The Count had chuckled at the end of the narrative. Things were shaping well for him, to-morrow he would hear his Emperor’s hearty cry of—“Well done, Golitzine. I knew you would beat them in the end.”
“Corsini, my dear fellow, you are wasted on music.Give it up, and I will get you a big post in the Secret Police.”
But the Italian shook his head. “Many thanks, Excellency, but I do not really love this excitement. Music was my first love, it will be my last.”
The Countess came in. She knew Corsini well, but did not recognise him in the rough clothes of Stepan, with his face and hands stained.
“Nada is quite conscious and her faculties are coming back rapidly,” she told her husband; “but she is terribly anxious to know all that has happened since she was drugged. She wishes to see you. Of course, I can tell her nothing, as I have not had time to hear anything from you.”
“She is not too excited?” questioned the Count.
“Only from anxiety to know. She will grow very excited if she is kept much longer in suspense.”
The Count beckoned to Corsini. “Let us go to her. You can explain better than I.”
But Corsini shrank back and a hot blush showed through the dark stain that had been rubbed on his face in the mean lodging of Ivan the outlaw.
“I cannot present myself in these miserable clothes, disguised as I am, to the Princess,” he stammered.
The Count smiled his quiet rather cynical smile. “I will wager she will penetrate with the first glance through the disguise and the shabby clothes.”
He turned to his wife. “My dear, permit me to re-introduce to you Signor Corsini, the Director of the Italian Opera. He doesn’t cut quite such abrilliant figure as usual, but his excuse is that he has been doing some very good work for the Emperor.”
The Countess, a woman of charming manners, advanced to him with outstretched hands. “A thousand pardons. Please forgive my obtuseness, but my thoughts were so occupied with our poor dear Nada.” So adroitly did she redeem a somewhat awkward situation.
The three went up to the chamber whither the young Princess had been conveyed. The Count went to the bed and shook her warmly by the hand.
“My wife tells me you are recovering from the shock. The doctor assures me you will be yourself again to-morrow. I am only too pleased that my house should be your refuge. And you want to know all that has happened since your rascally brother had you drugged and thrust into that carriage.”
He drew forward the shrinking man, hovering shamefacedly in the background.
“Here is your preserver, Nada.” He always called her by her Christian name; he had known her from a child. “You see, he is a common man, dressed in rough clothes, his face and hands proclaiming his calling. But he is your preserver, and you will thank him.”
He spoke with that half-humorous, half-cynical smile which was almost characteristic.
Corsini nervously advanced to the bed on which the Princess was lying and recovering her scattered senses.
“You are safe, dear lady,” he said, softly. “Thank Heaven you are safe.”
She recognised the voice. She penetrated through the veil of the rough clothes, the stained face and hands. She uttered a little joyful cry.
“Ah, Signor Corsini, it is you who are my preserver?”
Corsini bent over her. “It has been my turn, Princess. You saved me at Pavlovsk, I have paid back my debt in St. Petersburg.”
The Princess’s wondering eyes grew bigger. “But tell me all that has happened. I am dying with curiosity.”
Golitzine touched his wife on the shoulder. “We arede trop, my dear, let us leave the young people together.”
The Countess was a very obedient wife. She accompanied her husband out of the room; but when they were outside she whispered to him: “Alexis, is it wise? Nada is a girl of high birth but of romantic notions. Corsini is, no doubt, very talented, but is it prudent to leave them together?”
“Listen to me; I am going to impart to you a little secret,” said the Count in a low voice. “To-morrow the house of Zouroff will be humbled in the dust. Our pretty little Nada can then well choose where her heart leads her to make her choice, even if it is in the direction of our young friend, Nello Corsini.”
“I think I understand,” said the Countess.
In the big chamber, Katerina, recovering more slowly than her mistress, was reclining on the sofa.A tall, white-capped nurse stood in the corner.
Nada, of course, paid no heed to servants. They were a part of her being, to be ignored at will. For all practical purposes she and Corsini were alone.
“And so it is you who were my preserver,” she said softly; “you in this rough garb, with your face and hands stained to a peasant’s hue. There must have been some motive behind such a dangerous adventure.”
Corsini bent over her, over the lily-white face, still looking wan after her terrible experience.
“It was Providence that led me to your aid to-night, Princess. You remember my urgent advice to leave the Palace at once.”
“I know I was blind and foolish,” murmured the Princess. “I could not believe my brother capable of such cruelty.”
“Your brother is capable of anything, of everything,” said Corsini. “Listen! I will tell you all that has happened to-night. Please understand that Count Golitzine has got him in the hollow of his hand.”
In a few brief words, he recounted all that he had overheard at the villa of Madame Quéro, Zouroff’s confession that for his own purposes he had removed the beautiful singer.
“To-morrow, or the day after, he will be on his way to Siberia,” concluded Corsini, with a pardonable exultation. “He doomed me to death because he found me in his way; he has murdered his old sweetheart from the sheer lust of revenge. You, out of that same spirit of vengeance, he would have condemnedto a long exile. I trust, Princess, you will not mourn over the well-deserved fate of such a worthless brother.”
“No,” she said in a resolute voice, “I will not mourn over him. His outrage on me quenches the last spark of affection I ever entertained for him.”
The conversation was concluded. Corsini rose, and yet he still lingered. Something alluring in the sweet face of the Princess still drew him. But could he dare? There was a softness in her gaze, something inviting in her demeanour.
Youth was calling to youth. Suddenly he leaned over and pressed his lips on hers. They were met by an answering pressure.
“I love you, I love you, oh, I cannot tell you how much,” he murmured brokenly. “I have loved you ever since the night when you passed me in Dean Street and wanted to throw me coppers when I was playing in the gutter, and your imperious brother forbade you. I have loved you ever since that moment.”
And Nada murmured softly, “I love you, too. I cannot date it back to that night. I think it was when you came to play for us at the Embassy, in London. But it does not matter, dear Nello. We have both saved each other.”
