Without another word Madame Quéro went to her dressing-room. From there she despatched a hasty note to Prince Zouroff.
La Belle Quéro and the Prince Zouroff were sitting together in the boudoir of the small villa on the outskirts of St. Petersburg.
They were both smoking cigarettes. Madame Quéro looked anxious and perturbed, Zouroff surly and annoyed.
“Inez, you are very unreasonable. Why have you dragged me here at this time of night? If your note had not said ‘very urgent,’ I should not have taken myself away from more important matters.”
La Belle Quéro flicked the ash of her cigarette on the carpet. “Once, my friend, you would have come on the slightest request from me. I should not have been compelled to mark my note urgent, eh?”
The Prince answered a little awkwardly. “Don’t let us be too sentimental, dear child. We have been good friends, we have got to a closer degree of comradeship. Is it not an ideal relationship? Well, what have you to tell me? You have not summoned me here for nothing, I am sure?”
“Not even for the pleasure of your society, my most charming and exquisite Boris?” inquired theprima donna, in a tone of raillery.
The Prince frowned. At the moment, the light caprices of women did not appeal to him.
“You are talking nonsense, my dear Inez. Let us come to the point.”
The Spanish woman came to the point at once, with an angry glitter in her eyes. What a pity that Zouroff was not a little more gentle in his dealings with women!
“Our little secret evening parties have been discovered, that is all. It may give you and me food for reflection.”
The Prince drew a deep breath. “Discovered! It is impossible. Who dares to suspect us?”
“It does not matter who suspects us. It is enough that we are suspected. I suppose the Secret Police have been at work.”
Zouroff thought a few moments, and then a sudden light came to him. He crossed over and grasped the beautiful young woman by the arm.
“Tell me the truth and don’t palter with me,” he thundered in his harsh, raucous tones. “Where have you this information? But I can answer the question myself. It is from that white-livered Italian, Corsini. He is a spy in the pay of Golitzine.”
Madame Quéro endeavoured to utter a faltering negative, but Zouroff, always fond of brutal methods, tightened his grasp on the delicate flesh.
Under the hypnotic influence of this brutal and commanding man, she stammered forth the truth.
“You have guessed right. It was Corsini who told me, in a very brief interview. He had heard the rumour from a friend.”
Zouroff smiled. It was a very sinister smile at the best. The lips curled up, the strong, white, eventeeth showed themselves, suggesting the fangs of a wolf.
“So this degenerate Italian is daring to thrust himself across our path, is he? Well, then!the Italian mountebank must disappear.”
Madame Quéro rose to her full height and braved the brutal and truculent Prince.
“I think I have got a word to say in this: If he does disappear, I shall go to the Emperor and tell him the whole truth.”
“You have fallen in love with this young man, eh?” inquired the Prince in a jeering voice.
“No, I will not say that. And besides, he is in love with somebody else. But understand me, if you please”—she spoke with her old imperiousness—“I will not have a hair of this young man’s head harmed. He is young, he is innocent; he shall not fall a victim to your dastardly schemes.”
Boris regarded her with his cold, hard glance. “Suppose I said that, in that case, even La Belle Quéro herself must disappear. What then?”
Tears came into the beautiful woman’s eyes. She looked at him, more compassionate than angry.
“Oh, Boris, have you sunk so low, have you let your ambitions overcome all the softer impulses of your nature? Would you really murder me for fear I should tell, and frustrate your schemes?”
She looked very beautiful as she appealed to him. For a moment the old love for her, the old infatuation surged up in his heart. He clasped her to his breast, and murmured softly the words: “Why are you not heart and soul with me, as you used to be?”
She disengaged herself gently from his embrace; it no longer thrilled her. “You are no longer the same to me, Boris,” she whispered, with the usual subterfuge of the woman. “You have had other loves besides La Belle Quéro.”
“I do not admit that, Inez,” he answered, in his rough, hard tones, a little shaken by his emotion. “But remember, we are bound together by solemn ties, by solemn oaths, to the same cause. Mark my words,” he added, with a sudden access of savagery. “If you play me false in that respect, expect no mercy.”
“If I play you false, Boris, I expect no mercy; I shall get none. I know the manner of man you are.”
“Yes, you know the sort of man I am, Inez. Pursue your little flirtations, if you will. I shall not complain. But once play me false in other matters, and your doom is sealed.”
He strode out of the room, and the face of Madame Quéro went white as she remembered the threat. The Prince loved her in his rough, brutal way, but if she interfered with his plans, he would brush her out of his path with as little compunction as he would kill a fly that annoyed him with its impertinent buzzing.
And then, in a few moments, her thoughts went back to the handsome young Italian, Corsini. She had, in an unguarded moment, given him away. Zouroff’s slow, but unrelenting, vengeance would pursue him. The Prince had said that Corsini must disappear. In this autocratic country people disappearedevery day, and nobody seemed to wonder. It was such a common occurrence.
Next day Madame Quéro, very disturbed, sought Corsini at his private office at the Imperial Opera. Her object was to gain a little time before Zouroff could put his evil designs into execution.
She approached him with her most winning smile.
“Signor, you reproached me for not having asked you to my villa. Will you allow me to repair the omission? Will you sup with me,tête-à-tête, on Thursday night?”
She had meant, in this intimate meeting, to give him a few hints as to his personal safety without too closely inculpating Zouroff and his associates, whom she still greatly feared.
Nello expressed a thousand regrets. After his duties at the Opera were over, Prince Zouroff had requested his attendance at his Palace, as Princess Nada had wished to again hear his rendering of the romance which had now become celebrated.
The voice of theprima donnagrew agitated. She was very distrustful of Boris and his ways.
“But, Signor Corsini, why go there when you know so well that the Prince is quite indifferent to music? He does not care for any sort, yours or mine.”
Nello darted at her a shrewd glance. “I do not think myself, Madame, that the Prince is a great connoisseur; but he is generally in his box when you sing.”
The beautiful Spanish woman blushed ever so slightly. “Ah, Signor, he comes because I am thefashion. But all the same, I wish you would not go.”
Her manner was very insistent. Nello could see that she was greatly agitated.
“Tell me, Madame. You have some reason for not wishing me to go?”
Madame Quéro hesitated. She dared not tell the truth, that she feared there was some sinister design on the part of the Prince. Had he not said that Corsini must disappear? Her blood ran cold at the thought.
