A
At the hour appointed by the Czar I presented myself at the Winter Palace to assist at the spiritualist experiments of M. Auguste.
I shall not attempt to describe the impression left by the weird scene in the Princess Y——’s oratory.
To those who do not know the Slav temperament, with its strange mixture of sensuality and devotion, of barbarous cruelty and over-civilized cunning, seldom far removed from the brink of insanity, the incident I have recorded will appear incredible. I have narrated it, simply because I have undertaken to narrate everything bearing on the business in which I was engaged. I am well aware that truth is stranger than fiction, and I should have little difficulty, if I were so disposed, in framing a story, full of plausible, commonplace incidents, which no one could doubt or dispute.
I have preferred to take a bolder course, knowing that although I may be discredited for a time, yetwhen historians in the future come to sift the secret records of the age, I shall be amply vindicated.
I shall only add that I did not linger a moment after the unhappy woman had begun her penance, if such it was, but withdrew from her presence and from the house without speaking a word.
The feelings with which I anticipated my encounter with the medium were very different. Whatever might be my doubts with regard to the unfortunate Sophia—and I honestly began to think that the suicide of Menken had affected her brain—I had no doubt whatever that M. Auguste was a thoroughly unscrupulous man.
The imperial servant to whom I was handed over at the entrance to the Czar’s private apartments conducted me to what I imagine to have been the boudoir of the Czaritza, or at all events the family sitting room.
It was comfortably but plainly furnished in the English style, and was just such a room as one might find in the house of a London citizen, or a small country squire. I noticed that the wall-paper was faded, and the hearth-rug really worn out.
The Emperor of All the Russias was not alone. Seated beside him in front of the English grate was the beautiful young Empress, in whose society he finds a refuge from his greedy courtiers and often unscrupulous ministers, and who, I may add, has skilfullyand successfully kept out of any entanglement in politics.
Rising at my entrance, Nicholas II. advanced and shook me by the hand.
“In this room,” he told me, “there are no emperors and no empresses, only Mr. and Mrs. Nicholas.”
He presented me to the Czaritza, who received me in the same style of simple friendliness, and then, pointing to a money-box which formed a conspicuous object on the mantel-shelf, he added:
“For every time the word ‘majesty’ is used in this room there is a fine of one ruble, which goes to our sick and wounded. So be careful, M.V——.”
In spite of this warning I did not fail to make a good many contributions to the money-box in the course of the evening. In my intercourse with royalty I model myself on the British Premier Beaconsfield, and I regard my rubles as well spent.
We all three spoke in English till the arrival of M. Auguste, who knew only French and a few words of Russian. I remarked afterward that the spirit of Madame Blavatsky, a Russian by birth, who had spent half her life in England, appeared to have lost the use of both languages in the other world, and communicated with us exclusively in French.
The appearance of M. Auguste did not help to overcomemy prejudice against him. He had too evidently made up for the part of the mystic.
The hair of M. Auguste was black and long, his eyes rolled much in their sockets, and his costume was a compromise between the frock coat and the cassock.
But it was above all his manner that impressed me disagreeably. He affected to be continually falling into fits of abstraction, as if his communings with the spirits were diverting his attention from the affairs of earth. Even on his entrance he went through the forms of greeting his host and hostess as though scarcely conscious of their presence. I caught a sly look turned on myself, however, and when I was presented to him as “Mr. Sterling” his reception of the name made me think that he had expected something else.
The Czar having explained that I was a friend interested in spiritualism, in whose presence he wished to hear again from Madame Blavatsky, M. Auguste rolled his eyes formidably, and agreed to summon the departed theosophist.
A small round table was cleared of the Czaritza’s work-basket—she had been knitting a soldier’s comforter—and we took our seats around it. The electric light was switched off, so that we were in perfect darkness, except for the red glow of the coal fire.
A quarter of an hour or so passed in a solemnsilence, broken only by occasional whispers from “Mr. Nicholas” or the medium.
“It is a long time answering,” the Czar whispered at last.
“I fear there is a hostile influence,” M. Auguste responded in the jargon of his craft.
Hardly had the words left his lips when a perfect shower of raps seemed to descend on all parts of the table at once.