“Yes, we have saved each other,” was Corsini’s answer. He left the white-capped nurse in the corner, the still tearful Katerina. What did he reck of these? Had not his beautiful Princess avowed her love with that warm kiss on his lips? What did anything else in the world matter?
Golitzine met him with his humorous smile. “Well, I have no doubt you have made good use of your time with the Princess. Now or never was your opportunity. To-morrow morning, in the Emperor’s cabinet, at the Winter Palace!”
Corsini left the Count’s house. He certainly would not forget that appointment to-morrow morning at the Winter Palace.
But although he had many things to remember, his most vital recollection was the answering kiss of Nada.
Zouroff, at this particular moment, was not in a very enviable frame of mind. Optimist as he was, and a believer in his own star, he could not disguise from himself the fact that his two efforts at kidnapping had not been attended with any remarkable success.
Corsini, through treachery on the part of his associates, had been rescued at Pavlovsk. And last night, the deaf and inarticulate Stepan, suffering, no doubt, from momentary aberration, had driven off in the darkness with the young Princess and her maid—whither, he knew not.
He sat up till the small hours of the morning, awaiting the return of that carriage. Stepan would come back to his senses and drive back for further instructions. But the carriage did not return. At length Zouroff dismissed his two confederates.
“Let Stepan return when he will, or never return, it does not matter,” he said impatiently. What did small things like this matter? A carriage stranded, two helpless and drugged women inside, recognised later on. By the time this could be brought home to him, he would be in such a position that he could hush-up all inquiries.
He strolled round to the Villa Quéro. The servant who opened the door knew him well, of course.
“I am grieved to tell you, Excellency, that our dear mistress died in the early hours of the morning.”
“I am very grieved to hear it,” said the hypocritical Zouroff. “I heard that she was taken ill at the Opera yesterday evening. It was sudden, was it not?”
“Very sudden, your Excellency. The doctor seems to think that she was poisoned.”
“Poisoned! Good Heavens!” cried Zouroff. “But who could want to poison such a charming woman, so generally beloved?”
The servant shrugged his shoulders. “Ah, who can tell? Perhaps some envious rival. The post-mortem may possibly tell us something.”
The Prince walked away quite easy in his mind. Yes, no doubt, the post-mortem would tell them something—that la Quéro had been done to death by a very subtle poison. But he had reasoned it all well out.
It would be proved that he had shared a light repast with La Belle Quéro that same evening. It might be proved that he had brought her a box of chocolates, out of which two were missing.
They could analyse that box of chocolates. They would find no poison in them. There was only poison in one, the one that he had picked out as a fine fat fellow and which she had crunched greedily between her strong white teeth.
That same morning Stepan woke up from his deep stupor in the mean lodging of Ivan the Cuckoo.
“Where am I?” was his first question, as he opened his heavy eyelids.
Ivan bent over him, till his bearded face was close to that of the dazed man.
“You are with your old friend and comrade. Last night I took the liberty of playing a little trick upon you. You will forgive me when I tell you the object of that trick was to ensnare our old enemy, Zouroff.”
Stepan’s rather expressionless countenance showed considerable animation. He tried to speak, but the sounds would not issue from the paralysed organs. He had recourse to his usual signs, which read as follows:
“What has happened at the Villa Quéro? I was not there at the meeting last night. You drugged me to keep me away. Who took my place?”
“A friend of mine who resembles you very closely,” replied the late outlaw, who was not greatly given to imparting confidences. “I expect he got some important information, my good Stepan. He can hear perfectly, and he understands both French and Russian.”
Stepan rubbed his hands gleefully before he replied. “Ah, I would be glad to hear that Zouroff was trapped; but I should be very grieved if they caught poor Madame Quéro, she was always so kind and considerate. Many a night at those meetings I was kept up very late. She would always come to me the next morning with her bright smile, and give me a handsomepour-boire.”
Ivan, who had spies all over the city, imparted the latest news. “Madame Quéro died last night, or rather in the early hours of this morning. Zouroffwas at the villa during the evening, a short time before she left for the Opera. There are rumours that she died of poison. You can put two and two together, Stepan.”
Yes, knowing Zouroff as well as he did, the deaf, and almost dumb, man could guess what was suggested by Ivan. He raised his hands to Heaven in horror, and then made rapid signs. “This infamous scoundrel will stop at nothing.”
Presently he grew drowsy again, and in a few moments relapsed into a second deep sleep which lasted over a couple of hours. When he woke, the outlaw, who was growing rather alarmed about the prolonged effects of the narcotic, was bending over him.
Stepan repeated the question he had asked on his first waking, “Where am I?”
Ivan explained to him again that in consequence of the infirmities which so handicapped him, he was of little use against Zouroff and his friends, that a man who closely resembled him had taken his place at the villa.
Stepan, who now seemed thoroughly awake, intimated that he remembered.
Ivan proceeded, in his strong, resolute tones, “I am not a man who takes any chances, as you well know. However well you lay your plans, your ultimate success depends, more or less, on the support of your confederates. That is why I took the liberty of giving you a little harmless sleeping draught that effectually kept you from interfering with my designs. You are none the worse for it, and very shortly youshall have some vodka to pull yourself together.”
Stepan, half-foolish as he was, understood this sort of language well. The mention of the word had an almost instantaneous effect in completing his recovery.
He rubbed his hands together and smiled his silly and vacant smile. “And how goes it with the ruffian, Zouroff, who so wronged you, my poor friend?”
“Make your mind easy, my dear Stepan,” was Ivan’s answer. “In a very few hours we shall both be avenged. I had a note a short time ago from the man who took your place at the Villa Quéro.” Ivan was the soul of discretion and reticence. Even to so intimate a comrade as Stepan he was not going to reveal the name of Corsini. “He suggested that this very night, Zouroff and his rascally band will be taken into the toils. I, your old friend, am no longer an outlaw, my pardon is secured. Further, I shall have a handsome reward, and my old playmate, Stepan, will receive his share. For us, comfort in our old age; for that double-dyed villain, Siberia and the mines. It is good to think of, Stepan, is it not?”
