CHAPTER III.MY FRIEND, THE PRINCESS.
The majority of Londoners are unaware that the headquarters of the most powerful secret organisation in the world exist in their midst. The unsuspecting persons who pass up and down a certain eminently respectable thoroughfare in a north-west suburb, would be somewhat surprised if they knew that in one of these houses the Executive Committee of the Russian Revolutionists holds daily council and matures the plots which from time to time startle Europe.
The thoroughfare, which, for obvious reasons, I shall designate as Oakleigh Gardens, is formed of large, old-fashioned, detached houses which stand somewhat back, with gardens in front. It is lined on each side by fine old elms, and the residences are for the most part built of red brick, with those square, white-framed, unornamented windows of the Georgian era. The house in question is hidden from the quiet road by a high wall in which is a heavy wooden door, but insideone finds a well-kept flower garden and a roomy old house which bears an unmistakable air of wealth and prosperity. Here exiles, whose escape from Siberia Fortune has favoured, find an asylum.
In this house I took up my abode when I arrived in London. Smarting under the terrible punishment to which I had been unjustly subjected, I had long ago taken the oath, and thereby fettered myself body and soul to the Party. I was determined to revenge myself upon the oppressors who had starved my mother, knouted my sister, and sent my father to the mines, although all had been perfectly innocent of any crime. Thus, from a devil-may-care recruit I had developed into an ardent revolutionist whose sole ambition was to assist in the struggle for freedom, and who was prepared to go to any length in order to accomplish the object towards which the Organisation was striving.
From an early age I had been taught English and French, being now able to speak both languages almost as fluently as my own. This knowledge I found of the utmost service, inasmuch as I had been selected by the Executive to perform certain special duties of secret service. They did not hide the fact that the work would require considerable courage and tact, and that my life might sometimes be at stake. But I was fearlessly enthusiastic.
After a six months’ residence in Oakleigh Gardens,during which time I gained a knowledge of London life and made myself acquainted with the majority of those devoted to our Cause resident in the metropolis, the first matter was placed in my hands.
A few months previously, Ivan Grigorovitch, one of our Party, had been chosen to convey some instructions to the Petersburg centre. As he was well known to the Secret Police, he disguised himself as a French commercial traveller, and with a French passport journeyed from Marseilles to Odessa by steamer, intending to proceed thence to Petersburg, the ordinary route from London being considered too dangerous. His intentions, however, were frustrated, inasmuch as the Odessa police, who had been apprised of his advent, arrested him immediately on landing. A disaster resulted, for the papers found upon him were compromising, the plot was discovered, and wholesale arrests were made in Petersburg in consequence.
Twenty-three persons of both sexes were tried in secret, and, according to theNovosti, the evidence given against them by Princess Kochkaryòv caused life sentences to be passed upon each of them.
From facts that came to our knowledge, it was evident that some one who had learned our secret had divulged it to the police, therefore the five men forming the Nihilist Executive Committee—who must be known here as Paul Pétroff, AlexanderGrinevitch, Nicolas Tersinski, Isaac Bounakoff, and Dmitri Irteneff—sat in council and condemned the Princess to death.
We cast dice, and it fell to me to carry out the sentence!
The cool, flippant manner in which my fellow-conspirators spoke of murder awed me. They noticed my scruples and pointed out that the woman had, by giving false evidence, been instrumental in the deportation of more than twenty innocent persons, therefore she must die. As I had taken an oath to carry out all commands of the Executive under penalty of death, I was compelled to obey.
I had not far to search for Madame the Princess, for she was residing temporarily in London, having taken a furnished flat at Albert Hall Mansions, overlooking Hyde Park.
In the stalls at the Avenue Theatre I first obtained an uninterrupted view of her. She was seated next to me, a fair form in a black evening dress that revealed her delicate chest and arms, with a gleaming diamond necklet around her white throat. Her age was about twenty-four, and her perfect oval face had a shade of sadness upon it, notwithstanding the great languishing violet eyes, and the tender winning mouth, while her auburn hair had been deftly coiled, and was fastened with a diamond star that flashed and sparkled with a thousand fires. In short, I thought her the most lovely woman I had ever seen.
And I was plotting to kill her!
I gazed into her face, entranced by her marvellous beauty. Toying with her Watteau fan, she turned her eyes full upon me, and the faintest flush suffused her cheek; then she made pretence of reading her programme, and afterwards became interested in the performance. When I went out to smoke during theentr’acteI passed her, and in doing so uttered an apology in Russian, to which she responded in the same language, with a kindly smile.