Let me say here, once for all, that I am not prepared to offer any explanation of what happened on this occasion. I have read of some of the devices by which such illusions are produced, and I have no doubt a practised conjurer could have very easily fathomed the secrets of M. Auguste. But I had not come there with any intention of detecting or exposing him.
The medium pretended to address the author of the raps.
“If there is any hostile influence which prevents your communicating with us, rap twice.”
Two tremendous raps nearly drowned the last word. The spirit seemed to be quick-tempered.
“If it is a woman, rap once——”
No response. This was decidedly clever.
“If it is myself, rap.”
This time, instead of silence, there was a faint scratching under the surface of the table.
“The negative sign,” M. Auguste explained blandly, for our benefit.
Then, addressing himself once more to the invisible member of the party, he inquired:
“If it is Mr. Nicholas, rap.”
Silence.
“You must excuse me,” the medium said, turning his face in my direction. “If it is Mr.Sterling——”
A shower of raps. I really thought the table would have given way.
This was discouraging. The Czar came to my rescue, however.
“I particularly wish Mr. Sterling to be present,” he observed with a touch of displeasure—whether intended for M. Auguste or the spiritual visitant I could not tell.
The hierophant no doubt saw that he must submit. His retreat was executed with great skill.
“If the obstacle is one that can be removed, rap once.”
A rap.
“Can you spell it for us?”
In the rather cumbrous alphabet in use among the shades, the visitor spelled out in French:
“Son nom.”
“Is there something you object to about his name?”
A rap.
“Is it an assumed name?”
A very loud rap. Decidedly the spirit was indignant.
“Can you tell us his real name? His initials will do?”
“A. V.” spelled the unseen visitor.
“Is that right?” M. Auguste inquired with well-assumed curiosity.
“It is marvelous!” ejaculated the Emperor. “You will understand, of course, Auguste, that this must be kept a secret among ourselves.”
“Ask if it is Madame Blavatsky,” said the Czar.
We learned that the apostle of theosophy was indeed present.
“Would you like to hear from any other spirits?” M. Auguste asked the company.
“I should be glad of a word with Bismarck,” I suggested.
In five minutes the Iron Chancellor announced himself. His rap was sharp, quick and decided, quite a characteristic rap.
“Ask if he approves of the present policy of the German Emperor?”
A hearty rap. Evidently the spirit had greatly changed its views in the other world.
“Ask if he remembers telling me, the last time I saw him, that Russia was smothering Germany in bed?”
“Do you refuse to answer that question?” M. Auguste put in adroitly.
An expressive rap.
“Will you answer any other questions from this gentleman?”
Then the spirit of Bismarck spoke out. It denounced me as a worker of evil, a source of strife, and particularly as one who was acting injuriously to the Russian Empire. I confess M. Auguste scored.
“In his lifetime he would have said all that, if he had thought I was working in the interest of Russia and against Germany,” I remarked in my own defence.
The spirit of the Iron Chancellor was dismissed, and that of Madame Blavatsky recalled.
It was evident that the Czar placed particular confidence in his late subject. Indeed, if the issues at stake had been less serious, I think I should have made an attempt to shake the Emperor’s blind faith in the performances of M. Auguste.
But my sole object was to read, if I could, the secret plans and intentions of a very different imperial character, whose agent I believed the spirit to be.
M. Auguste, I quickly discovered, was distracted between fear of offending Nicholas by too much reserve, and dread of enabling me to see his game. In the end the Czar’s persistence triumphed, and we obtained something like a revelation.
“Tell us what you can see, that it concerns the Emperor to know,” M. Auguste had adjured his familiar.
“I see”—the reply was rapped out with irritating slowness—I quite longed for a slate—“an English dockyard. The workmen are secretly at work by night, with muffled hammers. They are building a torpedo boat. It is to the order of the Japanese Government. The English police have received secret instructions from the Minister of the Interior not to interfere.”
“Minister of the Interior” was a blunder. With my knowledge of English politics I am able to say that the correct title of this personage should be “Secretary of State for the Domestic Department.” But few foreigners except myself have been able to master the intricacies of the British Constitution.
“For what is this torpedo boat designed?” M. Auguste inquired.