The half-witted creature emitted low, gurgling sounds of satisfaction. Then he spoke rapidly on his fingers.
“It is worth living for, this day, Ivan. Will he ever know it was through us his doom was brought about? That would be the greatest satisfaction of all.”
The pardoned outlaw smiled grimly. “Trust to me for that. I have friends everywhere. I will getthat information conveyed to him somehow by somebody. Yes, that will make him writhe.”
After his visit to the Villa Quéro, Zouroff went back to the Palace. He was met by his valet, Peter, whose looks expressed consternation. The news he had to impart to his master was very grave. Also he was uneasy with regard to his own skin. He had obtained a free pardon for his share in the abduction of Corsini; could he rely upon a further dispensation in the case of the young Princess?
“Excellency, I have to report disaster. One of our spies has ferreted out the following facts. Stepan drove the carriage by a roundabout route to the house of Golitzine. The Princess and her maid, my sweetheart, Katerina, are now under the protection of the Count. I fear this will very much interfere with your Excellency’s plans.”
Zouroff swore roundly. “Then this Stepan is another traitor.”
“It would appear so,” replied Peter, with a look of disgust well simulated. Fresh from his confession to Beilski, it was necessary that he should reprobate all fellow traitors. “You can never trust these half-witted chaps,” he added.
Zouroff thought rapidly. “Run round to the villa, Peter, and demand to see Stepan. You can talk to him by signs. Learn what has become of the carriage. Get what you can out of him. By Heaven, when I have done with him he will wish he had never been born.” His expression was ferocious as he uttered those last words.
Peter hastened to obey his commands. To-morrow, the Prince might not be his master, but he would obey him as long as he was in his service. He returned with the news that Stepan was not at the villa. They could draw their own conclusions from his absence.
Zouroff ground his teeth savagely. “Golitzine and Beilski have got him safe between them. Well, never mind, the tables will be turned to-morrow.”
He was thinking of the greatcoupwhich was to take place at the Winter Palace that night, the greatcoupwhich had been so carefully rehearsed by himself and his fellow conspirators, the details of which had been overheard by Corsini, in the character of Stepan.
Safe in the custody of the kind and amiable Countess, Nada felt strangely happy. True, she was very anxious about her mother, and some natural compunction assailed her as to the fate of her brother, in spite of his infamous conduct towards herself. As to that fate, Corsini’s words had left her in no doubt. In a few hours the arch-plotter and assassin would be on his way to Siberia. The House of Zouroff, so far as its titular head was concerned, would have ceased to exist.
But she was very happy in her knowledge of her love for Corsini, of Corsini’s love for her. The name of Zouroff might be a tainted one, but the Italian stood high in the estimation of the Emperor and his powerful Secretary. Princess as she was, she would not stoop so greatly in becoming the wife of this favourite of fortune.
Zouroff spent the greater part of his day in calling at the houses of his various adherents. The knowledge that Golitzine was now acquainted with the dastardly part he had played against his innocent sister, spurred him to extra effort. Optimist as he was, he had an uneasy conviction that he was playing a desperate game. Could he strike before Golitzine would strike? That was the question, and it was one which would be determined in the coarse of a few hours.
He brought all the resources of his mind to bear upon this important problem. He employed all his eloquence, he exercised all the influence of his strong personality. He heartened the wavering amongst his fellow-conspirators, he urged to more determined resolution those who were staunch and confident.
But he felt it was touch and go. He kept away from the Palace all that day, sending round a note to Peter to bring his evening clothes to a secret meeting-place. At any moment, Golitzine might determine to strike, and he might find Beilski’s emissaries waiting for him at his ancestral home.
He was so terribly in the dark as to what Stepan had revealed or been forced to reveal. Of course, he did not learn till much later that it was not Stepan who had driven away on the box, but his hated rival, Corsini.
And why had Stepan feigned this sudden fit of insanity, a man who had always appeared so devoted to his person and his fortunes? Stepan, with his incurable deafness, could have learned nothing at these secret conclaves, he would have no informationto sell that was worth any price. And yet he had driven straight to Golitzine’s house. What could have been his motive? There was something here he could not fathom.
Wandering in this maze of tangled speculation, Zouroff believed he had hit upon the right solution of these, apparently, inexplicable proceedings.
Stepan was devotedly attached to all the members of his house—himself, his sister, and his mother. When he had seen the two drugged and helpless women carried out of the Palace, he had recognised the young Princess and her maid as they were put into the waiting carriage.
In his slow, feeble brain he had realised that some danger was menacing them. His loyalty to his master had experienced a sudden revulsion. Some chivalrous instinct in him had urged him to espouse the cause of the weak and defenceless. A sudden inspiration had come to him by which he could secure his object. Before they could stop him, he had sprung on the box and whipped up his horses, with a view of placing the two women under safe protection. This seemed a reasonable explanation of that sudden and unexpected action. But there was always the disturbing thought—how would Golitzine, having once got Stepan into his clutches, deal with him? He would force him to write some account of the events of that night, even if he could not make him speak.
And then a comforting thought came to the Prince. It was possible that Stepan had been loyal to both, to his master and the young Princess. Hehad halted the carriage at the Secretary’s door, rung the bell, and run away before the door was opened, leaving the astute Count to unravel for himself the mystery of the two drugged women, one of whom he would recognise at once.
Still there was not much comfort in that thought, after all. Even if Stepan had not betrayed him, was there any reasonable hope that Nada and Katerina would keep silence for a moment, after they had been brought back to consciousness?
No, it was touch and go. He must strike swiftly, before Golitzine could get in his blow. And the puzzling thing was, why had Golitzine not already struck?
Five men were seated in the private cabinet of the Czar—the Emperor himself, his diligent and faithful Secretary, Golitzine, General Beilski, the Head of the Police, General Burovkin, a man with a heavy mustache and cast-iron countenance, one of the great military chiefs of Russia, devoted like the others to the services of the autocrat, and Nello Corsini.
