CHAPTER XTHE 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 externallywith 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, hisarrest, 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 thatbrusquerieso characteristic of him, had snatched the document from his hand, demanding to know what it was. The sudden fall in Pahlen’scountenance 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.”
“Allof 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. Hewouldrecall 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 abouthersignature. 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 neverthelesssee 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.”