waters,” etc.

Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50


Mr. Carling keeps us guessing as he deepens our interest, for the story
is a succession of startling surprises.—_Detroit Free Press._

The plot is absorbing and well concealed; the reader goes breathlessly
from page to page, eagerly wondering what the denouement will be....
The story rotates around Daphne Leslie, a charming young woman, and is
replete with thrilling situations.—_Public Opinion._

A story of tragedy and love, told in such a manner that the interest of
the reader is held from beginning to end, and yet it does not partake of
the undue excitement common to novels of this class.—_Minneapolis Times._

Leads the reader through a maze of mystery and adventure which holds his
imagination in a close grip from the very beginning.—_Brooklyn Eagle._

Of pronounced originality and written in a terse, clear-cut style. Having
yielded in the least degree to the spell of the story, one is compelled
to follow its development to the very end.—_Chicago Daily News._

                     LITTLE, BROWN, & CO., PUBLISHERS
                      254 WASHINGTON STREET, BOSTON




_Grips and Holds the Reader_

A LOST LEADER

_By_ E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM

Author of “The Malefactor,” etc.

Fully Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50


For his latest hero, Mr. Oppenheim has taken a modern leader who has
elected to stand aloof from the conflict of the political world, but he
has created a strong, distinct personality, and not merely exploited one
already familiar. “A Lost Leader” is as fascinating a story of modern
life as novelist has yet conceived, and one that arrests the mind by its
fine strenuousness of purpose.

An admirably woven story. The reader will follow its every phase with
absorbed interest.—_London Morning Advertiser._

The characters are all capitally drawn, and the story is developed with
all the skill and power of a born dramatist.—_The Northern Whig._

Full of originality and interest from first to last.—_London Daily
Graphic._

A highly attractive story, with an ingenious plot and daringly
up-to-date.—_Newcastle Daily Chronicle._

His stories thrill with human interest.—_Milwaukee Sentinel._

                     LITTLE, BROWN, & CO., PUBLISHERS
                      254 WASHINGTON STREET, BOSTON





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