According to information I had obtained, she was the wife of Prince Kochkaryòv, a noble in the third degree, some twenty years her senior. Their marriage had been fraught with much unhappiness, and after a year they agreed to separate. Since that time the Prince had remained at his gloomy old palace near Markovka, in Little Russia, while his wife, accompanied by an old man-servant and her maid, had resided for brief periods in Petersburg, Paris, and London.
Since her arrival in England it was apparent that she was fulfilling some mission as a Russian Government agent, yet the suspicion she excited in some quarters in no way hindered her from obtaining social influence, and she dispensed hospitality to a very select circle. She went everywhere, and her daily doings were chronicled in the personal columns of the newspapers. I had been watching her for several days, and on this evening had followed her to the theatre inorder, if possible, to become acquainted with her.
When the curtain descended and we rose to leave I turned, and said to her politely in Russian—
“You are alone, Madame. Will you permit me to find your carriage?”
“Thanks, you are very kind,” she said in English, with a pretty hesitating accent. “My man has buff livery.”
“And the name, Madame?”
“The Princess Kochkaryòv,” she replied, adding, “We are compatriots, are we not, m’sieur?”
“Yes,” I replied, smiling. “It is always pleasant to meet Russians in a foreign land,” at the same time handing her a card which gave my name as Vladimir Mordvinoff and my address at a suite of furnished chambers I rented in Shaftesbury Avenue.
A few moments later I handed her into her carriage, and as she thanked me and drove away, I walked, morose and thoughtful, up Northumberland Avenue towards my rooms.
During the week that followed we met several times. She showed herself in no way averse to my companionship, for she told me that she was always at home on Thursdays and would be pleased to see me. This invitation I accepted, and thus I became a frequent visitor.
One afternoon I had called and lingered. The guests had departed.
In the fading light of the summer’s evening I was sitting with her in her pretty drawing-room that overlooked the dusty trees. As she lolled gracefully against the window the last ray of sunlight fell upon her, and she looked daintily bewitching.
I admit that I loved her madly, passionately. Overwhelmed by the contemplation of her beauty, enchanted by the magic of her voice, which made the sweetest music out of the merest phrases, I thought of nought but her, and was only happy when at her side. Yet when I remembered the difference in our social position, and her marriage with the Prince, I was almost beside myself with despair; I knew that mine was an adoration that could only end in unhappiness.
Involuntarily my hand touched my pocket and struck something hard. I drew it away in horror. What terrible irony of fate! The woman I loved dearer than life was doomed to die by my hand!
She had been gazing dreamily out of the window, when suddenly with a mischievous smile she exclaimed—
“You are very silent, m’sieur.”
I scarcely know what prompted me, but, jumping up quickly, and grasping her tiny, bejewelled hand, I raised it to my lips and in English poured forth a declaration of my love.
She trembled. Her breath came and went in short, quick gasps, but she did not attempt toarrest the flood of passionate words that escaped me. Ere I had concluded, my heart was filled with joy, for I saw my passion was reciprocated.
Vainly striving to overcome her emotion, she exclaimed excitedly—
“I—I was unprepared—I did not think you loved me, Vladimir. Do you doubt I care for you? Have you not seen it?Mon Dieu!my married life has been only a grim and dismal tragedy. I loved no man until I met you!”
“Do you really think sometimes of me, Princess?” I asked, scarcely believing the truth.
“To you I am Irene,” she said in pretty broken English. “All my life has been wasted hitherto. You have asked me; I have give you answer. I love only you. Some day you will know me better. Now, you know me only for the mad passion I bear for you. But yourself shall make satisfy of my past, my truth, my honour, and—and I shall get—what you call—divorce from the Prince, and we two will marry—eh? Of you I ask not one single question. You are my lover, the only man for whom I have affection, and—and in return I am your serf.”
She buried her flushed face upon my shoulder and sobbed.
Taking her in my arms, I swore to her everlasting constancy. All my heart was in the declaration. In the glamour of that hour we were reckless and egotistical as most lovers, heedless of the shadow that was growing up behindthe sunshine of our happy vows of undying affection. When she grew calm, she looked up searchingly into my eyes and said: “You cannot understand me. You do not know the bitterness of my life.”
“No, Irene. Tell me about yourself,” I said.
Hesitatingly she seated herself in a wicker chair, and motioned me to a seat at her side.
“No, no,” I said, laughing. “At your feet, Princess; always at your feet,” and, casting myself upon a low footstool, I took her hand in mine.