She relied on her woman’s wiles. “Suppose,” she whispered softly, “that I told you I was very jealous of the Princess Nada. Would that keep you away?”
Nello looked at her steadily. A few days ago her request might have had some influence on him, but now he knew her for a traitress. She was only seeking to trap him for her own ends. He was proof against her. Golitzine had warned him.
“The Princess Nada is an old friend of mine, Madame. I have promised to play that little romance for her whenever she wishes to hear it. I cannot break my promise.”
The blood of the Biscayan peasant surged wildly in her veins. “You are a fool, Signor Corsini; you do not know your real friends, I assure you.”
Corsini assumed his most diplomatic manner. He bowed profoundly. “I have made many friends in St. Petersburg, Madame, but I shall always remember that you were one of the first and best.”
“Always excepting Princess Nada,” remarked theprima donnaspitefully.
“Ah, Madame, I met her first in London; I cannot tell you under what tragic circumstances. Yes, to be quite frank, the Princess has a little niche in my memory that nobody else can occupy. You will forgive me?”
Madame Quéro turned away from him scornfully, her warm Spanish blood all aflame at the mention of her rival.
“Go then to your beautiful Princess, with her bloom of the lilies and roses on her cheeks, and your fate be on your own head.”
Corsini, in spite of his equable temperament, was a little disturbed by the interview. Madame Quéro had been very insistent that he should not go to the Zouroff Palace. What was there behind this insistence?
He had pressed her closely as to her reasons, and she had led him to understand she entertained an undefined jealousy of the Princess Nada. In all probability that was the true explanation. Anyway, she would give him none other.
He was very busy during the next day or two with the cares of management—the directorship of the Imperial Opera was no light task. He met the singer several times, but she still appeared to nourish resentment.
Well, he could not help it. Wild horses would not have kept him away from the Zouroff Palace, from the few minutes’ glimpse of the beautiful young Princess. The Thursday drew near, and his pulses beatwith pleasurable anticipation. If Madame Quéro withdrew her friendship from him, it would not break his heart; and if she was the traitress that Golitzine assumed, her friendship was not worth having.
As for the woman herself, she was torn with conflicting emotions. At one moment she hated him, at another she wept to think that he should fall a victim to the machinations of the unscrupulous and unrelenting Prince. And on the Wednesday, the day before the reception at the Zouroff Palace, her softer feelings conquered.
She had seen the Prince the night before, and he had told her that he was going into the country and would not return to St. Petersburg till the midday of the Thursday.
She drove to the Zouroff Palace in the afternoon and sent up her card to the Princess Nada. On it she had pencilled—“To see you on an urgent matter.”
The young Princess’s maid, Katerina, who was devoted to her mistress, brought in the card.
Nada read it, and she frowned. She was not at all conventional for a girl of her rank and station, and she numbered many artists amongst her friends. But she had heard of the reputation of La Belle Quéro. Rumours had reached her of the peculiar relations between the singer and her brother, the Prince. Obviously, she was not the sort of woman she could receive in a private capacity.
“Go down yourself, Katerina, to this person, and be perfectly civil,” she enjoined her maid. “Explainto her as politely as possible that I am not able to see any visitors to-day.”
The young woman conveyed the cold, decisive message to the waiting Madame Quéro. A dull, red flush spread over the singer’s face as she recognised the reasons for the refusal to accord her an interview.
But she had not come unprepared for such a rebuff. “One moment, if you please,” she said, drawing forth a letter and handing it to the maid. “Take this to your young mistress. I will wait till you return. I fancy next time you will bring me a different answer.”
The maid bowed and went back to the Princess. Nada tore the letter open angrily. The woman was a trifle too insolent and persistent. Then her angry mood passed as she mastered the brief contents.
“I regret very much to intrude upon you; I can quite guess that my presence is not welcome. A great danger is threatening a certain gentleman, Signor Corsini, for whom I believe you have some friendship. You are the only person I can think of at the moment who can avert that danger, especially as it is threatened by a member of your own family. If you still persist in refusing to see me, please seal up this letter and return it by your maid.”
There was no longer any fear of refusal. Corsini threatened with danger, and by a member of her own family, who could be none other than Boris!
“Bring the lady to me at once, Katerina,” she commanded the wondering maid.
A moment later the two faced each other, the Princessstanding in the middle of the room, courteous but distantly polite, to receive her unwelcome guest.
They looked at each other steadily, with dislike in their hearts, the aristocrat of pure and ancient lineage, the woman who had played barefoot in the gutter as a child, and won her way with her exquisite talent to fame and fortune.
There was between them, at the start, the antagonism of class. But there was also between them a still more subtle antagonism, recognised by each: they had a mutual tenderness for the same man.
It was exceedingly difficult for a person of Nada’s frank and open temperament to resort to the arts of the dissembler, to feign a cordiality she did not feel. Still, she managed to pull herself together and, to a creditable extent, conceal her dislike of her unwelcome visitor. With a grave courtesy she invited the Spanish woman to seat herself.
“Your note has distressed me, Madame, for more than one reason. In the first place I am very sorry to hear that Signor Corsini is menaced by a great danger. I met him in London; ours was the first private house he played at after his great success at the Covent Garden concert. I have a great esteem for him as an artist, and I am shocked to think that, after so short a stay in my own country, he should be the victim of some sinister designs. Secondly, I am the more disturbed because your letter tells me very plainly in what quarter these designs are being entertained.”
Madame Quéro spoke very quietly. The Princess disliked her, of that she was assured, and she returned the dislike with compound interest. Still Nada was doing her best to be civil and polite. It should not be her fault if the interview was not conducted with perfect discretion on both sides.
“If the danger had not been very great and alsovery imminent, Princess, I should not have taken the liberty of intruding myself upon you. We move in different worlds, it is true, but I am some sort of a personage in my own sphere and not fond of exposing myself to rebuffs at the hand of a waiting-maid.”
Nada blushed at the shrewd, quick thrust, although the words were spoken without the least heat.
“I am very sorry you should have felt offended,” she faltered. “But of course, I could not deliver the message myself.”
Madame Quéro dismissed the subject with a graceful wave of the hand. If Nada had the composure of the aristocrat, she had the self-possession of the woman of the world. She could skate over thin ice as delicately as anybody.