“It is for service against the Baltic Fleet. The Russian sailors are the bravest in the world, but they are too honest to be a match for the heathen Japanese,” the spirit pursued, with some inconsistency.
I could not help reflecting that Madame Blavatsky in her lifetime had professed the Buddhist faith, which is that of the majority in Japan.
“Do you see anything else?”
“I see other dockyards where the same work isbeing carried on. A whole fleet of warships is being prepared by the perfidious British for use against the fleet of Russia.”
“Ask her to cast her eye over the German dockyards,” I put in.
“Spirits have no sex,” M. Auguste corrected severely. “I will ask it.”
A succession of raps conveyed the information that Germany was preserving a perfectly correct course, as usual. Her sole departure from the attitude of strict neutrality was to permit certain pilots, familiar with the North Sea navigation, to offer their services to the Russian fleet.
“Glance into the future,” said the Czar. “Tell us what you see about to happen.”
“I see the Baltic Fleet setting out. The Admiral has issued the strictest orders to neutral shipping to retire to their harbors and leave the sea clear for the warships of Russia. He has threatened to sink any neutral ship that comes within range of his guns.
“As long as he is in the Baltic these orders are obeyed. The German, Swedish and Danish flags are lowered at his approach, as is right.
“Now he passes out into the North Sea. The haughty and hostile English defy his commands. Their merchant ships go forth as usual. Presuming on their knowledge of international law, they annoyand vex the Russian warships by sailing past them. The blood of the brave Russian officers begins to boil. Ask me no more.”
M. Auguste, prompted by the deeply interested Czar, did ask more.
“I see,” the obedient seeress resumed, “torpedo boats secretly creeping out from the British ports. They do not openly fly the Japanese flag, but lurk among the English ships, with the connivance of the treacherous islanders.
“The Baltic Fleet approaches. The torpedo boats, skulking behind the shelter of their friends, steal closer to the Russian ships. Then the brave Russian Admiral remembers his promise. Just in time to save his fleet from destruction, he signals to the British to retire.
“They obstinately refuse. The Russian fleet opens fire.
“I can see no more.”
The spirit of the seeress, it will be observed, broke off its revelations at the most interesting point, with the skill of a practised writer of serials.
But the Czar, fairly carried away by excitement, insisted on knowing more.
“Ask the spirit if there will be any foreign complications,” he said.
I had already remarked that our invisible companion showed a good deal of deference to the wishes ofNicholas II., perhaps in his character of Head of the Orthodox Church.
After a little hesitation it rapped out:
“The English are angry, but they are restrained by the fear of Germany. The German Michael casts his shield in front of Russia, and the islanders are cowed. I cannot see all that follows. But in the end I see that the Yellow Peril is averted by the joint action of Russia and Germany.”
This answer confirmed to the full my suspicions regarding the source of M. Auguste’s inspiration. I believed firmly that there was a spirit present, but it was not the spirit of the deceased theosophist, rather of a monarch who is very much alive.
The medium now professed to feel exhausted, and Madame Blavatsky was permitted to retire.
I rose to accompany M. Auguste as soon as he made a move to retire.
“If you will let me drive you as far as my hotel,” I said to him, “I think I can show you something which will repay you for coming with me.”
The wizard looked me in the face for the first time, as he said deliberately:
“I shall be very pleased to come.”
I
Isaid as little as possible during the drive homeward.
My companion was equally silent. No doubt he, like myself, was bracing himself for a duel of wits.
As soon as we were safe in my private room at the hotel, with a bottle of vodka and a box of cigars in front of us, I opened the discussion with my habitual directness.
“I need not tell you, M. Auguste, that I have not invited you here to discuss questions of psychology. I am a politician, and it matters nothing to me whether I am dealing with a ghost or a man, provided I can make myself understood.”
M. Auguste bowed.
“For instance, it is quite clear that the interesting revelations we have had to-night would not have been made without your good will. It is to be presumed, therefore, that if I can convince you that it is better to turn the Emperor’s mind in another direction, you will refuse to make yourself the medium of further communications of that precise character.”
M. Auguste gave me an intelligent glance.
“I am as you have just said, amedium,” he replied with significant emphasis. “As such, I need not tell you, I have no personal interest in the communications which are made through me.”