Golitzine explained in his smooth, passionless accents. He was a man who was never excited, never perturbed. Except that he was of lean build, he might have suggested the idea of a relentless spider, moving amongst a web of his own weaving to catch the unsuspecting flies.
He had been the first to speak. “Our very capable young friend, Corsini, has done great work. He was hidden at the Villa Quéro last night and gathered information of the greatest importance.”
The Emperor, who always liked to tell his subordinates that he knew all that was going on, interrupted his faithful and more astute Secretary.
“Ah, poor Madame Quéro! I hear that she died in the early hours of the morning and that there are certain suspicious circumstances connected with her death—an idea that she has been poisoned, eh?”
Golitzine nodded. “Your Majesty has been correctly informed.” He might have added that hehad given this information himself, but he was too experienced a courtier to venture on such an experiment. Autocratic monarchs like to think they discover things for themselves. And perhaps the autocrat had not been quite awake when he received Golitzine’s letter long before breakfast.
Golitzine waved his hand towards Corsini. He possessed a very generous nature, and he was quite ready to give honour where it was due.
“This is the man to whom we are indebted for the information which shall be fully detailed to your Majesty. Salmoros never did us a better service than when he sent Signor Corsini to us.”
The Emperor inclined his head in his most gracious manner. “Salmoros never makes a mistake, and Corsini has more than justified his selection.”
Golitzine leaned towards the young Italian. “Tell his Imperial Majesty all that you told me last night, the full details of what happened at the Villa Quéro. I have given him a briefrésumé, but you can make it more convincing than I can. Speak out, Corsini; omit nothing; you need not fear to trespass on his Majesty’s attention.”
The Emperor inclined his head. He always blindly followed the lead of his Secretary. He knew that he could trust him, above all; also some half a dozen others, the two Generals amongst them.
Corsini, feeling very nervous, although by now he was becoming accustomed to his new environment, began his recital, giving full details of the strange things that had happened in the course of a few hours. Of course, he was intending to keep strictsilence as to that little love scene between himself and the beautiful Nada. One must keep back certain things even from an autocrat of Alexander’s type.
Being very nervous in the presence of the Emperor and these high officials of the Russian Empire, he told his story very haltingly. Several times Golitzine helped him through when he faltered.
And then, when he was not a quarter through his narrative, there came a hesitating knock at the door. It was that of a timidaide-de-camp, who had taken upon himself to disturb his Emperor’s privacy.
At the first sound of that timid knock, the Emperor frowned. His orders had been precise: he was not to be disturbed, except on a matter of greatest urgency. Perhaps this was one.
“Come in,” cried the autocrat, in a far from conciliatory voice.
The young man, dressed in immaculate uniform, advanced, bowing very low. He tendered a letter.
“A thousand pardons for disturbing your Majesty after your particular instructions. The Baron Salmoros, whom I know well, has just arrived. I told him you were engaged in important discussions with the biggest personages in the Empire. He persisted that I should bring his note to you. I disobeyed your instructions, but, under the circumstances, I trust you will think that I have not done wrong, that I have exercised my discretion wisely. The Baron said it was urgent, that, whoever you were engaged with, you must be disturbed. I know how highly the Baron stands in your Majesty’s favour.”
Alexander opened the letter with a frowning brow. True autocrat, he was incensed that his slightest instructions should have been disobeyed. But, as he read the letter of the Baron, his brow cleared.
He turned a mild look upon the disturbed young officer. “You have acted very wisely indeed. I shall hold you in my remembrance. Bring the Baron to us at once.”
He turned to the four other men. “Gentlemen, our good friend, Salmoros, has taken a journey to us because he has certain information to impart. I recognise very gratefully that I am well served, but I think we may well admit the Baron’s brains to our important conclave.” He looked towards Golitzine as he spoke.
The adroit Secretary inclined his head. “I think your Majesty can well admit the Baron to our counsels. We can always learn something from him.”
A few moments later the venerable figure of Salmoros appeared in the doorway of the private cabinet of the Emperor, ushered in by the no longer fearful young officer.
He advanced and kissed the Emperor’s hand. Alexander, as a mark of his esteem for the great financier, had risen to greet him. The Baron shook hands with Golitzine and the two Generals. Then he laid his hand lightly on Corsini’s shoulder.
“Ah, my young friend and protégé, I see you have done well. If you had failed, you would not be in the private cabinet of the Emperor to-day.”
The autocrat interposed. “My dear Baron, your young friend has been of the most inestimable serviceto us. You were always a great judge of men.”
The next to speak was Golitzine. “My dear Salmoros, I know full well that it is your zeal for the Emperor and the great Empire over which he rules that has led you to take this long and tedious journey. You have something of importance to communicate.”
Salmoros spoke in his slow, grave accents. He looked at the Emperor as he spoke, but he was really addressing Golitzine. He knew that in that remarkable man, apart from mere figureheads, lay the destinies of the great Russian Empire.
He was not oblivious to the fact that the two Generals were persons to be reckoned with; as a matter of fact, he was counting on their practical assistance; but Golitzine, the man of brains, the man of initiative, the true statesman, was his sheet-anchor.
Alexander was, of course, the mere titular head of the state, served by his subordinates, more or less well.
If Golitzine went, and some inferior person took on his office, then Alexander would be very badly served. He was not a monarch who could reign by himself.
The Baron bent his deep, penetrating gaze upon the assembly of notable persons—the Emperor, the two Generals, the Secretary, the modest and rather shrinking young Italian, somewhat embarrassed by his recent projection into matters of high statecraft.
Certain things at once struck his observant eyes. All except the Emperor were dressed in immaculate costume. The autocrat himself was attired in aloose dressing-gown. He had had no time to array himself in conventional garments.
As a matter of fact, Golitzine’s letter had reached him shortly before dawn, requesting his presence at the private counsel which was now taking place. Alexander, no doubt relying on the efforts of his faithful servants, had indulged in a little extra slumber, confident that he would be well looked after.