“I have every reason to know that your brother, Prince Boris, has taken a violent enmity to this young musician.”
“My brother, I regret to say, takes violent dislikes to many people, for reasons that I have never been able to fathom. But I cannot guess any motive for enmity against Signor Corsini. In what possible way can their paths cross?”
“You will, of course, understand, Princess, that I cannot, in every instance, speak as plainly as I could wish. You may have heard, it is hardly possible you should not, that for some few years past Prince Zouroff has been one of my most intimate friends.”
Nada bowed her graceful head, while a faint flush rose to the fair cheek. Of course it was common rumour in St. Petersburg that he was greatly attractedby the handsome singer and was prepared to marry her, if her husband could be got out of the way. Such an alliance would not, naturally, recommend itself to the other members of the proud and ancient house of Zouroff.
“It would certainly seem a strange thing that their paths should cross in any way,” was Madame Quéro’s answer. “And here, I am afraid, I dare not be as explicit as I wish. You must forgive me, Princess, if I content myself with hints instead of full explanations. I can only just tell you this: Signor Corsini has discovered a jealously guarded secret of your brother’s. Your brother, therefore, regards him as a dangerous man, to be got out of his way.”
Nada’s face went pale as she listened to these rather vague utterances. Although so young, with a disposition naturally frank and trusting, she had a very quick intelligence. She thought she could read between the lines. It was some time before she spoke.
“My brother has a jealously guarded secret which Signor Corsini has discovered,” she repeated slowly. “If he revealed that secret, it would mean danger to Boris?”
Madame Quéro bowed. “At present his knowledge is not very great, but if he learnt more, it would mean the greatest possible danger to your brother.”
There was no mistaking the sinister meaning behind these words. The young girl reflected a few moments. Not once, but many times, some unguardedphrase of the Prince, dropped in one of his frequent rages, had set her thinking.
“Boris is not, then, exactly what he seems, Madame?”
“Far from it, Princess,” replied the singer, speaking with a frankness that a second later she regretted.
“And perhaps, too, Signor Corsini is not exactly what he seems?” queried Nada. Intuition was leading her very near the truth.
“Of that I cannot speak with any certainty. Your brother has certain suspicions of him, but I have no means of knowing whether they are well- or ill-founded. One thing is certain, Prince Boris goes in fear of him and meditates harm to him.”
“You are sure of his intentions?” asked Nada.
Madame Quéro shrugged her shapely shoulders. “Should I be here, if I were not?”
The Princess questioned her a little more closely. “You will not tell me more than you wish, I know, but I think I am entitled to put this question. How did you learn his intentions, from himself or a third party?”
And the singer answered truthfully. “From his own lips.”
Nada was silent for some seconds. She was working it out in her own mind, on the somewhat scanty data that had been furnished her.
“You mean that the Prince intends to get Signor Corsini out of the way by some treacherous means?”
“That is the idea that is forming in his mind, Princess.”
“When will he put that idea into action, do you think?” was Nada’s next question.
“Corsini plays here at the Prince’s request to-morrow evening—is that not so?”
Yes, it was true. She had written the invitation herself at Zouroff’s request.
“Well, the Prince is a man who acts very rapidly when he has once made up his mind. It is my belief that whatever project he has formed will be put into execution to-morrow night.”
Nada put her hand to her brow. “It is horrible, Madame, unthinkable, that a brother of mine should stoop so low. Why should he have a secret so guilty, that he cannot afford to have it dragged forth into the light?”
Madame Quéro did not answer the question directly. “I fear, Princess, your brother is not a man easily to be read even by those who have lived in the same house with him.”
“What is it you suggest that I should do?” asked the Princess after a long pause. “Shall I meet him at the entrance and entreat him to go away at once, on some pretext or another? And what might follow if I took such a strange step? I cannot bring myself to confess to him that I suspect my own brother of base designs against him.”
It was a puzzling question, which Madame Quéro could not answer at once. For some moments the two women, their mutual hostility suspended for thetime being, put their wits together. Suddenly an idea occurred to the singer.
“That maid of yours, who interviewed me on your behalf. Can you trust her?”
“She is devoted to me,” was the Princess’s answer.
“Your brother, I happen to know, has one or two confidential servants in his employ.”
“Yes,” said Nada, looking at her visitor steadily. It was evident that if the Prince concealed some things from Madame Quéro, there were many things that he told her. The girl had a very shrewd suspicion that the guilty secret which Corsini had discovered was also known to the beautiful singer herself.
“It is just possible that if your maid instituted a few discreet inquiries in certain quarters, she might learn something.”
“Can you suggest any particular quarter in which she could put them?” asked the Princess. It was evident that the Spanish woman knew a great deal about the Zouroff household—a great deal more than she did herself.
“Peter, his valet, is, I know, absolutely in his master’s confidence.”
“That is fortunate,” remarked Nada; “because I happen to know that Katerina and he are very great friends; in fact, I believe lovers.”
She rose, touched the bell and commanded the attendance of her maid. For a long time the two women, mistress and servant, talked together in Russian. Madame Quéro, who only knew two languages,her own and French, could not, of course, follow them.
The Princess explained the result of the interview. “I have enlisted Katerina’s sympathies, she is going to find out if Peter knows anything.”
Madame Quéro rose. “Whatever it is, I am sure he will have a hand in it, although I don’t expect he will take an active part. Well, Princess, I must leave it to you to take what steps may occur to you.”
Nada put to her the shrewd question. “Is it impossible for you to take any steps yourself, Madame?”
A shamed expression came into the singer’s beautiful eyes. “Alas, Princess, I fear I must admit it is. If the Prince could trace anything to me directly, his vengeance would follow me very swiftly.”
Nada shuddered. She had long ago ceased to entertain any illusions as to her brother. She knew he was hard, tyrannical, brutal, and pitiless. But this conversation with the foreign woman had thrown a new and sinister light upon his character. There was in him, in addition to these disagreeable qualities, a strong criminal taint.
He did not intend to spare Corsini, and from what she had just heard, he would not, if necessity arose, spare the woman to whom he professed attachment, but would punish her ruthlessly for daring to thwart his plans. And the poor young Princess shuddered again as the thought crossed her that he would not be likely to spare his own sister, if she offended him in the same way.
