“Come to my lodging with your guards at twelve-thirty to-night. The meeting is an hour later. I will give you full instructions. Your Friend.”
“Come to my lodging with your guards at twelve-thirty to-night. The meeting is an hour later. I will give you full instructions. Your Friend.”
Peter the valet was a man of criminal instincts, cunning, avaricious, and unscrupulous. Perhaps his sole remaining qualities were his devotion to his master, Zouroff, and his ardent love for the Princess’s maid, Katerina.
His interview with the formidable and awe-inspiring Beilski had shaken him considerably. His faith in Zouroff was great, but in that brief conversation he had begun to realise the sinister power of the police, at which body, the Prince, in his arrogance, was wont to snap his fingers.
He returned home full of thought and much perturbed. He had already determined in his own mind the cause of the failure to remove Corsini. In an unguarded moment, he had revealed to Katerina certain facts about a travelling carriage whose first stoppage was to be at Pavlovsk. Katerina had blabbed all this to somebody.
But, until his interview with Beilski, he had been content to let matters stand where they were. It did not greatly concern him that Corsini had been rescued and was back again in St. Petersburg. His master would never suspect him: he would rather suspect one of the four other men of having given it away, for the sake of the reward that he would claim. So reasoned Peter in his narrow, but cunning brain.Therefore, for many reasons, he did not tax Katerina at once with the betrayal of his misplaced confidence.
Beilski’s threat set his thoughts working vigorously in the direction of self-preservation. He was devoted to the Prince, but he was still more devoted to himself. If he could have saved Zouroff, he would, but that seemed impossible, the Police knew too much. But he could save himself by telling what he knew. It was necessary therefore to earn that free pardon. It was only a matter of hours before he would go to the General and make a full confession.
It hurt him very much that he should crown so many years of fidelity with such a black act, but it seemed a question ofsauve qui peut. Loyal as he had been to his master, he knew enough of his character to be sure that the Prince, in a similar emergency, would have thrown him, and a dozen like him, to the wolves in order to purchase a moment’s respite. Why should he pursue a different policy?
Beilski had promised a free pardon, and also not to implicate him in the transaction. Still Zouroff was a man of extraordinary shrewdness, and when he began to work it out in his mind, might quickly focus his suspicions in the right direction.
How to avert Zouroff’s suspicions from himself! That was the question. His narrow, but cunning brain bent itself upon this for some time. At the end of his cogitations, he sought Katerina, and bluntly taxed her with the betrayal of his confidence.
At first, Katerina, with the natural adroitness of her class and sex, protested indignant denial; she vowed that she had forgotten the incident altogether.
“You are lying,” said her lover sternly. “If you do not confess this instant, I will take you to the Prince himself, and he will wring the truth out of you.”
Katerina’s face went white. She had been very frightened at Beilski, but her terror of Zouroff was greater even than her fear of the Head of the Police. If she saw him in one of the corridors, she would scuttle away like an alarmed rabbit. If he came into her young mistress’s room, she was agitated till he was gone.
In a few moments, what with her fear of Zouroff and her genuine love for Peter, the artful valet had her reduced to a state of tears. It was not long before he forced out of her everything he wanted to know. How she had conveyed the information to the Princess, how she had taken her mistress’s note to Beilski, how, later on, she had been summoned to the presence of that formidable person and confessed much as she was doing now.
Peter uttered no word of reproach; the time of reproaches was past; but he saw clearly that the game was up, so far as the abduction of Corsini was concerned. The sooner he made a clean breast of it to Beilski, the better. At the same time, he wanted to throw suspicion upon somebody else.
He loved Katerina genuinely, too well to harm a hair of her head, even to save himself. In this respect he was several degrees better than his master, who would have sacrificed the whole world for such a laudable purpose.
And to the charming young Princess, with hergracious ways, her sweet friendliness to all, he was also strongly attached. He would not harm a hair of her head, if he could help it. But still, his first instinct was for self.
Besides, if he gave them away, he would be giving himself away, also. What these two women knew, mistress and maid, they must have learned from some member of the Zouroff household.
Was there any member of that household, except himself, who had foreknowledge of the Prince’s plans? He was inclined to doubt it. Confidants he must have, when engaged in so many dark schemes, but Zouroff chose as few as possible. Yet, and yet—if only he could throw suspicion in a likely quarter, on somebody else!
Katerina, embarked on the full tide of confession and genuinely alarmed for her lover’s safety, babbled on artlessly. Peter had drawn a gloomy picture of the vengeance he might expect at the hands of his master for that innocent gossip of a few moments, when discovery came home to him, as it was sure to do. In her revelations she let fall the fact that the celebrated Madame Quéro had paid a visit to the Princess, during her brother’s temporary absence.
Peter pricked up his ears at the information. He knew full well the relations between the Prince and the handsome singer. Here was a fact that might be turned to his advantage. Madame Quéro, he felt assured, participated in all her lover’s secrets.
“Have you any proof of that?” he asked eagerly.
Katerina opened wide her tear-dimmed eyes. “Proof? Do you doubt my word? Why, she gaveme her card, and the Princess handed it me back and told me to return it to her, with her excuses for not receiving her. I did not like to be so rude, and I put it in my pocket.”
“Have you still got that card, Katerina?” questioned the valet anxiously.
“Of course I have. I kept it as a souvenir. I regard her as a very distinguished person, and I hear she came from our own class. The Princess, of course, looks upon her as the dirt under her feet, but in her position there is no blame, perhaps, for her doing that.” Thus poor Katerina, divided between loyalty to her young mistress and admiration for the beautiful woman who had overcome such formidable obstacles.
The artful valet put his arm round her waist and imprinted a fond kiss on her pretty cheek.
“Katerina, my little sweetheart, I think you will admit you owe me some amends for your foolish indiscretion. Give me that card, and we will cry quits. But not a word to the Princess. But I forgot. You cannot tell her; you ought to have returned it to Madame Quéro.”
Katerina was glad to be reconciled to her lover on such cheap terms. Five minutes later, the card of La Belle Quéro was in Peter’s hands.
And then Peter thought long and cunningly. He had made up his mind to betray his master—it was a matter of necessity—but he was very particular that his master should not know by whom he was betrayed. There was Fritz, the German, one of the four men implicated in the abduction of Corsini.Fritz was always a shifty person, ready to sell himself to the highest bidder. Peter felt assured that Zouroff’s suspicions were already centred on Fritz. He was one of the two men who had escaped, no doubt with the connivance of the police; anyway, that would be Zouroff’s view.
