CHAPTER VIHEIRESS 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 tobe 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 EnglishTimes, and that’s what you won’t find in any other hotel in St. Petersburg. Iget 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 theTimes, 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 theTimescorrespondent 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 topredict length of days to a lady so dangerous politically to him and his heirs.”
“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 topredict 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 ofThe Timesmight 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 thathisgrand duchess—theTimescorrespondent 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 thefaçadescopied 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, andhe 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, perceivingthat 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 nobleboulevard, 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 astriking 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.