It was not till the middle of the next day that Katerina had charmed out of Peter certain information which confirmed her worst fears.
Briefly, the information amounted to this. The Prince had sent one of his trusted servants into the country to order relays of horses. A travelling carriage was to be waiting at midnight close to the Zouroff Palace. But Peter either did not know, or would not tell, who was to be the occupant or the persons in attendance on the carriage.
One little important detail he had dropped. The carriage was to make its first halt at Pavlovsk, the first stage of the journey, on the Moscow road.
There was no longer any doubt in Nada’s mind as to the Prince’s intentions. Corsini was to be entrapped on leaving the Palace and thrust into the carriage; in all probability, drugged and bound. Of his ultimate fate she shuddered to think.
She knew the Chief of Police, General Beilski, well. He was an old friend of the family, also one of the Emperor’s most trusted adherents. While devoted to her mother and herself, he had never shown himself much attached to the Prince.
Nothing easier than for her to pay a private visit to the General at his office, or invite him to the Palace, and request his assistance in thwarting her brother’s foul designs. It was the course which Madame Quéro could have taken had she so wished, in the first instance.
The same reason held back both women. Such a step must have brought about the immediate ruin of Zouroff, with its consequent degradation for hisrelatives. The General was a man who would put duty and patriotism before every other consideration. He would not consent to any paltering with justice, he would drive no bargain. He would not save Corsini at the cost of letting the Prince go free and unpunished.
It was a terrible situation for so young a girl, thrown upon her own resources. True, she could have taken counsel with her mother, but she shrank from exposing her brother’s villainy to such a close relation. She would keep the shameful secret locked in her own breast so long as it was possible.
And then came a ray of light. She wrote a letter in a feigned hand to the General, which ran thus:
“A travelling carriage will set out to-night from St. Petersburg at any time after midnight, and will halt at Pavlovsk, on the road to Moscow. Let the carriage be examined, as the writer of this letter has reason to believe there is a plot afoot to deport a certain person well-known in artistic circles.”
“A travelling carriage will set out to-night from St. Petersburg at any time after midnight, and will halt at Pavlovsk, on the road to Moscow. Let the carriage be examined, as the writer of this letter has reason to believe there is a plot afoot to deport a certain person well-known in artistic circles.”
This she handed to Katerina, whom the General had never seen, with instructions to take it to his office and hand it for delivery to some responsible person. She was to disguise herself as well as she could, and not linger a moment after she had delivered the letter. It was next to impossible that Beilski should ever discover where that letter came from, but she was certain he would act upon it at once.
What would follow from her action she could not foresee; but she had done the best, according to her lights, to save the young man who had had the misfortune to cross her brother’s path.
Zouroff, just returned from his journey into the country, entered her charming little boudoir half an hour after she had despatched Katerina with the warning note.
He seemed in a good mood to-day. With bitterness at her heart, she guessed the reason. He had laid his plans so well for this evening that he did not anticipate any likelihood of their being disturbed.
He greeted her with a sort of rough geniality. “Well, little Nada, you seem very thoughtful. Wondering what particularly charming costume you will wear to-night?”
With difficulty she forced herself to meet his gaze, to banish from her own the loathing that was in her heart. She tried to speak lightly, so that he should suspect nothing from her voice or manner.
“Not quite accurate, Boris. No, I have decided on the costume. I was really wondering what jewels I should select.”
The Prince seemed to accept her explanation readily. “Well, I am certain you will enjoy yourself. Your great favourite, Corsini, is sure to play that little romance which has so captivated you. I really asked him here to give you pleasure.”
Was it fancy, or did she really catch the ghost of a sneering smile on the hard, handsome face, as he turned to leave the room?
“Base, treacherous hypocrite!” she murmured when she was alone. “Why have I been cursed with such a brother, my poor mother with such a son?”
More than one of her admirers noted that La Belle Quéro was not in her best form to-night. Her acting lacked its usual spontaneity, and several times she sang flat.
Those who thought themselves in the know, put down the inequality of her performance to some recent tiff with Prince Zouroff. But this was only a surmise, not a fact. Zouroff, of course, was in her thoughts, but only in connection with Corsini.
It was the danger threatening the handsome young Italian that caused her to sing flat and provoke those unflattering comments amongst her usually loyal audience.
Again in the early part of the evening she had sought him in his private room, and for the second time endeavoured to dissuade him from going to the Zouroff Palace. He was convinced in his own mind that it was unworthy jealousy of the Princess Nada which had prompted her action.
Perhaps, a short time ago, he would have felt a certain amount of pity for an affection that was so thoroughly misplaced. But Golitzine’s plain hints had destroyed his former feelings of friendship. He could only regard her interference now with resentment.
He looked at her very steadily. “Give me someintelligent reason for breaking my promise, Madame, and I will go so far as to say I will consider it.”
She turned pale and bit her lip in manifest agitation. What he asked her was precisely what she could not do. After that none too veiled threat of Zouroff’s, that if she failed him he would show her no mercy, she dare not betray him by telling the truth.
But she was a woman of considerable resource and she thought she might get round him by appealing to his pride.
“I do not know that I can advance any very sufficient reason, except that we have been good friends, and it annoys me to find you refusing to place a proper value on yourself.”
“How am I making myself cheap by playing at the Zouroff Palace, Madame? Like yourself, I am an artist and follow my art; certainly because I love it, but also because it procures me a substantial reward. If I play for the Countess Golitzine and others, I can play without loss of dignity for the Princess Zouroff.”
She saw her opportunity, and took advantage of it swiftly. “I am not speaking of women, my good friend. It is the Prince himself who is in my mind. You have told me half a dozen times that this man treats you with the greatesthauteur, hardly deigns to return your salutation. He is, after all, the master of the house. It seems to me that if you respected yourself, as I should wish you to do, you would refuse to give him the chance of insulting you.”
Corsini could easily have retorted that La Belle Quéro, in her professional capacity, attended many houses where the women showed her as scant courtesy as the autocratic Prince displayed towards him; but he was of too chivalrous a nature to hurt the pride of a woman.
Anyway, she did not give him the real reason, which he still believed to be that unworthy jealousy of the charming young Princess.
He shrugged his shoulders in real, or assumed, indifference. “I must not say too much about this Zouroff, because we all know he is a great friend of yours. He certainly might take a lesson in manners, but I don’t know that his want of them affects me very greatly.”