The possession of Madame Quéro’s card had suggested new lines of thought. Of course, Peter did not know to what extent the beautiful singer was in the Prince’s confidence. Here, naturally, he was groping wildly in the dark. But the more he diverted Zouroff’s attention from himself on to other people, the better.
In divulging what he proposed to do to the Prince, it was more than probable that he would implicate the young Princess Nada. And Peter had a very soft spot in his heart for her. Still, it was simply a question of saving himself. If Zouroff saw red and laid all about him, as it were, Nada must protect herself. Even a ruffian like Zouroff would exercise some compunction when his sister was in question. With regard to La Belle Quéro, who had, at times, treated him a little disdainfully, with the slight arrogance of a person who had emerged from his own class into a superior one, Peter felt no qualms. The Prince and she could adjust their own differences at the proper time and hour.
Later on, he approached Zouroff with his fawning and cringing aspect, and handed him Madame Quéro’s card.
“You know that my eyes and ears are always openin your Excellency’s service,” he whined. “That is what I have found.”
Zouroff’s face grew as black as thunder as he read it. “She has been here, then. To see whom?”
Peter shrugged his shoulders. He wanted to be as non-committal as possible. “That I cannot tell. Your Excellency may guess better than I.”
The Prince looked at him long and intently. Peter was a very cunning rogue; that he knew full well; but he was the last man he was inclined to suspect.
“How did you come into possession of this?” he thundered.
But Peter was determined not to implicate his sweetheart, Katerina. In this respect he was a slightly better man than his master.
“Your Excellency will excuse me; my lips are sealed. One must be faithful to one’s comrades. There are wheels within wheels, as you well know.”
The Prince nodded. He knew Peter well. In many ways he was docile and obedient, but it was always politic not to push him too far; on such occasions the valet was apt to take on a spirit of sturdy independence which his master was compelled to respect. Wild horses would not draw from him how, or through whom, he had discovered that card.
“Leave me, Peter, if you please,” commanded Zouroff. “I must be alone to think this thing over, since you say your lips are sealed.”
He shook his fist angrily in the direction of the retreating valet. “Ah, for my good old father’sdays,” he murmured regretfully. “I would have had it out of you with the knout then, my excellent friend.”
Left alone, Zouroff pondered out all these things in his subtle brain. The treacherous Madame Quéro had come to the Palace, to seek whom, and to what purpose?
Rumour, gathered at the stage door, and in the more intimate circles of the profession, averred that the handsome singer was in love with Corsini. He had also his impressions of his sister in connection with the handsome young Italian. He had watched them together in that prolonged conversation on the night of the concert at the Zouroff Palace, on quitting which, Corsini had been abducted.
Rapidly in his own mind, he reconstructed the sequence of events. Madame Quéro was in love with Corsini. He gnashed his teeth as he remembered he had been fool enough to suggest to the Spanish woman that Corsini must disappear. She had acted on that hint and come straight to the Palace to invoke his sister’s assistance in rescuing Corsini.
His sister was in love with Corsini herself. The two rivals had united to save their common lover, and their measures had been well taken. The police had met the carriage at Pavlovsk, rescued the drugged and inanimate Director of the Imperial Opera, and brought him safely back to St. Petersburg. And, in the capital, so Zouroff was assured by his spies, he was being safely guarded by Beilski’s men. The Government and the police were proving themselvesvery cunning, almost as cunning as Zouroff himself.
So far he had reasoned things out very logically. Now came the one thing for which he could not account. To La Quéro he had given no details, and as he had not given them to her, she could not communicate them to his sister. Here was a final stop.
And yet, the carriage containing Corsini, drugged and bound, had been surrounded at Pavlovsk by the police. Somebody, then, had given information. Who was that somebody?
His suspicion fell at once on Fritz, the German, chiefly, perhaps, because Fritz had been found guilty of minor acts of disloyalty in previous transactions. For a man of his acute intelligence, it was, perhaps, a little surprising that he did not, at first hand, suspect Peter.
But Peter had just disarmed his suspicions by handing to him Madame Quéro’s card. Yes, Peter was loyal, if every other person was tainted with treachery.
There emerged from his strenuous efforts to get at the truth some clear and certain facts, according to his own deductions, which were, of course, erroneous.
Madame Quéro had been informed by Fritz of the actual facts: that Corsini was to be kidnapped just outside the precincts of the Palace, that the carriage was to stop on its first stage on the Moscow road at Pavlovsk.
He had to admit that there were flaws in his reasoning. If Madame Quéro had got this information from Fritz, and she was resolved to save Corsini, shecould have informed the police herself. Why had she come to the Palace, to invoke the assistance of Nada?
Pending his cogitations, he had recourse to stimulants, as was his wont on such occasions. Amid the fumes of alcohol he solved the problem, as he thought. Quéro, not wishing to appear herself, had made his sister her instrument. He ground his teeth, and vowed implacable revenge upon his once sweetheart, La Belle Quéro.
But his anger against his sister was hardly less burning. To think that this innocent young girl, only just out of the schoolroom, should dare to thwart his plans.
He burst into her sitting-room, his face red and inflamed from his secret drinking. She recognised the symptoms at once. He had one of his wild fits of brutal and unreasoning rage.
He attacked her at once, in unmeasured language.
“You are a disgrace to your sex,” he shouted wildly, “a disgrace to the noble house of Zouroff, to the name you bear.”
The young Princess looked at him calmly and steadfastly, with her clear gaze. He was a wild beast at the moment—she saw that; also gathered that he had been drinking heavily. Wild beasts are sometimes tamed by the eye. She never took her glance off him.
“Of what do you accuse me?” she asked in cold and cutting accents. “In what way have I, of all the members of our family, disgraced the house of Zouroff?”
The Prince spluttered forth his accusations. “You have disgraced yourself by falling in love with a strolling player, that mountebank, Corsini.”
Of course he was still master enough of himself not to reveal all he knew, or thought he knew.
The Princess drew herself up haughtily. It was not the first time she had encountered her brother in this mood.
“I don’t think you know what you are talking about, Boris; I can see your condition very plainly. Signor Corsini is not a strolling player—that description applies to the destitute members of the theatrical profession. Corsini is a musician, an artist, and the Director of the Imperial Opera. Think of some other expression that will vent your rage and spite, but don’t call him ‘a strolling player.’”
“But whatever he is, you love him,” thundered the Prince, now fairly consumed with rage.
The young Princess kept her temper, her tone was as cutting as before.
