“Oh! I myself have sinned against her in my reports,” thought Galitzin, on his way to the fortress. “I fell under the influence of others, hastened on everything without judgment. I grasped at the guessings and conjectures of others!”
The ice on the surface of the Neva was still under water, the remains of the previous day’s inundation. The prince’s carriage drove on very slowly, and with difficulty through the pools of water. He did not find the commandant at home. Ever since evening the latter had been in the Ravelin. At the door stood Oushakoff with papers in his hand. He walked up to the prince, and was beginning—
“As your Grace knows, the expenses for this person.…”
“Lead me to the captive,” said the prince, addressing the officer on guard, and turning his back on Oushakoff. “Umph! found occupation!—Andour sick captive? Is she still conscious?”
“She is dying,” answered the officer.
Galitzin devoutly crossed himself.
On entering the Ravelin, he met Tchernishoff. The prince did not recognise him. The brave, fine, spruce officer, Tchernishoff, who was never once in his life embarrassed by his service, was now quite bewildered and pale as death.
“Poor thing!” murmured the field-marshal, following Tchernishoff. “Can it be that she will die? Has the doctor been?”
“He has not left her since evening; the agony has already begun, she is quite unconscious. She is raving!”
“What does she rave about? Speak, speak!” and the agitated prince leant forward to Tchernishoff. “Were you there? Did you hear her ravings?”
“I went in several times,” answered the commandant. “I only heard some unintelligible words, amongst them Orloff … Princess … Gran Dio … Mio caro.…”
“And the child?” asked the prince, dashing away a tear.
“Is well, your Grace, in the hands of a wet nurse. My wife found a very good one.”
“See that everything necessary is found—everything. Do you hear me, sir? everything,” said the prince very seriously and impressively, trying to give his voice a most imperious and commanding tone. “In a Christian manner, do you understand?… In case, here … in secret … you understand me? without any fuss … suffering humanity … a martyr.”
The prince wanted to say something more, but could only sob. Tears were choking him. He merely nodded, and, pulling himself together as well as he could, he briskly walked out on theperron. Here he glanced at the dismal grey sky, covered with big heavy clouds. A whole flight of ravens was whirling round over the Ravelin. The iron leaves[48]of the roof, half torn away by the storm, were creaking dismally. The field-marshal drew his sable collar close round him, jumped into his carriage, and shouted, “Home!”
“God has had pity on her, poor thing; in past years, how often these small casemates have been flooded during the inundations. Yes, of course, it’s quite clear,” he went on musing. “The unfortunate girl has only been a toy in the hands ofothers. A usurper or not, who can tell? That’s just what I shall write to Her Imperial Highness—her death will not be on our heads.”
The carriage rolled along quickly over the newly-fallen snow, now passing carts loaded with wood or hay, now an elegant carriage, or a pedestrian feeling his way carefully through the pools and the snow,—those very same houses, churches, the same bridges, ensigns, that the prince had looked at for so many years, rushed past unnoticed by the now anxious and gloomy commander-in-chief of the northern capital. Then came the Police Department, at the Green Bridge over the Nevski, and at last the apartment of the field-marshal. His heart was very heavy.
“Well! and if, after all, she’s no pretender,” flashed through the mind of the prince, as he saw the Elizabeth Palace rising in the gloom, near the bridge on the Moïka, and a little farther on, on the Nevski, the Anitchkoff Hall, the residence of Razoumovski.
Galitzin remembered now all the late reign, the great of that time, his connections, his own youthful years, and the years and persons that time had carried away.