I nodded, and took out my pocket-book, from which I extracted a hundred ruble-note (about $75).
“I promised to show you something interesting,” I remarked, as I laid it on the table.
M. Auguste turned his head, and his lip curled slightly.
“I am afraid my sight is not very good,” he said negligently. “Is not that object rather small?”
“It is merely a specimen,” I responded, counting out nine others, and laying them beside the first.
“Ah, now I fancy I can see what you are showing me,” he admitted.
“There is a history attached to these notes,” I explained. “They represent the amount of a bet which I have just won.”
“Really! That is most interesting.”
“I now have another bet of similar nature pending, which I hope also to be able to win.”
“I am tempted to wish you success,” put in the medium encouragingly.
“The chances of success are so great that if you were a betting man I should be inclined to ask you to make a joint affair of it,” I said.
“My dear M. V——, I am not a bigot. I have no objection to a wager provided the stakes are made worth my while.”
“I think they should be. Well, I will tell you plainly, I stand to win this amount if the Baltic Fleet does not sail for another month.”
M. Auguste smiled pleasantly.
“I congratulate you,” he said. “From what I have heard the repairs will take at least that time.”
“But that is not all. This bet of mine is continuous. I win a similar stake for every month which passes without the fleet having left harbor.”
M. Auguste gazed at me steadily before speaking.
“If your bet were renewable weekly instead of monthly, you might become quite a rich man.”
I saw that I was dealing with a cormorant. I made a hasty mental calculation. Half of one thousand rubles was about $375 a week, and the information I had led me to believe that Port Arthur was capable of holding out for another six months at least. To delay the sailing of the Baltic Fleet till then would cost roughly $10,000—say 15,000 rubles.
I decided that neither England nor Japan would grudge the price.
“I think your suggestion is a good one,” I answered M. Auguste. “In that case, should you be willing to share the bet?”
“I should be willing to undertake it entirely,” was the response.
The scoundrel wanted $20,000!
Had I been dealing with an honest man I should have let him have the money. But he had raised his terms so artfully that I felt sure that if I yielded this he would at once make some fresh demand.
I therefore shook my head, and began picking up the notes on the table.
“That would not suit me at all,” I said decidedly. “I do not wish to be left out altogether.”
M. Auguste watched me with growing uneasiness as I restored the notes one by one to my pocket-book.
“Look here!” he said abruptly, as the last note disappeared. “Tell me plainly what you expect me to do.”
“I expect you to have a communication from your friend Madame Blavatsky, or any other spirit you may prefer—Peter the Great would be most effective, I should think—every time the Baltic Fleet is ready to start, warning ‘Mr. Nicholas’ not to let it sail.”
M. Auguste appeared to turn this proposal over in his mind.
“And is that all?” he asked.
“I shall expect you to keep perfect secrecy about the arrangement. I have a friend at Potsdam, and Ishall be pretty sure to hear if you try to give me away.”
“Potsdam!” M. Auguste seemed genuinely surprised, and even disconcerted.
“Do you mean to say that you didn’t know you were carrying out the instructions of Wilhelm II.?” I demanded, scarcely less surprised.
It was difficult to believe that the vexation showed by the medium was feigned.
“Of course! I see it now!” burst from him. “I wondered what she meant by all that stuff about Germany. And I—a Frenchman!”
It is extraordinary what unexpected scruples will display themselves in the most unprincipled knaves. Low as they may descend, there seems always to be some one point on which they are as sensitive as a Bayard.
M. Auguste, of all men in the world, was a French patriot! It turned out that he was a fanatical Nationalist and anti-Semite. He had howled in anti-Dreyfusite mobs, and flung stones at the windows of Masonic temples in Paris.
I was delighted with this discovery, which gave me a stronger hold on him than any bribe could.
But I had noted the feminine pronoun in his exclamation recorded above. I did not think it referred to the revealing spirit.
“You have been deceived by the woman who hasgiven you your instructions,” I remarked to him, when his excitement had subsided a little. “I fancy I can guess her name.”
“Yes. It is the Princess Y——,” he confessed.
Bewildering personality! Again, as I heard her name connected with an intrigue of the basest kind, a criminal conspiracy to influence the ruler of Russia by feigned revelations from the spirits of the dead, I recalled the sight I had last had of her, kneeling in her oratory, scourging herself before—my portrait!