“You insult me with these questions,” she said calmly. “Return to me when you are sober and I may perhaps be able to talk with you, reason with you.” She was thinking of a few hints dropped by General Beilski on his brief visit to her.
“And if I do not choose to leave at your bidding,” retorted the Prince, in a jeering tone. “Suppose I insist upon remaining and finishing our conversation!”
“In that case I shall leave the Palace for good.” And suddenly her woman’s strength gave way, opposed to that of this resolute ruffian and bully. “Ifour dear mother were here, you would not dare to stay in this room a moment longer. You take advantage of my weakness,” she cried tearfully.
“Our dear mother,” mimicked Zouroff, in mocking accents. “You and your mother have always held together against me; you always held against my dear father in the old days.”
“Of whom you are a worthy son,” flashed the Princess, with an angry gesture. She had poignant memories of those old days, when her mother had suffered untold indignities at the hands of Prince Zouroff the elder, indignities which had bitten into the souls of both wife and daughter. Boris was the only member of the family who reverenced the name of his father, for the very simple reason that he partook of his worst qualities.
And then a softer mood came to her. After all, he was her brother, son of the same kind, gentle mother. She went across to him and placed a hand upon his shoulder.
“Be reasonable, Boris, and prudent. I can guess more than you think. I am sure you are playing a very dangerous game. Be certain on your side that your opponents are not stronger than you.”
But Zouroff was in no mood to listen to the tender expostulations of a woman, especially a woman whom he despised as much as his sister, this frail girl who took after her gentle mother, who had in her none of the iron qualities of his brutal father.
He flung her aside, and spoke in a grating voice.
“You will leave the Palace, will you? Yes, you shall, but when and how I choose. There is your ownlittle comfortable Castle of Tchernoff. Perhaps if I sent you there, it might cool your hot blood.”
The Princess flamed up. “You dare not think of such a thing. Brute as you are, you would not dare to do it.”
“We shall see. Remember I am still your legal guardian,” cried the Prince, with a mocking laugh, as he left the room.
The interview had sobered him. All that was now working in his mind was, first, a scheme of revenge upon La Belle Quéro; second, a milder scheme of revenge against his sister.
An hour later Peter, the valet, reported himself to General Beilski and obtained his free pardon by a full confession. And the General, waiting for further developments, stayed his hand for the moment.
Needless to say that Nada was very much alarmed by the threat which her brother had flung at her when she spoke of leaving the Palace. She tried to reason herself into the belief that her fears were groundless. In their not infrequent quarrels he had more than once threatened to lock her up in that gloomy castle in order to bring her to her senses.
But nothing had ever come of it. He was hotheaded and overbearing, but she did not believe him to be vindictive. Of course, in forming this lenient estimate of a character not to be very easily fathomed, she was grievously mistaken.
To-day he was in one of his blind rages, and he had, moreover, been drinking. At such times he was not always responsible for either his words or actions. In a few hours he would be his normal self, and his senseless anger would have died down.
Still, she wished that she could take counsel with somebody. She could not go to her mother. The Princess’s cold had been the precursor of an acute attack of diphtheria of such an infectious nature that her chamber was barred to everybody except the nurse and doctor.
Relatives, of course, Nada had in abundance, but she shrank from exposing her brother to these. He was unpopular enough with his family as it was.
She could, of course, send round a note to Beilski, informing him of her brother’s threat and claiming his protection; but, from the few hints the General had dropped, she could see that he was already sufficiently inflamed against Zouroff. She did not wish to increase that resentment, unless it were absolutely necessary.
But still she felt imperatively the desire to confide, in somebody to have disinterested counsel as to the course she should pursue.
And suddenly the idea of Corsini occurred to her mind. She knew, with the intuitive instinct of a woman, that the young musician had fallen deeply in love with her, that if for certain reasons he would never go so far as to confess his love, she would ever find in him a true and devoted friend.
When she had sent that letter to his hotel to make sure that he had been safely brought back from Pavlovsk, he had forwarded her the piece of music she had asked for, as an excuse for writing to him.
After the first few formal lines of his answering note, he had written some strange words—words which evidently conveyed a deeper meaning than appeared on the surface. She remembered them perfectly.
“I cannot express to you in grateful enough language my thanks for all you have done for me. Later on, perhaps, I may have the opportunity of rendering them personally.”
Grateful thanks for all she had done for him! There was only one service she had rendered him which could call for such warm expressions. But hadhe been able to connect her with that? Had he been able to reason it out in his own mind that Zouroff was the man who desired his removal? Or had he learned it all from Beilski?
She could not be sure. She had fenced as well as she could with Beilski, but the fact that that carriage had been drawn up within a few yards of the Palace certainly supported the idea that the Prince was the perpetrator of the outrage. Of course, she knew nothing of the General’s second interview with Katerina; the maid had thought it wiser to keep that to herself. Neither did she know of the other interview with Peter the valet.
Zouroff had gone out, leaving word that he would not be home till late at night, very shortly after that stormy scene between the pair. The coast was clear. She would send round a note to Corsini asking him to come and see her for a few moments. Her maid would be waiting for him and would at once conduct him to her boudoir.
She would then endeavour to find out how much he knew; and if he had discovered the absolute truth, then she would seek his counsel and advice.
Corsini went to the Palace at once, much as he disliked entering the house of which the hateful and treacherous Prince was master.
He could see that the young Princess was very agitated as she greeted him.
“It is very kind of you to come so quickly, Signor. What I really wanted to see you about was this. In that letter you wrote me when you sent me that piece of music I asked for, you made use of certain expressionswhich I could not quite understand. You spoke of my having done you some service for which you wished to express your thanks.”
The Italian looked at her steadily and intently, but in that deep gaze there was a very tender expression.
“Can you yourself recall no service that you have rendered me, Princess?”
So he knew. Of course, if he had not guessed of his own volition, Beilski would have told him that she had sent that letter of warning.
“Ah, I see you have found out,” she faltered. “Well, on the spur of the moment I did my best, and I am glad that the result was so successful.”
“I shall ever remember it with the deepest feelings of gratitude,” said the young musician fervently. “It could have been no light matter for you to act as you did, to run the risk of being detected.”
There was now no further need of fencing on either side. “Signor, since there is now such a frank understanding between us, I want to ask your advice on a matter that is troubling me very much.”
In tones of unmistakable sincerity he assured her that his services were whole-heartedly at her disposal.
“My mother, alas! cannot help me. She is so seriously ill with diphtheria that we are forbidden to go to her room; only the doctor and the nurse are allowed there.”