On the evening of 4th of December, 1775, thePrincess Tarakanova, Dame d’Azow, Ali Emeté, and Princess Wladimirskaya, expired. No one was present at her last moments; she was found lying still, as though she had fallen asleep. Her dim open eyes were fixed on the image of the Saviour. On the next day the invalid watch of the garrison of the Petropavlovski fortress dug a grave, with the help of crow-bars[49]and spades, in the middle of the little yard in the Ravelin of Alexéef, under the shade of the lindens. And there, secretly from all, they buried the body of the unfortunate girl, filling the grave up with clods of frozen earth. The invalid watchman, Antipitch, on his own initiative, planted a birch tree over that grave. The servitors of the Princess, her maid Meshade, and secretary Charnomski, as the inquest now was terminated, were sent away to foreign parts, after having been sworn to secrecy.
Father Peter guessed at the death of the captive, from the tears and insinuations of thecommandantsha, and said to himself, “Oh, God! Thou hast at last delivered the poor unfortunate captive from her burden, and given rest to her soul.” And, without any fuss or noise, went immediatelyto the church and celebrated a funeral mass, for the fallen asleep bond-slave of God, Elizabeth; and at the oblation, remembering her soul, cut a small piece from the consecrated loaf.
“For whom did you have that funeral mass?” asked Vâra of her uncle, noticing the loaf on the breakfast table.
“For that person you know of, that poor sufferer.”
“But who was she?”
“A slave, and child of a bond-slave,” mysteriously answered Father Peter. “We are all in the hands of God, the rich and the poor, the slaves and the kings.”
The Field-Marshal Galitzin was unable for a long time to decide on the means of letting the empress know of the death of Tarakanova. He would take a pen, write a few lines, dash them out, and again begin thinking.
“Ah! come what may,” said he to himself, “the dead will not be called to account, and for the living, it’s a vindication.”
The prince took out a clean sheet of paper, dipped his pen in the ink, and began very carefully to trace, in an old-fashioned hand, the following words:—
“The person so well known to your Imperial Highness as having usurped a name and rank not belonging to her, died on the 4th of December, an unrepentant sinner, having confessed to nothing and betrayed no one.”
“And if any of the great should learn anything about her, and let it out,” thought Galitzin to himself, “we can set rumours afloat that she was drowned in the inundation. Just at that very time, they fired enough cannon from the fortress, and the lovely Neva played her pranks.”
And this is the origin of the legend of the drowning of Tarakanova.[50]
Irena Lvovna Rakitina, after having gone about from department to department, was at last convinced of the hopelessness of her case, and returned to her native village accompanied by Vâra. This was in December, 1775. In Moscow, she tried to give a personal petition to the empress, but this was just the day before the departure of Ekaterina for Petersburg. The petition of Irena was graciously accepted; but somehow very likely, in the confusion dependent on the departure of the Court,—it got lost and was forgotten, as she never received any answer or resolution.Irena, while at Moscow, determined to find out Orloff, but afterward was dissuaded from her purpose.
On her arrival in Petersburg, the empress most assiduously questioned Galitzin about the last days of the captive; and notwithstanding all the endeavours of the old man to soften his tale, she understood what an awful tragedy had overtaken the blind victim of foreign intrigue.
“Yes; you and I, prince, have also ‘oversalted’ it!” said Ekaterina. “Why not more frankness with me?”
“I am the cause of everything,” decided Irena, after long hours of doubt and anguish. “I was the cause of Konsov’s leaving his native land. It was on my account he gave way to despair, and tried to help that unfortunate person, and then perished. I must make amends now for his broken life, and implore God to forgive me my share of sins in all this unhappy affair. I am now alone, and have nothing to expect from the world.”
In 1776, Rakitina left her estate in the hands of her father’s serfs, and accompanied by Vâra (who had that year become engaged to one of theteachers of the Muscovite Seminary), started for a small nunnery not far from Kieff, and entered it as a novice, hoping soon to be able to take the veil. However much Vâra implored her, or tried to convince her, to dissuade her from taking such a step, Irena was firm, and having put on the hood and nun’s dress, repeated only one thing—“I am the cause of all, and therefore must pray for him, and suffer all my life.” But Irena could not give up all her thoughts to prayer, however much she wished to.