Salmoros reflected, with a certain contempt, upon the obvious inferences which were to be drawn from these very apparent facts.
He looked at Golitzine, that astute Secretary, who kept his master in order, spurred him when he was too sluggish, restrained him when he was too impetuous.
Cynical thoughts shaped themselves in his active brain, and if translated into speech, they might have expressed themselves thus: “Why do we men of intelligence and initiative give our best, the keenest of our brains, to these mere figureheads whom we flatter, but at heart despise for their feebleness? It is because we find the figurehead binds us more closely together, makes our own position more secure, while we are propping up his.”
He answered Golitzine’s question, with his slow, grave smile.
“A man of my age, Count, would not travel so many miles, at great personal inconvenience, without some very strong motive. I warned you some time ago of a slowly maturing conspiracy against the person of his Majesty.” He inclined his leonine head in the direction of the autocrat, the figurehead, whosmiled back graciously in intimation that he fully appreciated the Baron’s services.
“I have, as you know, considerable resources at my command, but these people are very cunning. It is only quite lately that I have secured definite information as to day and date. As soon as I received that information, I cast all other considerations to the winds. I came to St. Petersburg as fast as special trains would bring me. Of course, I had no knowledge of what you were doing here, and one cannot express oneself very fully in telegrams.”
Golitzine gave him a glance which said as plainly as the language of the eyes could speak, “We are both men of the highest intelligence. Let us disregard the figureheads and the instruments and address ourselves to each other. The others can follow us at their leisure.”
Aloud he said, “Well, Baron, you have been well served, but we, in St. Petersburg, have not been idle. When do you say that Zouroff and his fellow conspirators will strike?”
“Within the next three days. That is my information, derived, of course, from a traitor, who has received a substantial reward,” was the answer of Salmoros. He thought, rather regretfully, that there were few secrets of this unhappy country, which could not be purchased for a liberal payment of gold. He was not even sure to what extent the most trusted adherents of the Emperor might not be bribed, always excepting Golitzine.
The Emperor broke in, in his rather awkward way, to prove that he was always master in his own house.
“You have done more than well, Baron, and you have now, as before and ever, our undying gratitude. But”—he pointed a finger towards the young Director of the Imperial Opera—“this gentleman is just a little bit in front of you. You say within three days. Signor Corsini will tell you that the greatcoupof Zouroff and his friends is planned for to-night at the Winter Palace. Speak, Signor, and tell the Baron something of what you have already told us.”
Golitzine’s heavy brows expressed displeasure. After his long journey, doubly trying to a man of his age, Salmoros need not have his own protégé flung in his face as it were. The situation could have been dealt with in a more diplomatic manner.
But Salmoros, man of the world and philosopher as he was, did not indicate by a flickering of the eyelid that he took the slightest notice of these small pinpricks, delivered by a maladroit, but not hostile hand.
He looked kindly at the young man. “Please repeat what you have already told to this illustrious assembly. If the pupil has beaten his master, it will be proof to me that my judgment of men seldom fails.”
He paused and bowed profoundly to the Emperor, who was just beginning to entertain an uneasy idea that he might have employed more diplomatic language.
“I am an old man, Sire, and perhaps my brain does not work quite so rapidly as it used. But you will kindly remember that I have several important interests at stake, besides watching over the destinies of Empires in a state of disturbance, such as seemsafflicting your kingdom at the present moment. For many years, as you know, I have lived in free and prosperous England. We don’t have any of those troubles in that well-governed and tranquil country.”
The Emperor reddened under the mild rebuke, delivered in the most passionless tones. Golitzine hastened to pour oil on the troubled waters. The two Generals, men of action, of no subtlety of thought, had not noticed that the waters were troubled at all.
The Count addressed himself directly to Corsini.
“You were only embarking upon your narrative which the fortunate advent of the Baron cut short for a few moments. Will you kindly proceed? Our good friend will then realise how you have been aided by a most fortunate conjunction of circumstances.”
Nello proceeded with his narrative, but of course, he had to repeat portions of it, to bring Salmoros into line with the others.
He finished up with the pregnant words: “The attempt is to be made to-night at the Winter Palace at the big reception, thebal-masqué.” He turned to the Emperor. “Your Majesty is to be assassinated by one of the eight chief conspirators.”
Corsini had now come to a part of his narrative which he had not yet disclosed before the arrival of Salmoros.
“His name?” demanded the Emperor, with flashing eyes.
“I grieve very much that I cannot give that information. It was not settled last night at the meeting. I understood they would draw lots for it to-day.”
The Emperor subsided. For the moment he could not vent his vengeance on any particular person.
Corsini proceeded. “At thebal-masqué, your Majesty is to wear a pale-blue domino.”
“Quite true,” answered the autocrat. “That is the costume I have chosen.”
“These men are acquainted with every detail of the reception, and they have a hundred spies and adherents.”
“I see,” said the Emperor. “It is well known we are giving a big reception to-night, to which even this traitor Zouroff himself is invited. Truly, the conspirators have chosen a very convenient occasion.”
After these words the Czar of all the Russias leant his head upon his hand, apparently engrossed in deep thought.
Golitzine looked at Salmoros, the Baron flashed back an answering glance. The same thought had occurred to both. Had the Emperor’s brain, never of a very dominating quality, suddenly given way under the tragic possibilities of to-night?
The two Generals, admirable machines, but who were pretty well incapable of moving on their own volition, kept imperturbable faces.
Golitzine at last ventured to touch the shoulder of his Imperial Master. Even a favourite Secretary paused before taking liberties with an autocrat, so long as he was in his right mind. But Golitzine was beginning to doubt if he was, and Salmoros entertained the same suspicion.
“There is no time to be lost, Sire. They are going to strike to-night. We must be prepared to countertheir blow. What does your Majesty suggest?”
The Emperor smiled calmly. It was evident that he had not gone out of his mind, as they had at first feared.