There was no longer any fear that M. Auguste would prove obdurate on the question of terms. He pocketed his first five hundred rubles, and departed, vowing that the Baltic fleet should never get farther than Libau, if it was in the power of spirits to prevent it.
Desirous to relieve Lord Bedale’s mind as far as possible I despatched the following wire to him the next morning:
Sailing of Baltic Fleet postponed indefinitely. No danger for the present. Watch Germany.
Sailing of Baltic Fleet postponed indefinitely. No danger for the present. Watch Germany.
I sent a fuller account of the situation to a son of Mr. Katahashi, who was in England, nominally attached to the staff of the Imperial Bank, but really on business of a confidential character which it would be indiscreet on my part to indicate.
I may say that I particularly cautioned the youngJapanese to avoid any action calculated to give the least color to the German legends about warships being secretly manufactured in British yards to the order of the Mikado’s Government.
Every reader who has followed the course of the war with any attention will recollect the history of the fleet thus detained by my contrivance.
Week after week, and month after month, the Baltic Fleet was declared to be on the point of departure. Time after time the Czar went on board to review it in person, and speak words of encouragement to the officers and crew. And every time, after everything had been pronounced ready, some mysterious obstacle arose at the last moment to detain the fleet in Russian waters.
Journalists, naval experts, politicians and other ill-informed persons invented or repeated all sorts of explanations to account for the series of delays.
Only in the very innermost circles of the Russian Court it was whispered that the guardian spirit of the great Peter, the founder of Russia’s naval power, had repeatedly come to warn his descendant of disasters in store for the fleet, should it be permitted to sail.
M. Auguste was earning his reward.
T
The extreme privacy with which I had managed my negotiation with M. Auguste completely baffled the plotters who were relying on the voyage of the Baltic Fleet to furnish acasus bellibetween Russia and Great Britain.
They realized, of course, that some powerful hand was interfering with their designs, and they were sufficiently intelligent to guess that that hand must be mine.
But they were far from suspecting the method of my operations. They firmly believed that M. Auguste was still carrying out their instructions, and sowing distrust of England in the mind of Nicholas II. Indeed, on one occasion he informed me that the Princess Y—— had sent for him and ordered him not to frighten the Czar to such an extent as to make him afraid to let the fleet proceed to sea.
Unable to detect and countermine me, it was natural that they should become impatient for my removal.
Accordingly, I was not surprised to receive anurgent message from Sophia, late one evening, requesting me to come to her without delay.
By this time our friendship, if such it could be called, had become so intimate that I visited her nearly every day on one pretext or another.
Her greeting, as soon as I had obeyed the summons, showed me that a fresh development had taken place in the situation.
“Andreas, the hour has come!”
“The hour?”
“For your removal. Petrovitch has been here. He suspects something. He has rebuked me severely for the delay.”
“Did you tell him I was not an easy man to kill?”
“I told him anything and everything. He would not listen. He says they have lost confidence in me. He was brutal. Hesaid——”
“Well, what did he say?”
“He said—” she spoke slowly and shamefacedly—“that he perceived it took a man to kill a man.”
I smiled grimly.
“History tells us differently. But what then?”
“To-morrow I shall no longer be able to answer for your life.”
“You think some one else will be appointed to dispose of me?”
“I am sure that some one else has been appointed already. Most likely it is Petrovitch himself.”
“Well, I shall look out for him.” I did not think it necessary to tell Sophia that I had been expecting something of this kind, and had made certain preparations.
“It will be useless, Andreas. You do not know the man with whom you have to deal.”
“The ignorance may be mutual,” I observed drily.
The Princess became violently agitated.
“You must let me save you,” she exclaimed clasping her hands.
“In what way?”
“You must let me kill youhere, to-night.
“Don’t you understand?” she pursued breathlessly. “It is absolutely necessary for your safety, perhaps for the safety of both of us, that they should think I have carried out my instructions. You must appear to die. Then they will no longer concern themselves about you, and you will be able to assume some other personality without being suspected.”
The scheme appealed to me strongly, all the more that it seemed as though it could be made to fit in very well with my own plans.