“Still, his discourtesy hurts you, or you would not have dwelt upon it so often as you have done,” retorted Madame, woman-like following out her point.
Corsini rose; he was rather tired of the argument.
“If it is so, Madame, I shall not pay him the compliment of staying away. I would not give him the triumph of thinking that he was capable of hurting me.”
She saw it was useless. “It must be as you wish, Signor;” there was a note of sadness in her voice as she turned away. She left the room, murmuring to herself, “I have tried my best. It is the sister who draws him, and she must wish as fervently as I do that he would stay away.”
It was early in the evening when she had sought this interview, and as the hours sped on, bringingCorsini nearer to the time of his appointment, her agitation increased. If she could only know if the Princess had thought of anything, if she had taken any steps to prevent the tragedy which she felt sure was impending.
With a woman of her nervous and excitable temperament, to express a wish was to carry it swiftly into execution. The Opera finished early that night. She drove home at once to her villa, summoned her maid, and bade her change her costume.
A few moments later she came back to the waiting carriage, attired in clothes befitting a woman of the poorer classes, and drove to within a short distance of the Zouroff Palace. She walked on foot to the servants’ entrance and demanded to see the Princess’s maid, Katerina, on very urgent business.
The girl came to the door, wondering who her visitor could be, what was the cause of this imperative summons.
Theprima donnalaid her finger on her lips to impress caution and secrecy.
“We must speak very low, if you please. I am Madame Quéro, the person you showed yesterday into your young mistress’s room. Can you convey a message from me to her now?”
Katerina looked at the strange visitor who had disguised herself so successfully. Had she met her in the street, she would have passed her by without knowing her. But now that Madame Quéro had recalled herself to her recollection, she at once recognised the popular singer, in spite of her humble attire.
“If you don’t mind waiting a few moments, Madame, I think I can manage it. But I am afraid I shall have to ask you to wait outside. Am I to take a letter?”
“I will wait outside, certainly. No, no letter, it might excite suspicion. Just take this message to your mistress: Has she been able to take any steps with regard to the matter we spoke of yesterday? A few words, yes or no, will do for an answer.”
The door was closed, and La Belle Quéro, one of the idols of St. Petersburg, waited in the darkness for a message to be delivered by a lady’s maid. For a moment, as she stood there, she laughed a little hysterically at the situation.
The Zouroff Palace had never opened its doors to her, even in a professional capacity, for the Princess was agrande dame, and very rigid in her social views. But there were other great houses, presided over by hostesses with a more elastic code for people of genius who had entertained her as a guest.
It was, to say the least of it, a littlebizarrethat she should be waiting outside the servants’ quarters, dressed in working-woman’s attire, because she did not want one lover to injure another man who might have been a lover had he chosen.
The minutes sped by; it seemed an eternity to the anxious woman waiting there. Then at last the door was opened cautiously, and Katerina spoke in a low voice.
“A thousand pardons for keeping you waiting so long, Madame, but it was very difficult to get hold ofthe young Princess. There is a big reception on to-night.”
“I know, I know,” interrupted the singer eagerly. This obliging girl, like most of her class, was apt to be garrulous. “Has she sent an answer?”
Katerina looked a little offended. Her good-humoured young mistress never interrupted her, even in her most prolix moments. She spoke stiffly.
“Yes, Madame, I was coming to that in a second. She has taken certain steps which she devoutly hopes will insure the result you both desire, but of course she cannot be certain.” Suddenly the maid’s tone changed, and she dropped a very profound curtsey. “It is very kind of you, Madame, but it was really not necessary. I am only too pleased to have been of use.”
The change in tone was due to the fact that Madame Quéro had slipped into her hand a substantial sum of money, immediately afterwards disappearing into the darkness.
Although not happy nor assured, she felt relieved to know that something had been done to thwart the Prince’s sinister designs.
She walked swiftly to her carriage, and on her way passed Corsini, who was going in the direction of the Palace with his beloved violin-case in his hand. It was a peculiarity of the Italian that he never drove where he could walk. She shuddered as she wondered if he was going to his doom, or if the Princess’s fervent hopes would be realised.
For a moment a wild impulse urged her to turnback and run after him, to blurt out the truth and implore his silence. But the instinct of self-preservation prevailed and the impulse was combated.
Zouroff’s dark threat rang in her ears. And if the Prince’s suspicions were correct, Corsini was in the pay of Golitzine. If that were true, she would entreat his silence in vain. Even gratitude for his escape would not blind him to his obvious duty.
Corsini ascended the staircase, and the first person he met on entering the handsome gilded music-salon was the master of the house. To the Italian’s intense surprise the Prince held out his hand and greeted him with an apparent show of cordiality.
“Ah, good evening, Signor. You are a little late—is it not so? Many of your admirers have been asking after you and fearing that you were not able to come.”
Nello, a man of a most frank and trusting disposition, was almost overcome by this condescension. Had he misjudged the man after all? A great Russian nobleman of ancient lineage might be disposed to look down upon meaner persons who could boast of neither wealth nor origin. At any rate, he was behaving well in his own house, was not reminding him of the difference between their stations.
“I am afraid I am a little late, Prince. But I will make amends. If they desire an extra encore they shall have it.” Thus Nello, a little elated by Zouroff’s subtle suggestion that he was a person of great importance in the world of art, and his audience was waiting impatiently for his arrival.
He played very beautifully that night. The enthusiasmof his listeners was so great that he had to grant not one, but three encores. At last he left the platform.
The Princess Nada met him as he descended the few marble steps.
“You have surpassed yourself to-night, Signor. There are many waiting to pay you compliments. But will you first come and have a brief chat with me?”
Was there anything he could more ardently desire? To gaze for a few moments into those beautiful eyes, to listen to those soft, kind tones—were not a few moments spent like this worth much more than all the applause he had received?
She led him to a small divan in the spacious salon, that was fortunately not occupied. She sat at one end, he at the other; but they were not very distant.
He was very agitated. His close proximity to this beautiful young woman, the product of centuries of high breeding, the delight of her presence, the perfume that stole to him from her abundant hair, the hundred and one subtle allurements that a daughter of the classes possessed for a son of the people, intoxicated him. She was indeed the woman of his dreams, a star set so high in the firmament that he could only gaze respectfully at its light.