Five years passed by, and in May, 1780, Rakitina was again in Petersburg. Her friend Vâra was already married and in Moscow. Father Peter was, as before, priest of the Cathedral of Kazan. Irena went to see him. He was delighted and eagerly began to ask her about past and present events.
“Is it possible that you are even till now waiting and hoping that yourfiancéis yet alive?” he asked. “For how many years you are uselessly tormenting yourself! Were he alive, be sure he would have sent some message—I do not say to you—to his friends, to his relations.”
“Oh! don’t, don’t, Father,” answered Irena, drying her eyes; “I will give up all, sacrifice everything.…”
“Young lady, that is a sin; you are tempting Providence, you are imitating the heathens.”
“But what can I do?” answered Irena; “I am always seeing such awful prophetic dreams,one especially. Oh! that dream; it came to me not long ago, several nights together.”… Irena was silent.
“What dream was it? Tell me all; confide in me.”
“It seemed to me that he approached my bedside—he was not a bit altered—just as he was the last time I saw him in our village, stately, handsome, amiable; and he said to me, ‘I am still alive, Irenushka. Where the sea murmurs, night and day, I look for you, morning and evening, thinking perhaps you’ll come, find me, and set me free.’… Ah! tell me, where must I look, what must I do, whom must I ask? I dare not trouble the empress another time.…”
“I often thought of you,” said Father Peter. “Here I only see one person, and that is—the Tzarevitch, Pavel Petrovitch;[51]he is Grand-Master and Protector of the Order of Maltese Knights—he alone can help you. If he will only stoop to you, to your petition, he alone can do something for you. In him you’ll find everything—talent, honour, always used in the interest of anything high and noble, secret relations with all the most powerful and celebrated philanthropists.And what goodness, what knightly nobility! No; it is not Tiberius, as his enemies say; it’s the future beneficent Titus.”
“Yes, I have heard that,” answered Irena.
“You have heard? then go to him, find him at his manor house, seek for an audience.”
The priest gave Irena all possible information and advice, as well as a letter to his god-daughter, housekeeper in the household of the Tzarevitch. Rakitina hired akibitka[52]and started for Pavlovski, the personal property of the grand-duke.
The housekeeper received Rakitina very hospitably. She took her into her own apartment, and then, to amuse her a little, pointed out to her all the curiosities in the garden and park of the grand-duke; the little cottage Cric-Crac, the hut of the hermit, the caverns, lakes, and rustic bridges. It was decided that Irena should first relate everything to the favourite maid of honour of the grand-duchess, Ekaterina Ivanovna Nelidova, who had only just terminated her education at Smolney Institute.[53]
“When shall we go to see Ekaterina Ivanovna?” said Irena, longing for the promised audience.
“We shall have to wait; she is very much occupied now, learning a hymn on the clavichord. It’s the favourite piece of the grand-duke; she is getting it ready for the concert.”
One day Irena was walking in the park with her hostess. All at once from behind the trees, a fair lady in a light blue silk dress, without any hoops, came towards them.
“Who is that?” asked Irena.
“The Tzarevna,” whispered the housekeeper, bowing very respectfully.
Irena turned faint.
The elegant, though a little inclined to embonpoint, Grand Duchess Marie Feodorovna was then twenty-two, and very lovely.
In passing by Irena, she turned her rather bewildered and short-sighted eyes upon her, as though astonished at her nun’s dress. The Tzarevna was followed by a very tall, thin, pock-marked man in a darkkaftanand cocked hat, carrying a roll of music and a fiddle under his arm.
“And who is that?” asked Rakitina, when they had gone by.
“Paëzsïllo,” answered the housekeeper; “music master to her Imperial Highness.”
Irena admired the rare beauty of the Tzarevna, the delicate pink and white complexion, the splendid golden hair, in which nestled some blue and red flowers, contained in a tiny bottle of water to keep them fresh.