“You are a clever woman, Sophia,” I said cautiously. “How do you purpose to carry out your scheme? They will want to see my corpse, I suppose.”
She drew out the little key I have already described.
“Come this way.”
I followed her through the bedroom as before to the door of the locked oratory.
She opened the door and admitted me.
By the light of the wax candles I saw what was surely one of the strangest sights ever presented to mortal eyes.
It was myself, lying in state!
On a high bier draped in white and black cloth, I lay, or, rather, my counterpart presentment in wax lay, wrapped and shrouded like a dead body, a branch of palm in the closed hands, and a small Russian coin resting on the lips, in accordance with a quaint custom which formerly prevailed in many lands.
In spite of my habitual self-command I was unable to repress a cold shiver at this truly appalling spectacle.
“Your stage management is perfect,” I observed after a pause. “But will they be satisfied with a look only?”
“I do not think so. It will be necessary for you to put on the appearance of death for a short time, till I have satisfied them. Afterward I can conceal you in here, while this—” she pointed to the ghastly figure—“is buried under your name.”
“Let us get back to the other room, before we talk about it,” I urged. “This is not altogether a pleasant sight.”
As we passed out of the oratory I stealthily tooknote of the fastening of the door. The lock was on the outside only; in other words, if I permitted myself to be immured in the cell-like chamber, I should be a prisoner at the mercy of my charming friend.
“And now, by what means do you purpose that I shall assume the appearance of death?” I inquired as soon as we had returned to the boudoir.
The Princess opened a small cabinet, and produced a tiny stoppered bottle.
“By swallowing this medicine,” she answered. “I have had it specially prepared from a recipe given me ten years ago at a time when I thought of resorting to the same contrivance to escape from my taskmaster.”
I took the bottle in my hand, and examined it carefully. It bore no label, and the contents appeared perfectly colorless.
“In five minutes after you have swallowed the contents of the bottle,” Sophia explained, “you will begin to turn cold, at first in the feet and hands. As the cold mounts to the brain you will gradually lose consciousness, and become rigid. You will look as pale as if you were actually dead, and your heart will cease to beat.”
“And how long will this stupor last?”
“About twenty-four hours, more or less, according to your constitution.”
I looked carefully and steadily into her eyes. She flushed and trembled violently, but did not quail.
“What does it taste like?” I asked.
“It is a little bitter.”
“I will take it in water, then.”
“You can take it in wine, if you like. I have some here.”
She moved to a small cupboard in the wall.
“I shall tell them that I gave it to you in wine, in any case,” she added.
“I prefer water, thank you. May I fetch some from the next room?”
“I will fetch it,” she said hastily, going to the bedroom.
On an ebony stand beside me there was a large china bowl containing a flowering plant in its pot. In a second I had removed the stopper, emptied the bottle into the space between the flower-pot and the outer bowl, and put the stopper back again.
“Tell me,” I said to the Princess as she hurried back with a carafe and tumbler, “have you thought how I am to get away from this house without exciting attention?”
“It will be easy for me to procure you a dozen disguises. I am always going to masked balls. But are you in such a hurry to leave me?”
“I shall find the air of your oratory rather confined, I am afraid.”
She hung her head in evident chagrin.
“But where will you go?” she demanded.
“Oh, that is all arranged. I have taken a small house and furnished it, in another name.”
“Where?” she asked breathlessly.
“Perhaps I had better not tell you till this excitement is over. I must not burden you with too many of my secrets.”
Sophia’s eyes filled with tears.
“You distrust me still!” she cried. “But, after all, what does it matter? I have only to ask Petrovitch.”
“That will be quite unnecessary as well as useless. I pledge myself to tell you before I leave this place, and I have not favored M. Petrovitch with my new address.”
She smiled scornfully.
“And do you believe that you have succeeded in taking a house in Petersburg without his knowledge? You do not know him, I tell you again. He has had you watched every hour of the day while you have been here.”
“Please credit me with a little resource, as well as your friend,” I answered with some slight irritation. “I have no doubt the spies of M. Petrovitch have watched me pretty closely, but they have not been able to watch every person who has come in and out of the hotel. Two of my most capable assistants have been in Petersburg for the last month—since the day you hinted that my life was not quite safe, in fact.”