He spoke in measured accents. “I have been thinking very deeply, my good old friend Golitzine. One of the band is going to assassinate me to-night. Well, you leave that part of the problem to me.”
Golitzine recoiled in consternation. “It is my duty and that of my colleagues”—he pointed to the two inarticulate Generals—“to guard the sacred person of your Majesty. With all respect, Sire, I cannot leave that task to yourself.”
He turned to the Baron. “I think, Salmoros, you will agree with me?” he asked.
Salmoros spoke in very decided tones. “In a question of this importance, your Majesty must consent to take the advice of your faithful friends and legal supporters.” He had no very great opinion of the Emperor’s ability or capacity to deal with difficult circumstances.
The Emperor’s smile was more pronounced than before, as he tapped Golitzine on the shoulder and extended a hand to the venerable Salmoros.
He drew them aside, and spoke in a confidential whisper.
“My dear friends, I appreciate to the full your anxiety about me, and I shall want your wholehearted assistance, which, I know, will be given ungrudgingly to me. With regard to this little matter of assassination, some ideas have come to me. Let me work them out my own way, if you please.”
Both men bowed in assent. There was no more to be said. When an autocrat has delivered his fiat, argument on the part of even his most trusted servants is useless.
“May your Majesty never live to regret your decision,” murmured the faithful Golitzine, in a low whisper.
The Emperor again gave him a reassuring pressure on the shoulder.
“My excellent Golitzine, and you, my good Salmoros, you can safely leave this part of it to me. I have in my mind a little tragedy that shall later turn into comedy. To-night, at the Winter Palace, you will appreciate an Emperor’s stratagem. You shall also witness, later on, an Emperor’s vengeance.”
He paused, then extended a hand to each and spoke in the same whispering tones. “You, Golitzine and Salmoros, will confer with the two Generals. They have not the brains of either of you, but they are good machines. You will take measures to have the soldiery and police well posted in order to combat the revolution engineered by that villain, Zouroff, and his friends. Corsini, I daresay, has still a few more details to impart which will be useful. For the present,au revoir.”
Golitzine, after his Imperial Master’s departure, spoke to Salmoros.
“What do you think of it all, Baron? Is he sure of himself? Has he got an idea, of which he is so proud that he will not communicate it even to us?”
Salmoros shook his white wise head slowly to andfro while he spoke with his gentle, slightly ironical smile.
“My dear Golitzine, who can prophesy? Wisdom, we know, sometimes proceeds out of the mouths of babes and sucklings. Perhaps it may, in occasional moments, emanate from the brains of Kings and Emperors. In the meantime, you will take all necessary precautions. It would not be wise to trust too much to the Emperor’s inspiration, whatever it may be.”
Corsini quitted the cabinet shortly after the departure of the Emperor. Alexander, full of his great idea, and it was proved later on that it was a very excellent and ingenious one, felt that he could leave all further details to the astute Golitzine, Salmoros, and the two Generals.
After the Czar had left, Golitzine had questioned the Italian closely as to certain items of the information which he had gathered at the villa the night before. Being satisfied as to these, he had intimated, of course in the most polite and diplomatic manner, that Corsini’s presence was no longer required. He was now going into certain practical matters with the two Generals, with regard to the disposition of the soldiery and police, of a strictly technical nature which would have no interest to a civilian.
Corsini took the hint at once. He had already learned that high politics meant strict business. These two great men would put up with your company, just so long as you were useful to them. As soon as you had fulfilled your part, you were dismissed, in order that they might turn to somebody else of equal importance.
But Golitzine, in spite of his lean and rather saturnine aspect, was a kind-hearted old fellow. He shook the young man warmly by the hand and whispered in his ear:
“Please do not accuse me of scant courtesy, if Iseem to hurry you away, but the time is all too short for what I have to plan and arrange. Be assured that, so far as the Emperor is concerned, your fortune is made. I cannot take upon myself to predict the precise nature of your reward, but it will be a very substantial one. And of course your friend Ivan and his associate will be remembered, too.”
Corsini bowed gratefully. He already knew enough of Courts to assume that Golitzine himself would determine the nature and extent of those rewards. The Emperor would only speak with the voice of his Secretary, although as a matter of etiquette, he must always be regarded as the fountain of honour.
Golitzine went on in a still lower tone. “You have more time on your hands than we hard-working servants of the State have. We shall not meet again till to-night at thebal-masqué. You might use a few of your leisure moments in strolling round to my house and cheering up the Princess Nada. I prepared my wife for a possible visit. I am certain you will not be denied admittance.”
Corsini was very young, too young to have got over the youthful habit of blushing. A deep red settled on his countenance as he realised the nature and intention of the kindly Count’s suggestion.
Golitzine peered at him amiably through his spectacles. He liked that ingenuous blush: it betokened sincerity. Here was no callous young adventurer, simply a youth of integrity and good principles, quick-witted enough to take advantage of his opportunities.
“You are a favourite of fortune, my dear fellow, but you have had the good sense to see when she smiled on you. Strike while the iron is hot. Every right-thinking young woman is grateful to her preserver, especially when he is so good to look at as you are. You don’t want me to give you any further hint.”
Corsini, more embarrassed than ever, murmured a reply that was almost inarticulate, but one expressing gratitude for his Excellency’s suggestions. He made hisadieuxhastily, anxious to be out of the chamber where these experienced men seemed to read his very soul.
Salmoros detained him a second. “Not quite so quick, my young friend. You will dine with me to-morrow night at my hotel; here is the address.” He added with a humorous smile, “That is to say, if this devil of a Zouroff leaves any of us alive.”
Corsini left the Winter Palace. He saw the figures of his faithful bodyguard hovering in the distance, pledged to watch after his safety, to protect him from the evil designs of his relentless enemy, that traitor Prince whom he had outwitted.
He bent his steps in the direction of Golitzine’s house. He was anxious to see the Princess again, but perhaps, had he not been spurred by the Count’s hints, he might not have dared to intrude upon her so soon.