The Tzarevna was followed at some distance by two maids of honour. One of them, a short, thin, sprightly brunette, struck Irena by the brightness of her black, sparkling eyes, which literally seemed to shoot forth sparks. She was gaily talking with her companion. It was Nelidova. Mischievously winking at the stout housekeeper, who was respectfully bowing to her, she said to her with a charming smile, “I’ve had no time yet, Anna Romanovna,—always that hymn; to-morrow morning.”
“Ah! at last, to-morrow,” thought Irena, in ecstasy, and following with enraptured eyes the enchanting, elegant fairies, who so unexpectedly had passed before her eyes. At the appointed hour, Anna Romanovna took Irena to the pavilion of the maids of honour, not far from the guard-house, and led her into the drawing-room.
“It would seem that Ekaterina Ivanovna hasnot yet returned from the palace of the grand-duchess,” she said; “we will wait for her here, my dear; take off your hood, it’s too warm.”
“It does not matter; I’ll leave it.”
The room was filled with vases, statuettes, and medallions hung on the walls.
“This is all the work of the grand-duchess,” said the housekeeper. “Look here, dear, what talent! how she paints on porcelain! And look here, in this black cupboard, these ivory things, that’s her work. She can engrave also on stones, on gold, lovelypaysages; she can also turn on the lathe, and how fond she is of Ekaterina Ivanovna! those are all presents to her. Look, she embroidered this beautiful cushion for her. Look, what a rose! and this myrtle! What a delicate design, and the colours, you might mistake it for a painting.”
Irena gave no answer.
“Why are you so silent, my dear? What are you thinking about?”
“A rose and a myrtle,” whispered Irena, sighing; “life and death. What will be the end of all my efforts, my researches, my hopes?”
At that very minute, the notes of the clavichord were heard from the room of Nelidova. A melodious splendid contralto was singing thevery solemn and sad hymn from Glück’s opera, “Iphigenia in Tauridus.”
“Well, Irena Lvovna, let us go; I suppose we are too late. Ekaterina Ivanovna is at her music, and no one will dare disturb her. Very likely the grand-duchess is with her now.”
Irena made a sign to her companion to wait a little, and with a beating heart she listened to the so well known notes of the imploring hymn of “Iphigenia.” In past days she had herself sung that to Konsov. “Oh! if I could only implore them like that; but when will that be? They have their own cares, they have no time,” thought she, feeling that her tears were choking her.
“Let us go, let us go,” said Anna Romanovna, hastily. They both went out together, went down the steps, round the pavilion of the maids of honour, and into the garden. The wicket-gate banged to.
“Where are you off to?” they heard a voice gaily calling out.
They both raised their eyes. Looking at them from the open window was the smiling face of the black-eyed Nelidova.
“Come in; I’m quite free now. I was waiting for you, and so began to sing. Come in.”
The visitors retraced their steps.
Anna Romanovna presented her companion to Nelidova, who made her sit down beside her.
“So young, and yet in such a gloomy dress,” she said; “speak now, without any ceremony, tell me all, I am listening.”
Irena began about Konsov, then went on to the arrest and captivity of Tarakanova. At each of her words, at each detail of the sad event, the bright playful face of Nelidova became more and more troubled and sad.
“Great God! what mysteries, what tragedies!” thought she, shivering; “and all that in our days. But it’s the dark middle ages over again, and no one knowing anything of it.”
“Thank you, Mademoiselle Irena,” said Ekaterina Ivanovna, after having listened attentively to Rakitina. “I am very much obliged to you for all you have related to me; if you will allow me, I will tell it all again to their Imperial Highnesses.… I am convinced that the Tzarevitch, that wise just knight, that angel of goodness and honour … will do everything for you. But to whom must he apply?”
“How! to whom?” asked the astonished Irena.
“You see, I do not know very well how toexplain it,” continued Nelidova; “the Tzarevitch takes no part in State affairs, he can only ask others. On whom does all this depend?”