“My life has been wasted,” she said mournfully. “My mother was French; my father an Imperial Councillor of Russia. My earlier life was passed at Moscow, and afterwards at the Court at Petersburg. I was forced by my father to marry the Prince, who, as you are well aware, is rich and powerful. But,ma foi!from the first he treated me cruelly. Within six months of our marriage he commenced to ill-use me brutally; indeed, I bear upon my body the scars of his violence. The world wasdébonnairewhile I wastristeand downcast, for I found he had aliaisonwith a Frenchdanseuse. I bore his insults and blows until I was in fear of my life; then I came here.”
“How could he be so cruel?” I cried in indignation.
“Ah, I have not told all, Vladimir,” she said with a sorrowful sigh. “The Prince plotted with his friend, Stepán Nekhlindoff, in order to obtaina divorce, but I thwarted their vile scheme. Nekhlindoff tried to compromise me, but I repelled his advances, for although I have so far abandoned my marriage vow as to love you while I am still wedded, I have done nothing by which my husband can obtain the freedom he seeks. Since I left Markovka I have wandered about, to Paris, Vienna, Brussels, with no protection against the dishonourable conspiracy. I grew tired of life—I—”
“You have a friend in me,” I interrupted.
“Ah, yes, my love,” she exclaimed, stroking my hair tenderly, and bending to kiss me. “Though I have been in the midst of luxury and gaiety, my life has been very dark and dreary. But happiness has now returned.”
“It gives me joy to hear you speak like this, Irene,” I said. “Nothing will, I hope, occur to part us, or cause our love to be less stronger than it is at this moment.”
“What can?” she asked quickly, raising her eyebrows. “We trust one another. I have money enough for both. What more?”
The horrible thought that the knife in my pocket must sooner or later be plunged into her heart flashed across my mind, causing me to shudder.
“No,” I replied with a feigned, hollow laugh, “I—it is only a foolish fancy on my part. My joy seems almost too perfect to be lasting.”
“I am yours; you are mine,” she said passionately.“We shall marry and live together always as happy as we are to-day.”
Twilight had faded, and it had grown almost dark. I had risen and was standing beside her chair, bending and kissing her soft cheek, when suddenly the door opened and the maid entered to light the lamps.
“Pardon, Madame,” exclaimed the girl, starting back, “I thought you had gone out.”
“No, Nina, I shall not go out to-night,” said her mistress. “Tell cook that M’sieur Mordvinoff will remain and dine.”
When the maid had lit the lamps and departed, I returned to where the Princess sat, and noticed how her face had changed. Instead of the cold, haughty expression usual to her, her flushed countenance beamed with tender, womanly love, an expression that was supremely fascinating. As I stood admiring her, a morbid fancy crept over me. Why should I not take her life now she was in the zenith of her happiness? It would be better so, I argued; better than allowing her passion to develop and overwhelm me.
I was too well aware that the violation of my oath would mean death to me as well as to her, and as I stood behind her chair I placed my hand upon the hilt of the knife in my pocket and half drew it from its sheath. But I could not bring myself to commit the crime. Drawing a long breath, I pushed the keen blade into its leather case with a firm determination to overcome mythoughts, and again seating myself upon the stool at her feet, continued talking of our plans for the future.
A fortnight later I was summoned before a council meeting of the Executive.
“We understand,” exclaimed Pétroff, the President of the Council, “that you hesitate to carry out the sentence of death upon the Princess Kochkaryòv. Why?”
I glanced round at the pale, determined faces of the five desperate revolutionists who were sitting at a table in the well-furnished dining-room in Oakleigh Gardens.
“I—I want time,” I stammered.
“Time! You have already had three months. We are well aware that you admire her; but she must not escape. Remember the oath you took upon this knife,” and he pointed to a long bright dagger that lay unsheathed on the table before him. “The Executive have decided that the traitress must die. If she escapes, you will pay the penalty. We trust in you.”
In a frenzy of mad despair I walked the London streets one day a week later, seeking some means by which to avert the death of the woman I loved. The decree of the Executive was irrevocable. Their terrible far-reaching vengeance is known throughout the world, and it is their proud boast that of those whom they have condemned to death, not one has ever escaped.
After wandering aimlessly for many hours, myfootsteps led me involuntarily to Albert Hall Mansions.
It was late in the evening, somewhere about ten o’clock, when the old servant Ivan admitted me. As I entered the drawing-room she did not at first observe my presence, and I stood for a few moments watching her. She wore a dainty evening gown of cream relieved by amber ribbons, and was reclining in an armchair, reading a novel. The mellow light of the shaded lamp fell upon her fair head pillowed on the satin cushion, and her whole attitude was one of peace and repose. Between her dainty fingers she held a cigarette.