She brought him to earth with the simple question: “You must be very tired after your fatigues of the day and night; it is some time past twelve now. How do you propose to return to your hotel? I suppose you have your carriage waiting to take you back?”
She had put the question in her subtle, woman’s way. She knew it was a fad of Corsini’s that he would never ride or drive where he could walk. When he was rallied upon it by his few intimate friends, he always gave the same explanation that he proffered now.
“It is an eccentricity of mine, Princess, that I always walk wherever I can. Shall I tell you why?”
Nada looked at him kindly. “Yes, tell me why. I cannot tell you whether it is an eccentricity until I know the reason. Personally, I am a very lazy person, and never walk when I can ride.”
Corsini leaned towards her. He could inhale the fragrance of her hair, the stronger perfume that came from the roses she wore in her corsage.
“Princess, may I reveal to you some of my inmost cherished aspirations?” His eyes were glowing, he spoke with unusual vehemence.
“I should be honoured to receive your confidences,” replied the Princess softly.
“Ah, then, since you are so indulgent, I will tell you. My career up to a few months ago was an obscure one. Music is in my blood, as it is in yours. Am I not right?”
“Yes,” replied the Princess, in an even softer voice than before. “Music is in my blood, too. Everything fades into insignificance beside those lovely rapturous sounds, such as you and a few other great artists can evoke and render in your various media: through the voice, the violin, the piano—perhaps the weakest, the least convincing of all.”
She was very lovely, very alluring, thought Corsini.She had considerable mentality, even great spirituality. Alone with his violin and her, he could so charm her that perchance she might cast off her high estate, the estate of the Princess, and venture forth with him into the world of exquisite music and unknown dreams. But the time had not come for that. She had only extended a kind and gentle friendship. He could not, at the moment, ask for more. It would be presumption on his part.
“I trust I shall not weary you,” he said, with a smile of apology. “As a violinist, I have met with some success; as the Director of the Imperial Opera, I am not quite a failure. But these successes, for what they are worth, do not put limits on my ambition. I want to be something greater than either—the successful composer.”
The Princess sighed. “Ah, that is my ambition, too. I have tried every instrument, and failed. I have composed heaps of things, but there is no originality in them. I play Chopin and try to imitate him, Wagner with the same result. I have an artistic instinct, Signor Corsini, but no creative ability. I must be a listener all my life, envying the people who render what I would give all my fortune to express.”
Corsini thought of his interview with Salmoros, when that sedate and experienced financier had expressed the inmost desires of his soul, that he would give a hundred thousand pounds out of his princely fortune to acquire half of the Italian’s executive art.
Corsini looked at her, his artist soul beaming in his expressive eyes.
“It is one of the tragedies of life, Princess. You, like my good friend Salmoros, desire to be an executant, and your fingers refuse to obey the impulses of your soul. You want to be a composer, and you cannot express your ideas. You do not create, you only imitate.”
“Alas, yes,” answered the Princess mournfully.
Corsini half rose from his seat in his agitation. “With me, Princess, it is different. The executive part comes easily to me; I do not worry about that; it is, of course, a gift. But, as I told you, I long to be a composer. That is the reason why I always walk whenever the distance is not too long.”
“Ah, yes, we have wandered far from the original subject,” answered the Princess, realising that Corsini had got upon the great theme of self, and was no longer keen to listen to the recital of her small aspirations.
“Playing in these gilded saloons, shut up in my office at the Opera, my imaginative past is dull and dead. When I walk through the silent streets watching the tide of life as it flows by, the nobleman rolling by in his carriage, the beggar cringing for alms, great thoughts come to me. Overhead at night, the stars, full of mystery and wonder, this petty world beneath! Then, Princess, my imagination awakes. I feel in me some of that divine fire which must have informed the great Beethoven when he composed ‘The Moonlight Sonata,’ some of that inspiration which moved Chopin, Wagner, and the other great masters.”
He waved his arms with a dramatic gesture. “That is why I walk rather than ride. Speaking asa composer, when I am confined in a close space, I am dead artistically. When I walk and look round on life, I find inspiration.”
He was very glowing, very impassioned. Nada felt her pulses thrill as she listened to him. But perhaps, because she was not the full and complete artist that Corsini was, she always leaned to the practical side.
“Oh, please do not think I am not capable of understanding you,” she said. “If I were the artist you are, I should break away from the narrow confines of this Palace and seek inspiration, like you, from the moon and stars, even in the silent streets.”
She paused a moment, and then added, with her full knowledge of what was lying in wait for him, “But all the same, Signor, in spite of the inspiration you may derive, I wish you would not walk home to-night. Give the moon, the stars, the silent streets the go-by for once. Wait for your inspiration till to-morrow.”
He was flattered by that direct appeal to him from such a beautiful girl, but of course, he had no idea of the reason that had prompted it.
“But, Princess, why put an embargo on this exquisite night? As I walk along, great ideas will come to me. I may be able to think of something worthy of Chopin, Schumann, even of the great Wagner himself.”
She leaned forward to him a little from her side of the divan, and her flower-like face was very close to his. He could catch the subtle perfume of her hair, the scent of the roses at her breast.
“It is just a little whim of mine, Signor Corsini. You work very hard, you are devoured by your artistic ambitions which nourish the soul, but consume the body to ashes. Do not incur unnecessary fatigue. You have your carriage waiting?”
“No, Princess, I have never any carriage waiting. I nearly always walk to my hotel—the longer the distance, the better, because I have a longer time for inspiration.”
“I know, I know,” answered Nada quietly. “I fully appreciate all this, but one may sometimes overdo it. I do not think you are looking very well to-night, Signor. You have put too great a strain upon yourself lately. You say you have no carriage waiting. Permit me to supply you with one. The courtyard is choked up with vehicles. You have only to say the word and my maid will bring you one to the side door of the Palace. You can get in there and be driven home at once, without any tedious delay.”
A delightful thought crossed his brain. Was it possible that the Princess had appreciated his respectful homage, his silent devotion? Or was this solicitude for his welfare merely the expression of a womanly compassion for the man outside her world, but claiming the common kinship of art?
His voice broke as he declined her offer. “Ten thousand thanks, but I would not put you to such trouble. You have so many guests to see to. I have already taken up too much of your time. I will walk home as usual and seek my inspiration under the stars.”