“The Prince Potemkin might …” answered Irena, remembering the counsels of Father Peter, that the Prince could send orders to the different ambassadors and consuls. “Lieutenant Konsov is perhaps now a prisoner of the Moors or negroes, on some wild island in the Atlantic Ocean.”
“Will you remain long here?” asked Nelidova.
“The Mother Superior of the Nunnery where I live has been summoning me to return this long while. Every one blames me; calls my researches sinful.”
“How and where can I send you a message?”
Irena named the convent, and then became thoughtful, looking at the cushion worked by the grand-duchess.
“I’ve suffered so much, I’ve waited so long,” she murmured, stifling her tears. “Do not write anything—not one word—but, see, send me, should there be success, a rose; if failure, a myrtle leaf.”
Nelidova kissed Irena.
“I will do everything I can,” she said gently.“I will appeal to the grand-duchess, to the Tzarevitch. There remains nothing more for you to do here. Better leave, my dear one; as soon as I learn anything, I will let you know.”
There was still no news. It was the beginning of the year 1781. With the retirement of Prince Gregory Orloff, and the fallen fortunes of the tutor of the Tzarevitch, Pânin, the new counsellors of the Empress Ekaterina, having in view the lessening of the influence of her son, Pavel Petrovitch, advised her to send the Tzarevitch and his wife on a long foreign journey, ostensibly to make the acquaintance of foreign courts.
Irena learnt this with a beating heart from Vâra’s letter. Their Imperial Highnesses left the environs of Petersburg on the 19th of September, 1781. Under the name of Count and Countess “du Nord,” they passed the Russian frontier of Poland, at the little town of Oukraine, Vasilkoff, in the middle of October.
A young person, dressed in the dark vestments of a nun, who arrived the day before by the Kieff track,[54]was waiting here to meet Nelidova.She was taken into the apartment of Ekaterina Ivanovna. Into this room there entered also, from the garden, the Count and Countess du Nord, as if by accident, whilst the horses were being changed. They remained several minutes, and when they came out, the count was fearfully pale, and the countess in tears.
“Poor Penelope,” said Pavel to Nelidova, getting into the carriage, on observing through the trees the dark figure of Irena.
The conversation of Ekaterina Ivanovna with the stranger after the departure of the august travellers was so prolonged that the carriage of the maid of honour was much behindhand, according to themarche-route, and the horses had to be cruelly driven to catch up the Imperial carriages.
“A rose, a rose! Not myrtle!” cried out Nelidova in French,—very mysteriously to all around,—to the stranger, to whom she waved her handkerchief from the carriage window, by way of encouragement.
“She is truly a sorrowing Penelope,” said Ekaterina Ivanovna, as, driving away, she lost sight in the distance of the dark motionless figure of Irena.
The journey of the Count and Countess du Nord was very interesting. They travelledthrough all Germany, and spent the New Year in Venice. The 8th of January, 1780, the grand-duke, Pavel Petrovitch, wrapped in the picturesque Italian cloakTabaro, and the grand-duchess, in the graceful Venetian mantilla and theCendadi, visited the picture gallery and the palace of the Doge in the morning, and in the evening went to the theatre of the “Prophet Samuel,” where “Iphigenia in Tauridus,” was to be played in honour of the august visitors, as it was known to be their favourite opera. The celebrated composer Glück himself conducted the orchestra.
After the opera, the public poured out, and crowded the square of St. Mark, where a national masquerade had been organised in honour of the Imperial travellers.
The square was covered with a noisy, vivacious crowd. Every one noticed that the Count du Nord, after having led the Countess straight from the theatre to the palace which had been prepared for them, was walking, wearing a mask, up and down, a little out of the way of the crowd, with a very tall foreigner, also masked, whom Glück himself had presented to him at the opera.
The full moon shed her silvery light, and all around there were many coloured fires and lamps. The noise and chattering of the mixed crowdfailed to attract the attention of the two interlocutors.