Suddenly my movement startled her.
“Ah! Vladimir!Quel plaisir!” she cried, tossing aside her book and rising to bid me welcome. “All day I have expected you.”
After kissing her upturned face I sank into a chair without a word.
“What ails you?” she asked, starting up in alarm, noticing my pale countenance and mud-bespattered clothes. “You—you are ill. Tell me.”
“It’s nothing,” I assured her, striving to smile. “A slight faintness, that’s all.”
Accepting the explanation, she re-seated herself and we commenced to chat. Of what we said I have no recollection. I know that when she lifted my hand to her lips I drew it away as if I had been stung. She was caressing the hand that was so soon to take her life! The thought was horrifying,and she was at a loss to understand the meaning of my action.
“You are not well to-night, Vladimir,” she said half-reproachfully.
“No, no, Irene,” I replied, “I’m well enough in health. It is the knowledge of our love that troubles me.”
“Of our love?”
I cast her hand aside, and jumping to my feet, paced the room in desperation. She clutched my arm, entreating me to tell her the cause of my agitation. Suddenly I stopped before her.
“Princess,” I whispered hoarsely, grasping her slim, white wrist, “hear me! I am base, ignoble: I have deceived you!”
“What! You love me not—you——”
“I love you better than life. I would do anything to save you, yet, by a devilish conspiracy of circumstances I am compelled to kill you!”
“Kill me!” she gasped in Russian. “God! You are an imbecile—mad!”
Her face blanched; she tottered and almost fell.
“Yes, I was mad,” I said bitterly. “Mad to love you when I knew that I must kill you. I am a Nihilist!”
“A Nihilist!”
“Yes. By your evidence some members of our Organisation have been sent to Siberia, and the sentence the Executive has passed upon you is death.”
“Ah!” she cried wildly. “My God! It is the statement in theNovosti! Listen, Vladimir!” Pausing to gain breath, she shuddered at the sight of the long knife that I had drawn and held in my hand. “It was a vile lie concocted by my husband in order that the Nihilist vengeance should fall upon me. When Stepán Nekhlindoff’s plot failed he resorted to this scheme, and got some journalist he knew to insert the libellous statement, well knowing that I should not escape death.”
“Is the allegation untrue, then?” I asked, amazed.
“Yes. I swear it is. At the time of the trial I was at Odessa with the Archduchess Paul, and was perfectly ignorant of everything until I saw the paragraph. I wrote contradicting it, but they did not publish my letter. It was the Prince who desired that the Organisation should remove me and leave him free.”
“I accept your explanation, Princess,” I said. “Yet how am I to save you? By my oath I am bound to obey the mandate of our Circle and encompass your death.”
“I am innocent, Vladimir. Am I compelled to die?” she asked, glancing apprehensively at the knife that flashed so ominously in the lamplight. “Can I not have time—time to prepare for death?”
“How long?”
“Three days, or more. I—I shall not try to escape. I swear.”
“Very well,” I replied in a low voice. “It is agreed. Three days.” And bidding her a strained, sorrowful farewell, I left her.
At eight o’clock on the evening of the third day the door of the flat was flung open by Ivan in response to my summons.
“Is the Princess at home?” I asked of the grave-faced old man.
“Alas, m’sieur,” he replied in a grief-stricken voice, “Madame is dead.”
“Dead!” I gasped. “When did she die?”
“She—she has been murdered!” he exclaimed in an awed tone. “I discovered her body two hours ago. The doctor and police are now in her room.”
I rushed along the hall to the apartment in which I heard low voices. It was a large, well-furnished bedchamber dimly illuminated by two candles. Upon a couch near the window lay the body of the Princess wrapped in a white Cashmere shawl, the breast of which was only slightly stained with blood.
Heedless of the doctor and two police inspectors who were conversing together, I went over to the body and gazed upon it.
What I saw amazed me. I staggered, yet by presence of mind managed to conceal my agitation.
The fair, handsome face of the Princess had been slashed with the knife in the form of a cross, and the mutilation gave it a terribly ghastly appearance.
Something bright in the hands of one of the police officers attracted my attention. He was examining it by the light of the candles as I peered over his shoulder.
It was a dagger which, in an instant, I recognised as mine!
I felt in my pocket. The sheath was there but the weapon had gone! I was aghast in horror and amazement. I had been forestalled, and the Princess had been murdered with the knife stolen from me!