Corsini expressed his deep regret at the Princess’s severe indisposition. Nada resumed, in her soft, musical voice:
“This morning my brother and I had a serious quarrel.” A vivid blush spread over her charmingface as she recalled how the quarrel had begun with his taunting her with her preference for the man whom he called “a strolling player.”
“We have had many quarrels in our time,” she explained. “He is violent and overbearing, and breaks in the most ungovernable rages. At such times, I think, he goes actually mad for the moment. This particular quarrel, however, has left a deeper impression than most. He has threatened to lock me up in a gloomy old Castle in the Caucasus, as a punishment for my venturing to incur his displeasure.”
“And is there any valid, or sufficiently apparent, reason for his displeasure?” asked Corsini. “Or perhaps I am indiscreet in putting that question.”
“Oh, none at all,” replied the Princess, with a return of that vivid blush; “mere trifles that a less violent man would smile at. He has used this threat once or twice before, but to-day he spoke as if he meant it.”
Corsini thought deeply before he answered. Had Zouroff actually discovered the part she had played in his rescue, and was this his revenge?
“My advice, Princess, is to leave the Palace, and either seek shelter with some relatives or claim the protection of Golitzine and Beilski; if necessary of the Emperor himself. The Prince, you know doubtless, is not a favourite at Court.”
“I know,” said Nada quickly. “But think of the awful scandal when all this is blazoned forth. For my poor mother’s sake I want to avoid that.”
The Italian spoke very gravely. “The scandal will,of course, be regrettable. But compared with your own safety, I should not give it a moment’s consideration.”
He stood up, and his calm left him as he thought of the danger she ran with this brutal brother, who seemed capable of any villainy.
“You asked for my advice, Princess. I have given it and repeat it. Leave this house at once and acquaint Beilski with all you have told me.”
“You mean leave it now—to-day?” she faltered. “And my poor mother lying so ill upstairs.”
“That, of course, from what I know and can guess of the Prince would provide him with an excellent reason for carrying out his plans as quickly as possible,” observed Corsini bitterly.
The poor young Princess seemed overwhelmed by the position. She felt Corsini’s advice was sound, and yet she shrank from taking such a decided step. The Prince had used a similar threat before, and nothing had come of it.
“I think I will wait till I see him again to-morrow,” she said presently. “I shall know by his mood if he has forgotten the incident. Nothing will occur to-day. He has gone out, and left word that he will not be home till late to-night.”
Yes, he would be late home to-night; Corsini knew that for certain. He still persisted, however, in his point.
“Delays are dangerous, Princess. I will help you any way you like. And it will be wise to take advantage of his long absence to make your escape. Tell me your destination, and I will myself bringround a carriage to some quiet entrance where you can slip out unobserved. I have not told you that I go about with a bodyguard with which the General furnished me. The carriage shall be told to go at a walking pace. I and my attendants will keep it in sight till you are safely at your destination.”
She thanked him warmly, but still persisted that she would prefer to wait till to-morrow. If she changed her mind before the day was out, she would slip out with her maid and take a passing conveyance.
Corsini took her hand and held it for a little time in his, while he gazed earnestly into her troubled eyes, from which she could with difficulty keep back the tears.
“My heart bleeds for you, dear lady. I wish I could convince you, and I hate to leave you here. Will you let me know to-morrow to what course of action you have made up your mind?”
She promised that she would, and the young man left her with feelings of dire foreboding. Please Heaven, this night’s work would turn out so well that very shortly Zouroff would be rendered harmless and impotent. To let him loose on the world was like letting a wild and savage beast out of its cage.
The Prince did return to the Palace about the middle of the afternoon. Was his message, that he would not be home till late at night, simply a blind to lull his sister into a false sense of security? He did not go near her; he went up to his own apartments by a private staircase, only used by himself.
He summoned his valet, Peter, and gave him some very minute instructions. Peter, knowing what wasin store for his truculent master, would have liked to offer a little sensible advice, to dissuade him from the course he was bent on pursuing.
But the habits of long obedience, the fear that if he opposed him in the smallest detail he might draw suspicion upon himself, weighed heavily on him. Reluctantly he agreed to obey Zouroff’s orders. Later on, when Zouroff was caged himself, he might be able to undo the mischief he had promised to abet.
The Prince stole out of the Palace as silently as he had entered it. Nobody but Peter and another servant, as much in his confidence as the valet himself, knew that he had been there.
It was a very busy day with him. A few more hours should see the end of all this plotting and scheming, should see his well-laid plans mature. The thought of vengeance, and a sense of coming triumph, induced in him a certain exultation which expressed itself in his resolute glance, his assured bearing. He made his way on foot to the villa of Madame Quéro. He had made up his mind to have a little reckoning with her, in order to wind up his final accounts.
The beautiful singer received him graciously. A woman of capricious moods, she had, for a brief space, admitted to herself that she had not treated him quite fairly, had been found lacking in the spirit of true comradeship. After all, Zouroff had loved her in his rough, masterful way, and he had always been generous.
She had played him false in this respect, that she had allowed herself to be attracted by the handsome young Italian, to the extent of thwarting the Prince’splans in regard to him. And it was to no purpose. Corsini was in love with the Princess Nada, no doubt a hopeless passion on his part. But he would never give a thought to her save in the way of friendship. And that was the last thing that the passionate heart of the Spanish woman desired.
When, therefore, Zouroff entered her boudoir, in apparently one of his best moods, she felt some of his old attraction for her returning. She little knew what deep anger against her was burning in his heart.
But he was a skilful diplomatist; he showed nothing of this. He kissed her fondly, with the warm kiss of a man who hoped some day to make her his wife.
“Ah, my dear sweetheart, how pleasant to see you again!” said the base hypocrite. “I have had a busy day. Things are going well. It will not be long before my utmost ambitions are realised.” He spoke confidently; he was ever an optimist, and he believed in his own particular star.
La Belle Quéro felt an inward qualm. Corsini was nothing to her now. And, in that brief interview with Nada, she had surmised, through all her girlish dignity and reticence, that the Princess was more than half in love with him. Otherwise, would she have been so eager to save him?
But if Zouroff triumphed, as he seemed to have every hope of doing, the Italian’s fate would be sealed. And Le Belle Quéro was sure she could not save him a second time. The fates would not be propitious to her again.
“Old friends are best, my dear,” said the Princein his most agreeable tones, as he seated himself in one of the luxurious easy-chairs and lighted a cigarette. “Somehow a little cloud seems to have come between us lately, I should like to remove it.”