“Who is that?” asked a lady of her husband, turning his attention to the fact that the Count du Nord was attentively listening to the conversation of the foreigner by his side. “Don’t you know him again—the friend of Glück—our celebrated necromancer, our raiser of ghosts?”
Pavel was very much agitated, and in a bad humour. He had wanted to make fun of the stranger, but the recollection of a certain fact had involuntarily embarrassed him.
“You, Enchanter, living, according to your own words, an innumerable number of years,” said he, very politely, although in a slightly mocking tone; “you are in connection not only with the living, but with those beyond the tomb. That is, doubtless, one of your jokes, and I, of course, do not believe one word of it,” he added, trying to be very amiable; “it would be silly to believe such tales. But there are tales and tales, you understand me?… I should very much like to question you concerning a certain incident.…”
“I am at your orders,” said the stranger.
“For instance,—and this is quite a conversationàpropos,” continued the Count du Nord; “Ihave always been very much interested in the supernatural, especially in the inexplicable interference of supernatural agents in our intellectual life. I should very much like … I would ask you, as we have met so unexpectedly, to explain to me one very mysterious event, a very strange meeting.…”
“I am quite at your service,” answered the stranger, politely bowing.
His companion walked on a few steps silently.
Pavel struggled within himself, trying to trip up the conjurer, and at the same time to stifle in his own heart something very sad, torturing, which was perhaps one of his mental tribulations. Raising his mask, he wiped his brow.
“I once saw a spirit,” he said, hesitatingly, unable to restrain his emotion; “I saw a shadow, sacred to me.…”
The stranger bowed slightly, following Pavel, who turned the corner of the square to the dimly-lighted river side.
“It was in Petersburg,” again began the count. He then related to his companion the celebrated fact, already made known somehow abroad, of his having seen the spirit of his ancestor; how, on a certain moonlight night, walking along the streets with his aide-de-camp,he had felt that between him and the wall of the house on the left side there rose all at once something in a long cloak and old-fashioned cocked hat—how he had “felt” that apparition, by the icy cold which had frozen his left side, and with what horror he had followed step by step the apparition, which noisily struck the pavement—it was the noise of stone against stone.
The apparition, invisible to the aide-de-camp, had addressed Pavel in a sad, reproachful voice: “Pavel, poor Pavel, poor prince, do not love the world too much; you will not remain long in it; fear the reproaches of thy conscience; live by the laws of justice … in life.…”
“The apparition did not finish,” said the count. “I still did not understand what it was. At last I looked up and turned giddy; before me, in the full moonlight, stood my grandfather, Peter the Great, just as I remembered him. I recognised directly his caressing look of love, fixed on me. I wanted to ask him … but he disappeared, and I remained leaning against the bare, cold wall.” Saying these last words, Pavel again raised his mask, and wiped his face with his handkerchief; he was pale and very much embarrassed. It seemed as though before his eyes there again rose, the dear, sad apparition.
“What do you think, Signor?” asked the count, after a short pause. “Was it a dream, or did I really see the spirit of my grandfather?”
“It was his spirit,” answered his companion.
“What did his words mean, and why did he not finish them?”
“Would you like to know?”
“Of course.”
“Some one disturbed him.”
“But who?” asked Pavel, continuing to walk along the deserted river side.
“The apparition disappeared at my approach. I was just leaving at that time your banker, Sutherland. You did not notice me, but I saw you both, and I involuntarily startled the apparition of the great man.”
The count stopped; he was amused, and at the same time indignant at the impudence of the magician, and yet there remained something more to be learnt.
“You are joking,” said he. “How is it you were in Petersburg, and no one heard anything of it?”
“I had that pleasure—but for a very short time. I was received in a very unfriendly manner. As a foreigner, and one fond of knowledge, I had expected to obtain more attention. But the first minister offended me deeply; he invited me to leave the country. I withdrew my money from the bankers, and that very same night left Petersburg.”
“Fool, jackanapes!” thought the count, contemptuously smiling; “what inventions, what yarns he can spin.”