The officer, after questioning me, took my assumed name and address, explaining that I should be required at the inquest.
In reply to my inquiries, Ivan told me that the Princess, intending to leave for Paris on the morrow, had sent on Nina, her maid, in advance to secure her rooms. At five o’clock, while in the dining-room, he heard the outer door slam, and concluded that his mistress had gone out. Two hours later he entered the bedroom and discovered the crime.
The Executive sat on the following evening and I attended to make my report. It was a mere formality, for the papers were full of the mysterious crime.
“Princess Kochkaryòv is removed,” I said, briefly, when interrogated by Pétroff.
“Thanks to the assistance of Dmitri,” he added grimly.
“Irteneff!” I repeated, glancing at the dark,middle-aged man indicated, who sat with his elbows leaning upon the table.
“Yes,” the man said, laughing, “I knew how difficult it is to assassinate the woman one loves, so I assisted you.”
At the inquest I identified the body, and Ivan related his brief story. Twice the inquiry was adjourned, and subsequently a verdict was returned that the Princess had been murdered by “some person or persons unknown.” The Prince was communicated with by telegraph, but he took no notice, and at the funeral Ivan and myself were the only mourners.
The police could discover no clue to the assassin, and thus another was added to London’s long list of unfathomable mysteries.
One day, about six weeks after the funeral, I received a hurried note from Ivan, asking me to meet him at half-past seven that evening under the railway bridge adjoining the Charing Cross Station of the Underground Railway.
Thinking that he might have something of importance to tell me, I kept the appointment. The road which runs under the bridge is not too well lit, and the spot is rather quiet about that hour.
Big Ben had just boomed the half-hour, when I felt a slight pressure on my arm, and heard my Christian name uttered.
Turning quickly, I confronted a female figure enveloped in a travelling cloak, and wearing a softfelt hat and a veil through which the features were recognisable in the lamplight.
It was the Princess Kochkaryòv!
“Irene!” I cried, “is it really you?”
“Yes. I am no apparition,” she replied, with a laugh. “But I must not be seen. Let us walk this way.”
In a few moments we were strolling under the trees on the Embankment.
“It was quite simple,” she said, in reply to my eager questions. “I always was a little inventative. You remember that on the night you told me of my doom you found me alone reading? Well, that night Nina was ill, and I had been attending her. I did not call a doctor, as I had no idea that she suffered from a weak heart. She died, poor girl, shortly before five o’clock on the afternoon you had promised to return. Then a thought occurred to me that, as her hair was the same colour as my own, I might pass off her body as mine. I took Ivan into my confidence, telling him of the attempt which would be made upon my life——”
“You did not mention my name?” I asked anxiously.
“Of course not. After I had dressed the body in one of my own wraps, we carried it to my room and placed it upon the couch. Nina was about my build, therefore I attired myself in her clothes, and taking the most valuable of my jewels, left at once for Paris. Meanwhile Ivan remained.From what he has told me it appears that he watched and saw a middle-aged man enter the flat by means of a latch-key. After searching several rooms he went into my bedroom. There the man saw a female form which he thought was myself, and stabbed it to the heart. All this occurred within half an hour of Nina’s death.”
“And it was the mutilation of the face that prevented me from discovering that it was Nina,” I remarked.
“Exactly. Yet no crime has been committed, and I have escaped.”
“Wonderful!” I exclaimed, astounded at the curious combination of circumstances.
“The Prince thinks me dead; therefore I am a free woman,” she said, as we walked up Villiers Street. “I am no longer Princess, but Madame Valakhina. I still love you, Vladimir, but I can see it is useless, for if we met often the Nihilists would discover how they have been tricked. I must therefore leave you. To-night I go to Brussels and afterwards to Yvoir, on the Meuse, where I have taken a villa. Ivan is there already. When you can safely leave London, come to me.”
We had ascended the steps and entered the Charing Cross terminus. The hands of the great clock pointed to twenty-five minutes past eight.
“See,” she added, “I must go to the carriage. The train leaves at eight-thirty.”
We walked along the platform, and she enteredan empty first-class compartment, in which a porter had already arranged her wraps.
When the man had taken his tip and departed, I said—
“Farewell, Irene.” My heart was too full to say more.
“No, no, Vladimir. Not farewell,” she sobbed, her large violet eyes wet with tears. “Au revoir.We shall meet again—some day.”
And, as the Continental train moved slowly out of the station, she kissed her tiny hand to me, again murmuring—
“Au revoir!I owe my life to you.”