Madame Quéro looked a little uneasy. She knew full well to what he was alluding. Her obvioustendressefor the young director had occasioned a good deal of talk; no doubt some of it had floated to Zouroff’s ears.
“Do not let us speak of clouds, Boris. We have been long and good friends. Let us be good friends again.”
“With all my heart,” responded the Prince, with his most charming smile. “Well, I have come to tell you I shall not be at the Opera to-night. I have to see a great many people, make a great many arrangements. I cannot tell you how sorry I am; I know it is one of your great nights. But you understand—business must always come before pleasure.”
Madame assented good humouredly. “It has always been so with you, Boris, at any rate. You are a great man in many ways, perhaps a little too optimistic, a little too sure of yourself.”
The Prince smiled his confident smile. “A pessimist is not much good in this world, my dear. Believe in yourself and your star, and you will become a leader of men.”
“Perhaps,” sighed Madame Quéro. She was beginning to be very attracted to him again. He was certainly in a most charming mood to-night; she felt herself carried back to the old days when she had been infatuated with him, with his virility, his assurance,even the hint of that brutal strength which lay at the back of his plausible exterior.
At length the Prince rose. “I wonder whether you would do me a little kindness. It is a long time since we had a meal together and I told them at home I should not be back till late to-night, after the meeting here. You have given instructions to Stepan to be in readiness?”
Yes, she had given instructions to Stepan.
“Then you will give me a little snack before you start for the Opera? No prolonged, heavy meal, we have neither of us time for that, just something light.”
“But, of course, Boris. You are always welcome to my hospitality, such as it is. You will be here an hour before I have to start for the Opera?”
The hypocrite bent low and kissed the hand she extended to him. “I will be here on the tick of the clock.Au revoir, my old sweetheart, who has come back to me again.”
He went out, intent on his dark schemes. He plumed himself on the fact that he had played hisrôlequite well. And she, this treacherous woman who had sold him on account of her sudden fancy for Corsini, had also played her part perfectly. It was diamond cut diamond, but he was sure he would cut deeper of the two.
He was back to the minute. It was a light meal, but Madame Quéro, persuading herself that she was happy in this sudden reconciliation, had provided him some dainties that he was very fond of. Zouroff was in the highest spirits; he praised everything, drankher health several times in the excellent champagne she had provided. The singer ate sparingly and drank very little. It was a gala night at the Opera, she had to be careful of her voice, of those liquid notes which were presently to charm the house.
The moments fled swiftly, it was time for her to start. Zouroff was going on foot to the house of a fellow conspirator.
He bade her good-night, and carelessly drew a small box from his pocket. “See, I did not forget you, I have brought a box of your favourite chocolates.” He pointed with his finger to one. “See, here is a fine fat fellow, I will take a smaller one.”
La Quéro could never resist chocolates. She took the big one Zouroff pointed out to her and crunched it in her even white teeth. The Prince laid the box on the table.
“Good-night,” he said. “There is no time to lose. We are both a little late.” He went out, with a strange smile on his face.
Looking back to it in the happy after years, Corsini always declared that of all days this had been the most eventful day in his life.
At the hotel, on the previous evening, he had found waiting for him the note from Ivan the Cuckoo, who did not know at the time he despatched that missive that he was a free man. Corsini, accompanied by his faithful bodyguard, was to repair to Ivan’s mean lodging that night.
Nello was not without a spirit of adventure. He was rather looking forward to what would happen at midnight. He was to change places with Stepan,heavily handicapped as to hearing and speech, and listen to the conversation of the conspirators.
It was a gala night at the Opera. The Emperor and his consort were to be there. On such ceremonious occasions, Corsini was wont to conduct the orchestra himself, as a mark of respect to the autocrat. The Opera given on this particular night was a famous masterpiece in those days, Rossini’s “Semiramide.”
It was a great house. The flower of Russia’s nobility was gathered in the boxes and stalls of the vast building, the men attired in immaculate costume, the women radiant in their flashing jewels. In a far box, Nello saw the charming young Princess with an elderly friend, acting as her chaperon in place of her mother. Evidently she had not taken his advice. He cast a lightning glance around as he bowed to the plaudits of the audience. He was looking for Zouroff, but he could not see him. If the Prince was in the crowded house, he had missed him. Certainly he was not in the box where his sister sat.
He conducted the overture. In a few moments the curtain would rise. Before he had got to the end of the last few bars, there was heard a piercing scream, the cry of a woman. It penetrated to every corner of the building and created an uneasy feeling in the audience.
Nello recognised the situation at once. He beat with his bâton on the desk and started the overture again. Something had happened. He would know in a few minutes.
At last the curtain rose. The stage-manager, looking very agitated, appeared. In a few brief sentences he explained that Madame Quéro had been attacked with sudden indisposition; that he must crave the indulgence of the audience for her understudy, who would take her place.
Corsini dared not leave his desk. On such a night as this he could not affront his Emperor and this brilliant assemblage by deputing his task to a subordinate. He went through the Opera with the conscientious spirit of the artist. But all the time his thoughts were dwelling on La Belle Quéro, the woman who had braved Zouroff’s vengeance in order to save him.
It was evidently a serious indisposition. If it had been only a slight attack, the handsome singer would have pulled herself together and appeared some time in the course of the evening. With her jealous temperament, she was not the woman to give an understudy too big a chance.
At last the Opera was over, the brilliant crowd filed out. Corsini went round to the wings to inquire after La Belle Quéro. One of his subordinates gave him the information he sought.
“Madame Quéro is very ill, Signor. The doctor was called in. He did not seem quite able to diagnose her symptoms. He had her conveyed home and consigned to the care of her own maid and her own physician.”
Corsini at once despatched a messenger to the villa, with instructions to report to him at his hotel. Theman came back with disquieting news. The singer was still in a comatose state, and her life was despaired of.
A swift thought swept through the Italian’s mind. Had Zouroff anything to do with this, apparently, fatal illness? Had he discovered the part she had played in his rescue?
And a still more disturbing thought assailed him. If the Prince had taken this swift vengeance on La Belle Quéro, it would not be long before he revenged himself on Nada. If only he could have conveyed a message to that box, to entreat her to fly before it was too late! Zouroff was evidently a scoundrel of the deepest dye who would stick at nothing.
But he could not act himself. Very shortly he must go to the mean lodging of Ivan, and receive his instructions as to taking the place of the deaf and dumb Stepan. In a brief space he would be inside that villa where the beautiful singer lay dying.