The woman before me looked completely overwhelmed.
“One of them,” I proceeded with cutting severity, “has taken the house I speak of. The other is watching over my personal safety at this moment.”
The Princess fairly gave way. Sinking on the couch behind her, she exclaimed in a faint voice:
“You are a demon, not a man!”
It was the finest compliment she could have paid me.
“And now,” I said carelessly, “to carry out your admirable little idea.”
The unhappy woman put up her hands, and turned away her head in sheer terror.
I splashed some water into the tumbler, and then trickled in a small quantity afterward, to imitate the sound of adding the poison. This done I respectfully handed the bottle to my companion.
“To our next meeting!” I called out lightly, as I lifted the tumbler to my lips and drained it.
It was the Princess who swooned.
Although I had not foreseen this weakness on her part I took advantage of it to draw the tiny key of the oratory from her bosom, and hide it in my mouth.
I then touched the bell twice, the signal for the Princess’s maid to appear.
“Fauchette,” I said, when she entered—for this was the assistant I had alluded to as watching overmy personal safety—“Madame has just given me the contents of that stoppered bottle. Do you know anything about them?”
Fauchette had made good use of her time since obtaining her situation. These things are so easily managed that I am almost ashamed to explain that a bribe to the former maid had brought about a convenient illness, and the recommendation of Fauchette as a temporary substitute.
“Yes, Monsieur,” she said quietly. “I filled the bottle with water this afternoon, in case of accident. I have preserved the previous contents, in case you should care to have them analyzed.”
“You have done well, very well, my girl.”
Fauchette blushed with pleasure. I do not often say so much to my staff.
“Madame does not know that I had just emptied the bottle into that china bowl,” I added carelessly.
“It is useless to try to serve Monsieur; he does everything himself,” murmured the poor girl, mortified.
“Nonsense, Fauchette, I have just praised you. It is always possible that I may overlook something.”
Fauchette shook her head with an incredulous air.
I have found it good policy to maintain this character for infallibility with my staff. It is true, perhaps, that I do not very often blunder.
“And now,” I went on, “it is time for the poisonto take effect! As soon as I am dead, you will awake Madame.”
I lay down on another couch, and composed myself in a rigid attitude with my eyes closed. I did not believe, of course, that it would be possible to deceive a close observer, but I trusted to the wild emotions of the Princess to blind her to any signs of life.
I heard Fauchette dart on her mistress with a well-acted scream, and sprinkle her face and neck with cold water.
Sophia seemed to revive quickly.
“Andreas!” I heard her gasp. “Where? What has become of him?”
“M. Sterling has also fainted,” the maid replied with assumed innocence.
“Ha!”
It was more like a shriek than a sob. I heard a hasty rustling of skirts, and then Sophia seemed to be kneeling beside me, and feeling for the beat of my heart.
“Go, Fauchette! Send Gregory instantly to M. Petrovitch to inform him that M. Sterling has been taken ill in my house, and that I fear he is dead.”
The Princess began loosening my necktie.
Had Fauchette been present I should have been able to point to this as a proof that I was not incapable of an occasional oversight.
As a matter of fact, I had not anticipated this verynatural action on Sophia’s part. Yet it should have been evident that, were it only to keep up appearances before any one who might come to view my supposed corpse, she would be bound to free my neck.
And I was wearing the locket which contained the portrait of my promised bride!
I lay, really rigid with apprehension, while Sophia’s caressing fingers tenderly removed the necktie, and began unfastening my collar and shirt.
Suddenly I heard an ejaculation—at first striking the note of surprise and curiosity merely, but deepening to fear.
In a moment the locket was lifted from my chest, and forced open with a metallic click.
“Ah!—Ah!”
She let the open locket drop from her fingers on my bare throat.
Instantly it was clutched up again. I could picture the frenzied gaze of jealousy and hate in those burning eyes of deepest violet; I could actually feel the passionate breathing from between the clenched teeth of whitest ivory.
“Miserable child!” she hissed, the hand that held the locket trembling so that I could feel it against my neck. “Soyouhave robbed me of him!”
She paused, and then added, forcing out each word with a passion of distilledhate——
“But you shall never have him! He shall be mine! Mine! Mine, in the grave!”