“Allow me to offer my apologies for the rudeness of our ministers,” said the count, with the most elaborate politeness, slightly touching his hat with his hand. “But can you explain to me the meaning of the words of the apparition?”
“It would be better not to seek to know the meaning of the apparition,” answered the stranger. “There are things … on which it is better to let the Fates be silent.…”
At that moment the sounds of a lute came floating from the great lagoon. Some one seated in a gondola was singing. Pavel eagerly listened; it was his favourite hymn. It brought backto his recollection the Manor of Pavlovski, the musical mornings at Nelidova’s, and her intercession for Rakitina.
“Very well,” said he; “let it be so; the future will reveal the truth. But I have another favour to ask of you.… A certain person, whom I wish from my whole heart to help at any cost, would very much like to know one thing.”
“I shall be most happy,” answered the stranger; “if I can be of any use to your Highness.”
“A certain person,” continued the count, “begged me to make inquiries here in Italy, in Spain, and in general, of seamen, if a certain naval officer is still living. He was on that ship which was totally shipwrecked, five years ago, and of which literally nothing has been heard.”
“A Russian ship?”
“Yes.”
“It was carried away, and dashed to pieces by the storm in the ocean, not far from Africa?”
“Yes.”
“TheNorthern Eagle?”
“Yes, but how came you to know?”
“It’s not in vain I’m called an Enchanter.”
“Speak! make haste, was he saved? is he still alive, this officer?” said the count, impatiently.
At that moment they were both standing on thewater side. The silvery waves gently rippled up to the stone steps. In the distance, in the dim twilight, the outline of a ship with her sails furled was just discernible.
“To-morrow,” said the stranger, “I leave Venice on that schooner; but before sailing, or answering your question, I should like—excuse me—to know … whether the Count du Nord, on ascending the throne, will be more indulgent to me than the ministers of his august parent? Will he allow me then to visit that country again, whatever the tenor of my answer concerning that naval officer?”
The deep agitation which Pavel had experienced, on relating his adventure with the apparition, had already subsided, and he was regaining his self-composure. The question of the man aroused his indignation.
“Impudent, audacious impostor,” thought he, in a fit of suspicious anger. “What insolence! and what a turn he has given to the conversation. Street acrobat! charlatan!…”
Pavel could scarcely contain himself, and crushed his glove in his hand.
“According to your own words it is rather difficult to answer for the future,” said he thoughtfully, after a short pause. “Nevertheless, I amconvinced, that on a second journey to Russia, you will meet with a reception more polite and more befitting a foreigner.”
His interlocutor bowed profoundly.
“So you wish to know the fate of that naval officer?” he said.
“Yes,” answered Pavel, prepared, however, to hear some tomfoolery, some imposture.
“Send that certain person awaiting your news a myrtle leaf.”
“How? what did you say? Say it again,” cried out Pavel. “Myrtle! myrtle? then he is lost.…”
“He was saved on a fragment of the ship near the island of Teneriffe, and for some time remained with the poor monks of the coast.”
“And now? oh! speak, I implore you.”
“A year after he was killed by pirates, who pillaged the monastery where he was living.”
“How did you learn all this?”
“At that time I was myself living on the isle of Teneriffe,” he answered. “I was copying an old Latin manuscript, which was very precious to me, from the archives of the monastery.”
“But what does all this mean? Is he only a juggler, or an all-powerful seer?” thought Pavel, torn with doubts. “A clever diviner, or a boldcharlatan, but from where?… All my most secret … coast of Africa … the name of the lost ship … and then that token, the fatal myrtle. Is it possible Ekaterina Ivanovna should have betrayed me? But he never saw her; she is ill, has never been once out of her room, received no visits, and has been nowhere.…”
Pavel wanted to say something else, but could find no words.
Beyond the schooner the dawn was breaking.
“I will accompany your Highness to the palace,” said the stranger with elaborate politeness and a cringing bow; “have I your permission?”