He did the best that presented itself to him. He despatched a brief note to Beilski.
“Madame Quéro attacked with sudden illness. It is reported that she is dying. I have certain suspicions of a person well known to us both. Please probe the matter. I cannot go myself. You know where I am due to-night.”
A little later, Corsini, escorted by his vigilant bodyguard, took his way to the mean quarter of the town where Ivan was lodged.
Ivan met him in the doorway. “You are punctual, Signor,” he said, as he ushered him into the shabby apartment.
“My friend, first of all, you are no longer an outlaw,” cried Corsini cheerfully as he cast his glance round the dingy room. “The Emperor himself has graciously accorded a full and free pardon, and if this night’s work turns out well, there will be a very handsome reward in addition. So, you see, things are marching.”
The outlaw stretched his hands out, and for a moment it seemed as if he would dissolve in tears. Then he recovered himself, and his voice rang out, clear and firm.
“And, at last, Signor, I shall have revenge on those who wronged me and my family.”
“Say rather, Ivan, justice, not revenge,” interrupted the young Italian mildly.
“It is the same, Signor, is it not?” cried Ivan. He pointed with his finger to an inert figure in the corner of the room, apparently inanimate.
“That is Stepan. I have given him a narcotic in order to prevent accidents. He does not look at his best at the moment. But just go and have a peep at him and see the likeness to yourself.”
Corsini crossed over the small room and looked atthe prostrate form, of the man, wrapped in a deep slumber, and breathing heavily. Yes, Stepan might have been his twin brother under normal conditions.
“The time is short,” said the outlaw. “We must make you look as like Stepan as possible, with regard to the externals.”
He went to the door and whistled softly. A small, slouching man answered to the summons.
“Paul, my friend,” said Ivan in an imperious tone, “I have told you something of this affair. You have got to convert this gentleman into the speaking likeness of our sleeping friend. Do your little tricks at once.”
The small, slouching man went to work immediately. He stripped off the rough clothes from the slumbering man in the corner, and signalled to Corsini to divest himself of his own garments. In a trice, Corsini was dressed in Stepan’s habiliments. He then proceeded to stain his face and hands.
When all this was finished, he drew back with a sense of pardonable pride in his own deft handiwork.
“Mon Dieu!it is Stepan himself,” he cried enthusiastically.
Corsini took a survey of himself in a small, cracked mirror that hung in the shabby sitting-room. He cast a further glance at the inert form lying in the corner. Yes, in these rough clothes, with his face and hands stained, he could well pass for Stepan himself in a dim and doubtful light.
“It is just about time,” said Ivan, when these preparations had been completed. “My friend Paul will conduct you to the villa. There are seven windowson the ground floor, built very high. Underneath the fourth window the blank wall is of wood. You can feel it. There is a small door with a keyhole in the centre. Here is the key. Paul knows it well; he will lead you to it.”
The small slouching man led Corsini to the villa of Madame Quéro. The four silent men followed in their wake. Arrived at the villa, Corsini slipped easily into the small vestibule to await the arrival of the conspirators.
“You are well in time, Monsieur,” whispered the man, Paul, as he took his departure. “Do not answer the bell too quickly; watch its vibration before you respond. You must remember that Stepan is deaf. You will excuse me for giving you the hint.”
Paul departed. The four guards scattered themselves in various directions, but always ready to assemble together if danger threatened the man they were deputed to watch.
Corsini was alone in the little vestibule. He drew aside the heavy velvet curtains and peered into the inner room, a rather spacious chamber. This was very dimly lighted, too. But evidently Madame Quéro had given her instructions. A cold supper was laid out on the long table, with several bottles of champagne. Upstairs, no doubt, she was lying between life and death, no longer able to take part in these festivities.
The bell vibrated. Nello opened the door and made a low obeisance. Two men came through the narrow doorway. He recognised them at once: they were two highly distinguished noblemen of the RussianEmpire. He had seen them several times at the Opera.
The bell vibrated again and again. Five more men passed through, and last came the tall, commanding figure of Zouroff.
In the dim light the Prince made his signs, “They are all here, Stepan?”
And the supposed Stepan replied in answering signs, “I think they are all here, Excellency.”
Zouroff passed through the heavy curtains. Corsini crouched behind and bent his ears to listen.
At first there was a confused babble of sounds. Everybody seemed to be talking at once. But fortunately they were speaking in French and not in Russian. It was easier for Corsini to catch what they said.
A tall, bearded man was speaking. “This infernal Corsini, for instance. No doubt he is in the pay of Golitzine. We cannot remove him, it seems.”
Zouroff took up the running. “I did my best, you know, gentlemen; but he escaped me, and since then Beilski has put a cordon round him that we cannot break through.”
“And yet Beilski is a fool,” growled the bearded man.
“I know,” answered Zouroff. “Beilski is what you say, but he has got Golitzine at his back, and Golitzine has the intelligence of several monkeys. When Beilski is in doubt, he goes to the secretary.”
Another man spoke. “You know we have every confidence in you, Prince; but we all know of your attachment to La Belle Quéro—by the way, why isshe not here to-night, to preside over our festivities?”
Zouroff spoke in a harsh, strained voice. “La Belle Quéro is ill, confined to her room. You have probably not heard that she was attacked with sudden indisposition at the Opera to-night, and that her understudy had to take her place.”
None of the men had been at the Opera, they had not heard. One or two indulged in expressions of sympathy.
The bearded man, a powerful nobleman, only just second to Zouroff himself in importance and length of lineage, continued his remarks.
“I spoke just now of your well-known attachment to La Belle Quéro. Is it possible, Prince, that in an unguarded moment, you may have dropped some hints of your purpose to her? I did not wish, for a moment, to offend youramour propre, but rumour has it that she is very much attracted by this handsome young Italian. It is strange that he should have escaped you, who usually lay your plans so well.”
Zouroff paused for a moment before he replied. These men were as keen-witted as himself; it was impossible to deceive them for long.
“Gentlemen, I will be quite frank with you. One is always a fool where women are concerned. In a moment of ungoverned temper, I did hint to Madame Quéro something that might have set her wits to work, and she may have acted upon that.”
“From herpenchantfor the Italian?” suggested the bearded man, who, privately, was not too fond of the Prince, and always indulged in a pin-prick when possible.
Zouroff flushed a deep red. It angered him deeply that other persons should know Corsini had been preferred to him.