The kiss of last night, when their lips had met for the first time! She had kissed him warmly then, in the exaltation of grateful feelings for her rescue from her ruffianly brother.
That was last night. Would the morning bring reflection, prudence? Would she remember the difference between their stations—recollect that she was a Princess of the highest lineage, he an artist, a genius, but a man of no birth or connections?
As he walked slowly along, his thoughts travelled back to the time when he had been in such despair that he had come one night to the conclusion life was no longer worth living. He remembered he had put that question to his devoted little sister, Anita, and she had answered bravely that she would leave the decision to him.
And by one turn, as it seemed, of fortune’s wheel, all this was changed. He had in his pocket a letter received from Anita that morning, written from the house of the kind ladies in whose charge the Baron Salmoros had placed her when he despatched her brother on his mission to Russia.
A young Englishman had fallen in love with Anita; she had fallen in love with him. He had excellent prospects. One of the two benevolent ladies had enclosed a brief note, speaking in the highest terms of the young lover, who was also a protégé of the benevolent Salmoros. Anita had promised to become his wife, subject to her brother’s consent.
How far away it all seemed, that snowy night in Dean Street, when he had played in the gutter to earn a few coppers for food and lodging. Dear old Papa Péron, with his big heart, the genial Degraux, the powerful and astute Salmoros, who picked out intelligent instruments for his deeply laid schemes! All these figures were present to him as he strolled along.
So Anita was in love and would shortly be a happy wife. Well, if she made half as good a wife as a sister, her husband would be a fortunate man. He would ask a few details of Salmoros when he dined with him to-morrow night about this young suitor, but he had no doubt he would write Anita a warm letter of congratulation.
And for himself! Last night, the beautiful Nada, whom he had regarded as a star set high up in the firmament above him, had returned his kiss. Already he occupied an important post in the musical world. This morning, Golitzine had hinted at substantial rewards for his secret and important services. The Count had spoken of him as one of fortune’s favourites. The description did not seem to be misplaced.
His heart beat more confidently as he approached the Count’s house. After all, he was not so unworthy as he had once imagined himself to be. Nada was one of a long line. He was going to be the first of his—virile, ambitious, with the restless impulses of new blood. Was the difference between them so great after all?
He met the Countess in the hall. Full of the prejudices of her caste, she did not perhaps wholly approve of the visit; but she was a very obedient wife, and Golitzine, as it has been explained, had given her a hint that if Corsini called he was to be admitted at once to the presence of the young Princess.
Nada was reclining in an easy-chair, looking a little wan. To her enraptured lover, her slight pallor only added spirituality to her beauty.
He felt he must proceed very cautiously. She might wish to ignore that episode of the previous night, for which the strange circumstances could furnish a reasonable excuse.
He bowed low over her hand and raised it respectfully to his lips. “I am so pleased, Princess,” he began in rather hesitating tones, “to see that you are very little the worse for last night’s adventure.”
A faint colour suffused her cheeks; she withdrew her hand with a little pettish gesture. It was evident that she did not wish to ignore the incident of last night.
“Why are you so formal? I am not a Princess to you, but simply Nada, an unhappy girl whom you rescued and brought here at night, and whom you said you loved. Have you forgotten all this?”
“No, I have not forgotten,” was the fervent answer, “but I was not sure you might wish to remember. Last night, the circumstances were very unusual. Feelings of gratitude might have led you farther—”
He paused, for the very good reason that Nada had placed her hand upon his lips.
“Do you know, you are talking very foolishly, Nello. But no, it is not altogether foolish. I can guess all that there is in your mind. You are such a perfect gentleman, so chivalrous where a woman is concerned. But you need doubt no longer. When I allowed you to kiss me last night and kissed you back, I gave you my heart once and for all time.”
He bent over her and kissed this time, not her hand, but her lips.
“And you will marry me, you will be my wife?” he asked in a voice that still expressed hesitation.
“Of course,” answered the Princess, with a pretty assumption of indignation. “Do you think I would suffer any man to kiss me unless I were sure he were going to be my husband?”
As he walked back to his hotel Corsini felt as if he were treading on air. How thankful he was to the kindly old Count for that hint, to strike while the iron was hot. Left to himself, he might have lost her for want of boldness. And now, Nada had promised to be his wife. Very shortly he and his dear little sister would both be happily married.
Later in the day, when the Emperor’s private cabinet had been cleared of his official counsellors, Alexander held an important conversation with a man as strong and stalwart as himself, closely resembling him in height and build. This man was an illegitimate son of one of the Romanoffs, and had ever devoted himself to his Majesty’s person and given a hundred proofs of his loyalty.
“Listen, my faithful Sergius,” said the autocrat, as he motioned him to a seat. “I have something to tell you that will startle you. You know that to-night we hold abal-masquéat the Winter Palace. You will be there.”
The man Sergius nodded. On these more or less ceremonious occasions he was never far from his master’s side. He had no subtlety of intellect, he had little sense of diplomacy. It was impossible to advance him very far, to make him into even the semblanceof a statesman, but he worshipped his Emperor and relative with a canine fidelity. He was a magnificent watch-dog and would lay down his life for his master.
“There is a plot on foot, engineered by Prince Zouroff and others, to assassinate me to-night in the ball-room of the Winter Palace.”
Sergius recoiled in horror. “But where are your guards, your police? What are Golitzine, Beilski, and Burovkin doing?” he cried in amazement. He started from his chair, ever a man of action. “Let me go round to the Zouroff Palace at once, get hold of this ruffian and choke the life out of him. You can then punish me for a brief space and then give me a free pardon—extenuating circumstances, or something of that sort.”
Alexander smiled kindly. Sergius, the man of proved loyalty, spoke, as usual, from his full heart. But, as ever, he lacked discretion.