Her troubled gaze sought his. If he would only prove amenable, she could still save him—at any rate for a time—from her ruthless brother, with the aid of her faithful maid, Katerina, out of the reach of those scoundrels who were waiting to convey him—she hoped into the arms of General Beilski’s police.
But Corsini was not to be saved to-night, although two women had done their best for him. He took the hand that the Princess offered him.
“You have been so very kind. I shall always cherish you in a warm corner of my heart, for were you not one of my earliest friends? At that time, I had not many friends, Heaven knows.”
“I shall always be your friend, Signor Corsini. I only wish you would allow me to order the carriage to take you home.” The concluding words almost sounded like an entreaty.
But Corsini would pay no attention. He was resolved on walking home to seek inspiration from the clear skies and the silent streets.
At the top of the great staircase the Prince was standing, to all appearances cordiality itself. But, from a far corner of the music-salon, he had been watching with angry eyes the conversation between his sister and Corsini.
But he could afford to be indifferent; he could afford to greet the young Italian with a smile. He had laid his plans cunningly.
Zouroff accompanied him to the door, guarded by a big hall-porter. In a corner of the hall lounged a small dapper man, Peter, his valet, the lover of Katerina.
“Good-night, Signor. Have you no carriage waiting? Ah, no, I understand it is a habit of yours to walk. Good! Exercise is a fine tonic. My secretary will send you a cheque to-morrow for your services. Again, good-night!”
The door closed on the retreating Corsini. Zouroff turned swiftly to the small, dapper man, and whispered in his ear.
“After him, Peter. Come back and tell me that they have done their work.”
The hall-porter opened the door at a sign from his imperious master, and the valet went out with a slow, stealthy tread.
He followed in the wake of Corsini, who marched along gaily, his violin-case swinging from his hand, his thoughts full of the Princess Nada, who had been so sweet to him, so gracious.
He hummed one of the gayest of the many gay airs from “Il Barbiere” as he walked along. It was one of his favourite operas, one in which La Belle Quéro was inimitable.
He was in a very happy frame of mind to-night as he walked through the silent streets. He even thought tenderly of La Belle Quéro, and went to the length of forgiving her for what he had once considered her groundless jealousy of the Princess.
In the midst of these happy thoughts, four black shadows loomed up against him, four men surrounded him.
What a fool he had been not to take the Princess’s advice and drive home! St. Petersburg, like every other populous city, was full of thieves.
Blindly he struck out with his disengaged hand. Shrilly he called out for help.
One of the burly men who had surrounded him threw a handkerchief over his face. In a few seconds his struggles had ceased.
His almost inanimate form was conveyed to the waiting carriage, standing in a side street not far from the Zouroff Palace. It was bundled inside, two of the men mounted the box, the others sat inside, and the horses set off at a fast trot in the direction of the Moscow road.
The valet, Peter, strolled back home. His master was lounging about in the vestibule to await the news. Peter whispered them in his ear.
Zouroff smiled a slow smile of gratified malice.
“The bird is trapped,” he exulted as he ascended the staircase, to mingle once more with his guests.
After having delivered her letter in the way recorded in a previous chapter, Katerina had sped away with the swiftness of the proverbial arrow. She was well on her way home before it reached the hands of General Beilski, who was closeted with an official of high importance and could not be disturbed till the interview was finished.
The Chief of Police was, above all things, a man of action. There was nothing in the letter itself to give the least clue as to the writer, but it was evidently genuine. He came to the conclusion that the woman who had sent it was unwillingly mixed up in some plot against which her conscience revolted.
He immediately called in one of his subordinates to make arrangements for the immediate despatch of a body of mounted police to Pavlovsk, where they would lie in wait for the arriving carriage.
The man who had taken the letter from the somewhat frightened maid was called in and questioned, but his evidence was of no value. His recollections of the appearance of the young woman were very hazy. She was young, slim, and rather good-looking, but he had taken so little notice of her that he admitted that he would not be sure of recognising her if he met her again. There were other callers at the time and his attention had been distracted.
The man was dismissed, and the General and his lieutenant closely scrutinised the letter for the second time. All that they could do was to agree upon two points. The handwriting was evidently a feigned one, and also that of a person of education.
“There is one peculiar thing about it; our informant wishes to save the person threatened,” remarked the Chief; “but she evidently wishes to involve as little as possible the perpetrators. Otherwise she would have told us where the carriage was going to start from for Pavlovsk, so as to save us the trouble of going all that way. Still, when we stop the carriage, we shall be able to get something out of the scoundrels who are in charge of it.”
“Unless they are too staunch or too well paid to give away their employer,” observed the subordinate, with a shrug of his shoulders. “Many of these criminals, and none but criminals would engage in such a job, are very loyal.”
“In the good old days we would soon have made them find their tongues,” said the General with a grim smile.
That night Beilski dined alone with Golitzine and his wife. After dinner was over, the two men adjourned to the Count’s study and sat late into the night, discussing various important matters.
When they were about to separate, the General drew from his pocket the anonymous letter, and handed it to his host.
“Read that, Count, although I don’t suppose you will be able to make more out of it than I. It was left to-day by a mysterious young woman who boltedas soon as she had given it into the hands of the porter. He took very little notice of her and doubts if he would recognise her again.”
The Count read the letter slowly, and meditated for a few seconds. “Strange, very strange,” he said at length. “A person of some importance in the artistic world!”
“Does that give you any clue?” inquired Beilski. “Of course you know a good many things that I don’t, and you also mix in more worlds than I do. Is there anybody you can think of, or are acquainted with, whose removal might be useful to some person or persons?”
It was some time before a sudden flash of inspiration came to Golitzine. When it did, he spoke slowly.
“At present, mind, it is only a conjecture. But I can think of a man who would answer to the description—Corsini, the Director of the Imperial Opera.”
The General elevated his eyebrows. “From all I have heard of him—I have never met him—a most quiet, unassuming fellow. How could he give offence to anybody?”
“I must let you into one of my secrets, Beilski. This young man is acting for me in a certain matter. I have given him some information which, according to my instructions, he has divulged to somebody else, a woman.”
“Is there any objection to telling me the name of the woman?”
“As I have gone so far, I may as well go a little bit farther,” was the Count’s answer. “But, at themoment, you must remember it is only a conjecture. The woman whom I suspect of having sent that note is La Belle Quéro.”