He looked round the assembly. He knew that the bearded man was bidding for the leadership that had been willingly accorded to himself. If his position were menaced, he must recover it immediately, and by a bold stroke.
He surveyed the small knot of men, his bold bearing and resolute demeanour at once challenging their allegiance, and compelling it.
“Gentlemen, I blench at nothing for the Cause to which we are all devoted, to which we have dedicated our lives and fortunes. On that occasion, I am convinced that La Belle Quéro betrayed me. Well, she will never betray us again. Madame La Quéro’s hours are numbered. That is why she has not appeared to-night.”
The men whom he addressed were as hardened and brutal as himself, with no respect for the sanctity of human life; but, as he spoke, a slight shudder went through the assembly. La Belle Quéro was so handsome, so popular; it seemed a thousand pities that she should be done to death, even in the interests of the Cause.
Zouroff spoke eagerly. At the moment he felt no remorse for having compassed the death of his former sweetheart with that poisoned chocolate. Had she not insulted him by daring to look with favourable eyes on another man?
“Gentlemen, it has ever been one of our fixedrules that anybody who betrayed us, man or woman, it matters not which, should pay the penalty of death. If I betrayed you, I should not complain if that law were put into execution against myself. La Belle Quéro betrayed us; she has paid the penalty.”
Zouroff was logical. The sense of the assembly was with him. The bearded man made a last effort to wrest from him his supremacy, not on the score of disloyalty, but for maladroitness in handling their common affairs.
“I very much regret that Madame Quéro should have allowed her heart to govern her head. She was a very charming woman,” he said smoothly. “Do you happen, by any chance, Prince, to have enemies in your own household?”
“Why do you ask me that question?” queried Zouroff boldly.
“One of my spies told me that Beilski has paid a recent visit to your sister, the Princess Nada. Beilski is not in the habit of paying afternoon calls. Does the young Princess know anything?”
Zouroff knew nothing of the visit of the General; it was news to him; but he grasped the situation promptly.
“I have already provided against that, Count. Her mother is in bed; a feverish cold, as we thought at first, has developed into diphtheria. I believe my sister is quite innocent of any serious designs against us, but it is always as well to be on the safe side.”
The other men listened with the closest attention. After all, Zouroff was the subtlest of them all. Thebearded man maintained a sullen silence; he had given up all hope of rescuing the leadership of the party from the resourceful Prince.
“My sister I shall send to the old Castle of Tchernoff and keep her there as long as it suits my purpose. It is a veritable tomb, far away in the Caucasus. I have arranged that she starts to-night. Our good Stepan will later have his instructions. As he is practically deaf and almost incapable of speech, he can tell no tales. Besides, he is devoted to me.”
Corsini, close up against the curtains, had listened to all this with every nerve strained and his brain working at high pressure.
He had learned two things of great importance. Zouroff, in a roundabout way, had confessed to the murder of La Belle Quéro. Secondly, the Princess was to be takenthat nightto this gloomy castle in the Caucasus. And he, in his character of Stepan, the man who could not hear and only speak with the greatest difficulty, was to be an instrument in her abduction. Here was food for thought. Oh, for five minutes with that man of subtle brain and resource, Golitzine! At such a moment, even the inferior Beilski would have been welcome, even one of the four men waiting outside! How could he save the innocent young Princess from the vile schemes of her remorseless brother? A few minutes could alone decide this momentous issue. Why had she not taken his advice, proffered a few hours earlier?
The conspirators talked presently in lower tones of a greatcoupto be brought off to-morrow night ata big reception at the Winter Palace. But although they spoke almost in whispers, as if fearful of the magnitude of the stupendous event, Corsini had sharp ears and heard quite enough. This would be great news for Golitzine, as soon as he could see him.
The conference was ended, the supper partaken of. No servants ever assisted at these simple feasts. An hour after the meal was finished, La Belle Quéro, the handsome singer, the idol of more than one capital, had passed away in the arms of her faithful maid, done to death by the implacable vengeance of Zouroff.
One by one the traitors filed out. The Prince came last and made signs to the waiting janitor, supposed to be Stepan.
“You will come with me to the Palace. You will convey two women, my sister and her maid, to the Castle of Tchernoff, in the Caucasus. When you have deposited them safely there, return to the Palace, where I will find you further employment. It is very likely that Madame Quéro will have no further need of your services.”
Corsini replied in appropriate signs that he comprehended his Excellency’s wishes.
Together they drove to the side door of the Palace, in front of which a carriage was standing. Two burly men, the Prince’s chosen confederates, were beside it. Zouroff motioned to Corsini to stay where he was.
A few moments later the forms of two helpless women, the Princess Nada and her maid, were carriedout and placed in the carriage. The Prince was well served in his household. Evidently both had been drugged.
The two men stood waiting for the sign of departure from the Prince.
And, in that moment, a flash of inspiration came to Corsini.
He spread out his arms and burst into a chuckling sort of laugh, like one demented. He sprang on the box, seized the reins, and whipped up the horses. He was well out of sight before the Prince and his two ruffians could recover from their consternation at the unexpected turn of affairs.
Had Stepan suddenly gone out of his sense? was the Prince’s first thought.
Zouroff shook his fist at the retreating carriage. He looked, and felt, like a demon. Why had this fool taken this particular moment to go off his head? He knew that Stepan had suffered from a weak intellect for many years, but he was not prepared for this sudden ebullition of insanity.
“We cannot catch him up, your Excellency, he has driven like the wind,” remarked one of the two burly men who were in attendance on the Prince.
“Let him drive to the devil,” snarled Zouroff, in his most vicious tone. He was really trying to mask his alarm under an assumption of indifference. “What harm can the idiot do? He cannot hear, he can only make guttural, and unintelligible sounds when he attempts to speak.”
“He can write, your Excellency. Do not forget that. Say that at the moment he has gone crazy. That carriage will halt somewhere in St. Petersburg, or the environs, the police will be on the spot, inquiries will be made. If he cannot speak, they will make him write.”
But Zouroff by now had recovered his incurable optimism. “He will recover his senses shortly and drive back to the Palace for instructions. We will wait up for him.”
The two men were not quite so convinced, althoughthey did not dare openly to dispute their employer’s opinion. They were not quite sure of Stepan’s sudden attack of insanity. There was more in this than met the eye.
Corsini, intensely agitated by the novelty of the unexpected situation, drove recklessly for the first few moments, anxious to put as much space as possible between Zouroff and himself, striving to collect his thoughts.