“A most excellent idea, my good old friend and cousin, but in this century we cannot proceed on strictly mediæval lines. Besides, we want to take them, so to speak, red-handed. Golitzine is working admirably. So are Burovkin and Beilski; they will see to the soldiers and the police. They wanted to arrange my part in the affair—I know what they would have proposed, that I should absent myself—I determined to take the matter in hand personally. If I am not there, and they already know how I purpose to be dressed, they will not carry out their plot; they will postpone it, and we shall still be hanging on the tenterhooks of suspense, wondering when theblow will fall. Let it fall to-night, as they have planned, and let them be taken red-handed. That is my policy.”
Sergius stared at his master with a puzzled expression. His slow brain could not follow the Emperor’s explanation. Certainly, it would be very easy for him to go round to the Zouroff Palace and strangle its master; half a dozen others, if necessary. This was surely the most certain way to his soldier-like and practical mind.
“Sergius, my good friend, this affair wants a little diplomacy, which you and I will carry out between us. I shall acquaint Golitzine and the others with it, say, an hour before the reception begins. They think they have the monopoly of brains, that their Emperor must always think the thoughts they put into his head, always speak the words they prepare for him. Well, I am going to show them that sometimes I can act upon my own initiative. I have prepared a little stratagem, in which I invite your co-operation. I will explain it to you.”
He unfolded his scheme to the puzzled and interested Sergius. The blunt soldier rose up when the Emperor had finished, and smiled delightedly.
“Excellent, most excellent, Sire. You can rely upon me; you may be sure I shall not fail to play my part.”
At midnight the vast saloons of the Winter Palace were thronged with a happy, joyous crowd. Zouroff was there, in a disguise that he thought nobody could penetrate. The other seven leaders were there also, safe as they thought from recognition.
Corsini was there, having come on from the Opera. And the young Princess had come also, with the Countess Golitzine. At first she had protested. She wished to see the Emperor triumph, as she was assured he would; but the Emperor’s triumph would mean the ruin of her brother. Basely as he had treated her, she was reluctant to assist at the spectacle of his degradation.
But curiosity prevailed, the natural curiosity of being in at the finish of things. And besides, the Countess had told her that she would give to Corsini a description of her costume, and obtain from him one of his, so that they could easily recognise each other. In the end, she went.
The commanding figure of the Emperor, clothed in his mask and blue domino, moved about amongst his guests. There was no mistaking that Imperial presence. One man, in particular, was watching intently, following every motion.
Corsini had at last found out his sweetheart. They were conversing together in low whispers, when suddenly there rose from a hundred throats the shout of—“Treason! Treason!”
They turned their startled gaze towards the end of the room, in time to see the Emperor’s huge form sink slowly to the floor. A small man darted from his side, buried himself amid the crowd and made hastily towards the nearest door, concealing in his garments the dagger with which he had inflicted the blow.
He found the door guarded by three stalwart men,who seized him at once and forbade egress. They were members of Beilski’s police.
At the same instant the General himself tore off his mask, and cried out in stentorian tones, “Unmask, everybody. The doors are guarded. None can pass through till we are satisfied of their innocence. We know the names of all the traitors. At yonder door my men have got the assassin.”
Slowly they all unmasked, Zouroff amongst the rest. He knew now that he had been foiled by somebody, that his ambitions were quenched for ever. Siberia and the mines for him, as the lightest penalty.
To do him justice, he took his fate stoically. He folded his arms across his breast and cast a disdainful glance in the direction of the panic-stricken crowd.
Beilski, who had been standing close to that tall, commanding figure, went and touched him lightly on the shoulder.
“Get up, Sergius,” he whispered. “The first act of the tragedy is over.”
The apparently inanimate man rose slowly to his feet, threw off his mask and domino, disclosing a suit of chain mail beneath, which the dagger of the assassin had been unable to penetrate.
And then a great shout of loyalty burst forth from the assembly, as they recognised the situation. The Emperor had never been at the reception at all. This faithful left-handed relative of his, who so closely resembled his Imperial Master, had taken his place.
And then a side door opened and the Czar, in ordinary attire, came through and made his way to thetop of the room. He was escorted by a strong bodyguard. It was just on the cards that one of these desperate men might make a second attempt, out of pure revenge.
But there was no fear of this. Beilski’s men had got all of the eight leading conspirators and several accomplices safely in their clutches.
It must be said for the Emperor that, on occasions like these, he could always assume the grand manner.
In a few well-chosen sentences he dismissed the assembly, with many regrets that their pleasure had been so abruptly terminated. There were matters of great import to be attended to, matters which would not brook delay.
Nada broke away from the Countess and rushed over to her brother. In spite of his cruel treatment of her, her heart at that moment bled for him.
“Oh, Boris, I know it is good-bye for ever. Why did you not listen to me when I pleaded with you to give up your dangerous schemes?”
But Zouroff hardly listened to her. He was thinking of that snowy, never-ending road to Siberia, along which he would trudge in chains, guarded by the merciless Cossacks.
“Don’t worry me,” he said in a dull voice. “All is finished. What is the use of looking back?”
After the assembly had dispersed the Emperor retired to his private cabinet. He intimated that, for the moment, he only wished to see Golitzine and Corsini. The others he would interview later.
Immediately the door was closed he turned to the young Italian.
“Signor Corsini, I have said before in your presence that the house of Romanoff is not ungrateful. I have great pleasure in bestowing upon you the title of Count; there will also be paid to you a considerable sum which you can invest at your discretion. The directorship of the Imperial Opera, if you wish to retain it, can be yours for life. With regard to your friend, Ivan, our promises have been already given. Golitzine will see to this.”
Corsini expressed his thanks in becoming language, and was about to withdraw, when the Count detained him.
“One moment, Corsini; I shall take upon myself to disclose to his Majesty a little idyll that has lately been going on in St. Petersburg—one which the Countess has confided to me. The Princess Nada has promised to be our young friend’s wife.”
The Emperor smiled graciously and extended his hand cordially.
“Congratulations, Signor. Nada will make a good and faithful wife. She takes after her mother; the father and son were both ruffians.”