“The woman who gives supper parties to men whom we strongly suspect, but regarding whom we have, up to the present, no actual proof,” commented Beilski.
“Precisely.” The Count looked at his watch. “That carriage has started with its freight some time ago. I think we can soon solve the problem of whether Corsini is the occupant or not.”
“Your theory is, then, either that this Madame Quéro has more conscience than her associates, or is in love with the young man and has made up her mind to save him?”
Golitzine nodded his head. “If my suspicions are wrong, Corsini is at one of two places, either at his hotel or at the Zouroff concert. He told me yesterday he was going there to-night to play. We will send round a guarded note to each, only to be delivered into his own hands.”
This was done, and the two men waited for the result. The man despatched to the Palace returned first. He had inquired for Signor Corsini and was told that he had left a long time ago.
The other messenger arrived a few seconds later. He had seen the manager of the hotel. Corsini had not come back, a most unusual thing, since for a man in his profession he kept early hours.
“The inference seems pretty clear,” observed the General. “If he had intended to stay at the house of some friends he would have told the manager.Still, he may have gone on to some other party, although I doubt it. Well, if Corsini is in that carriage, and it seems most probable, we shall soon have him back in St. Petersburg.”
“And when we get him back we must have him closely guarded,” said Golitzine; “at any rate until we have discovered the perpetrators of this outrage.”
“That may prove an easy matter, or one of great difficulty,” was Beilski’s comment. “Madame Quéro herself is, of course, no use to us. She would never admit that she wrote that letter. Do you happen to know her handwriting?”
“Yes; I have had half a dozen letters from her on professional matters. The handwriting bears not the slightest resemblance to this. But, of course, she would be too shrewd to write it herself, even in a feigned hand. She dictated it to some female accomplice.”
“By the way,” added the Count as they separated for the night, “they will bring back the occupant of the carriage, who I think we may safely presume to be Corsini, to your own quarters, of course?”
“Of course,” assented the General.
“Well, bring him on to me while his impressions are red-hot, you understand? We want to bring it home to the real instigators.”
While these two high functionaries were discussing matters, the travelling carriage, with the senseless young man inside, was proceeding on the Moscow road at a fast pace.
One of the two ruffians produced a stout piece ofcord and proceeded to twist it round the arms and legs of the helpless man.
“He doesn’t seem capable of showing much fight,” he said to his companion with an evil grin, “but one never knows. A liver-hearted chicken would fight for life and liberty. Best to make sure.”
He bound him securely. The other man handled the violin-case which had dropped from Corsini’s hand when so suddenly assailed. His eyes betrayed a covetous gleam.
“This is worth something, I expect, but we dare not handle it.”
“More than our lives are worth,” replied the other ruffian, in an equally regretful tone. “There will be a hue and cry in St. Petersburg to-morrow when it is known that the Director of the Imperial Opera has disappeared. We must all lie low. Any attempt to realise on that violin would give us away at once. Besides, we are being very handsomely paid.”
“That is true,” grunted his companion in villainy, as he sank back on his seat beside the unconscious man. “We don’t ask too many questions, but we can pretty shrewdly guess who is working this job. Peter is a wary bird and doesn’t let out much, but we know who is his master.”
The carriage sped on through the gathering night till it reached Pavlovsk. Here there had been ordered a relay of horses, which was awaiting them at a small posting-house.
Corsini was still wrapt in a profound slumber. Once he had shown signs of consciousness, and one of the two miscreants had given him another dose ofthe powerful narcotic. It saved trouble, to keep him in that condition till they reached their destination.
It had been a cold drive. The two men who had guarded the prisoner stepped outside and stamped their feet. The other two, who were more chilled, dismounted from the box.
The leader of the party peered at the unconscious figure. “He is still in the land of dreams, my dear friends,” he said. “Well, while he is sleeping and we are changing horses, we will get a warm drink.”
The four men tramped into the bar of the small inn, where they comforted themselves with the refreshment they desired. They had no wish to delay their departure, but it would take a few minutes to change the tired horses, they might as well enjoy themselves in the interval. They were members of the criminal class whom Peter, the valet, had employed in his master’s interests, but they were very game fellows. They would never round on their old friend Peter.
Suddenly in the midst of their revels, for the one original drink had extended itself to three or four, a decrepit old ostler shambled in with a white and scared face. He was an aged man, toothless, and with a voice that scarcely rose above a hoarse whisper.
“Every man who wants to save himself had better run as fast as he can,” he croaked, with a meaning glance at the four men assembled in the small parlour. “The place is full of police. They have surrounded the carriage. They will be inside in a moment.”
The two younger men of the party took the hintat once, escaped through a side door and bolted somewhere away in the darkness of the night. The other two, staggered by the unexpected course of events, had not wit or agility enough to save themselves. In a second they were seized and handcuffed by the agents of the law.
Corsini’s inanimate form was carried in. General Beilski had taken the precaution to send a doctor along with the police. He had accurately guessed that those who wanted to “deport a certain person,” would take the precaution of drugging him first and keeping him under narcotics during the journey.
So heavily had the unfortunate young man been drugged, that it was some time before the doctor could bring him to a waking state. At last he opened his dazed eyes and gazed wonderingly round at the narrow little room in which he had been laid.
“Where am I?” he ejaculated slowly. His senses were not yet well ordered. He had hazy recollections of the Zouroff Palace, of a conversation with the Princess Nada, a confession to her of his ambition to be a great composer as well as a great executant, of a walk through the silent streets, the sudden appearance of some men. Then a blank.
The doctor bent over him and spoke in a soothing voice. In spite of the ashen and livid face, he recognised him at once. The doctor came from St. Petersburg in the company of the police, and he had seen the portrait of the new Director of the Imperial Opera in several newspapers. Here was some subtle mystery to which he had not the key.
“You are amongst friends, Signor Corsini. I amgoing to give you another injection, and after that you will have a little light food before we take you back to St. Petersburg.”
Corsini’s tired eyes wandered round the room. He saw the kind, compassionate face of the doctor bending over the sofa on which he had been laid. He saw also three men in police uniform and a tall, bearded man who was evidently the leader of the party. Then his eyes closed again and he relapsed into insensibility.
The doctor swore under his breath and turned to the tall, bearded man.