As he had sat silent by the side of the Prince on their progress from the villa to the Palace, he had thought well over the only plan of campaign that seemed open to him. At the first stopping-place on that long journey to the gloomy Castle of Tchernoff, he would alight, go to the nearest police station and divulge the facts of the Princess’s abduction.
Well, fate had ruled it otherwise. The unconscious girl and her maid were still in St. Petersburg and under his charge. Whither should he convey them? But he must be quick. Zouroff was a man of resource. He might have hired a passing conveyance and, accompanied by his two burly satellites, be rapidly on his track.
And then the thought came swiftly to him. He would turn the carriage round and drive by devious ways to the house of Golitzine. Once in the Count’s care, his precious charge would be safe. And, if he took that devious route, there would be no chance of encountering the formidable Zouroff on the way.
He halted at the door of the Count’s house; but here an unexpected difficulty awaited him. He dare not leave his horses, high-mettled and but slightlyblown by their short gallop. Ah, there was a convenient lamp-post, a couple of feet in front of him. He would dismount and tie his reins round it while he knocked at the door.
While he was engaged in this task, a carriage drove up out of the dark, as it were, and halted beside the other one. A cold sweat broke out over the young man as he observed its arrival. This devil of a Zouroff had been too quick for him.
Then his countenance cleared as he recognised the first man who stepped out. It was the leader of his faithful bodyguard. He had, in the excitement of passing events, forgotten them.
“You have lost sight of us, Signor, but, you see, we have not lost sight of you,” said the chief of the party. “We followed you to that mean street where your friend lodged, we saw you come out transformed in appearance, we followed you to the villa of Madame Quéro, we drove behind you and Prince Zouroff to the Palace, we saw what happened there, and we came after you at lightning speed. Now, how can we help you? There is some strange work going on, that is easy to see. This is the house of Count Golitzine, you want to see him. But I expect they are all gone to bed.”
“Yes, my friend, so much has happened in the last hour or two that I had forgotten you,” was Corsini’s answer. “Tell one of the men to knock at the door till it is opened. If the Count has gone to bed, he must get up. And you and the others guard that carriage and look out for Prince Zouroff.”
The house seemed wrapped in darkness, and infact everybody had retired to rest except the energetic Count himself. Five nights out of six he worked into the morning hours. To-night he had a special reason for sitting up late. At any moment he might expect a visit from the young Italian, to report the results of the meeting at the Villa Quéro.
He peered into the darkness and his astonished gaze rested on more than he expected to see. He was prepared to see Corsini, to observe the bodyguard lurking in the background; but the carriage and two impatient horses champing at their bits was more than he had bargained for.
“In Heaven’s name, what is this, Corsini?”
Nello advanced and whispered in his ear. “I dare say these men suspect as much as I know, but for the present we need not assume it. Inside that carriage are two helpless women, drugged by that ruffian Zouroff, the Princess Nada and her maid. I will tell you all the details of the adventure later. Enough to say that I have been able to rescue them from his clutches and drive them to your house. You will not refuse them shelter?”
“Of course not,” replied the Count at once. “Bring them in and I will at once arouse the Countess. Drugged, you say! Send round one of the fellows for the nearest doctor: he is the same man who succoured you at Pavlovsk. Stay, I will give the address myself.”
The two helpless forms were carried in. The Countess Golitzine was aroused. The doctor arrived. It was some time before he could bring them round.Zouroff and his satellites were evidently acquainted with the secret of a very powerful narcotic. He came down at length to the Count in his study, where he found Corsini.
“Good-evening, Signor. Well, Count, I have brought them back to consciousness, have prescribed a little light food. They were very heavily drugged.”
He turned to the young Italian. “It carries me back to that night at the little inn at Pavlovsk, but you were a more difficult case. Then you had had more than one dose. These young women have had only one. I should say, by the symptoms, a similar drug, administered by the same hand.”
“Right, doctor; I will tell you all in good time,” said Golitzine; “but perhaps in a few days all St. Petersburg may hear of it. You will see them in the morning?”
The doctor promised to call early the next day, but he assured them that they need fear no anxiety; both young women had vigorous constitutions. He was too discreet to mention that he had recognised one of them as the Princess Nada. He had often seen her at the Opera and driving in the Nevski Prospekt.
And Golitzine was a man to appreciate discretion; he could do much for this young doctor if he chose; therefore he would keep his mouth shut till it was time for him to open it. Golitzine saw him to the door and laid his finger impressively upon his lip.
“Silence for the present, doctor, as to all thesestrange events you have witnessed. I charge myself with your future advancement.” The doctor bowed and went his way.
Upstairs, Nada was slowly regaining her senses. She looked round the big, handsomely-furnished chamber. On a sofa, a little away, was stretched the form of Katerina, recovering more slowly than her mistress.
“How did I come here? Where am I?” she murmured.
The Countess Golitzine, a handsome woman, some twenty years younger than her husband, was sitting by the bedside, holding the Princess’s hand.
She whispered in a kind voice: “Do not speak much, my dear Nada, you are too tired; but be quite sure you are amongst friends. Do you recognise me?”
Memory came back in the wake of that long stupor. “The Countess Golitzine, of course; we met a few days ago. But why am I in your house and not at the Palace?”
She put her disengaged hand to her head and tried to collect her scattered thoughts. “Ah, I remember, my brother said he would send me to Tchernoff, and I did not believe he would dare to carry out his threat.”
She burst into bitter weeping as the subsequent events forced themselves on her half-numbed brain, her seizure by two burly men, a handkerchief pressed tightly over her face. Then a blank till she woke up here.
She was clearer now. “Yes, I can recall certainthings. But how did I come here? How was I rescued on the road to Tchernoff?”
“My dear, I do not know myself. I had gone to bed early; my husband said he would be working into the morning, as is often his custom. I was in a deep sleep when he woke me suddenly. He told me that you and your maid were being brought in, that you were drugged, that he had sent for a doctor to bring you round. I have been here with the doctor till you came back to consciousness. Would you like to see the Count?”
“Indeed I would,” cried Nada, whose faculties were quickly coming back to her. “I cannot calm myself until I know what happened between my leaving the Palace and arriving here. And, as well as thanking you, dear Countess, for all your kindness to me, I would like to thank your husband also. It is not a time of night to receive uninvited, or unexpected guests.”
Madame Golitzine went down to her husband’s room and found him closeted with Corsini, who had given him a full account of the proceedings at the Villa Quéro, of his driving back with Zouroff to the Palace, of his stratagem in jumping on the box and driving off, to the surprise of the Prince and his two burly ruffians.