Pavel slightly glanced at the tawdry cotton-velvet bespangled costume of the wizard, looking so shabby in the morning light, and taking off his mask, without saying one word more, strode gloomily and proudly along the deserted shore.
“Poor sorrowing Penelope! unfortunate lovely Irena!” thought he. “No one has been able to solve that anguishful enigma—neither ministers, nor knights, nor ambassadors; let us send her the myrtle leaf of the Italian wizard and juggler.”
Fifteen years had passed away; the year 1796 was drawing to its end. It was in the beginning of the reign of Pavel I. All Petersburg was hailing joyfully the liberation of the celebrated Novikoff from the fortress, and the return from Siberia of Radischeff. The emperor, with his august consort and several courtiers, went to visit the fortress of Petropavlovski. The chief of the police, Arharoff, asked the emperor if he would not like to visit the Ravelin of Alexéef, where great alterations and repairs were taking place. One of the dungeons attracted the attention of the Imperial visitors.
“Were any Italians ever confined here?” asked the emperor of the commandant.
“Never, your Highness; only schismatics.”
“Well, look here,” and the Emperor pointed to the window, “here’s an inscription on the glass, cut with a diamond. ‘O, Dio mio.’”
Arharoff and the commandant both bent towards the window eagerly. The commandantwas new, and therefore had not yet had time to become acquainted with all the legends and past days of the fortress.
“It would be very interesting to know,” said the Empress Marie Feodorovna. “It’s a woman’s hand. Poor thing, who could it have been?”
“Was it not Tarakanova?” said Nelidova, standing by. “Have you forgotten, your Highness, the unfortunate Konsov, and the young lady from Little Russia?”
“Tarakanova was drowned here at the time of the inundation,” said somebody.
Every one was silent; the Empress Marie Feodorovna alone looked at Nelidova, and pointed with her eyes out of the window at a solitary silver birch tree, growing in the middle of the little neglected garden of the Ravelin.
“That’s her grave,” she whispered. “Do you remember? But what can have become of the diary?”
It was plain that the emperor had heard the words. As he took his seat in the carriage, he remarked to Arharoff, “At whatever cost this affair must be looked into; a most painful event here took place. They were troublous times; the attempt of Merovitch, the insurrection of Pougachoff, and then … this unfortunate.… I saw my mother’s tears; to her verylast days she could not forgive herself for allowing the poor girl to be interrogated during her absence from Petersburg.”
The police were all set on foot.
Somewhere in an almshouse they discovered the poor blind invalid, Antipitch. He had been watchman in the fortress twenty years before. The invalid directed them to a gardener, and this one again to the warden of the cathedral of Kazan, who said that he had found a trunk filled with papers after the death of Father Peter, and that he knew that in it there had been a roll of very important papers. Search was made for the family of Father Peter. He had left no direct heirs, but his grand-niece, the daughter of his niece Vâra, was found. Arharoff went himself to see her, but she knew nothing. No one knew what had become of the trunk of papers of Father Peter, or whether it had been sent to Moscow with his other things. Everything was found out in time. In the poor retired nunnery of the Oukraine, where Irena had sought refuge, after having taken the veil, she peacefully died, at an advanced age, fervently praying for herfiancé, the lost Konsov. Amongst the effects of the deceased lay a packet of papers, with the inscription “From Father Peter,” and there, together with a letter from a very influential personage, a faded myrtle leaf. Aneighbour, who was very fond of antiquities, had borrowed these papers from the Lady Superior. He had subsequently died abroad.
Count Alexis Gregorevitch Orloff-Chesmenski married, the very year that the Count and Countess du Nord were travelling abroad. His illegitimate son by the Princess Tarakanova, Alexander Chesmenski, died, in the rank of Brigadier, at the close of the last century. Having survived the Empress Ekaterina and the Emperor Pavel, the Count Orloff died in Moscow, in the reign of the Emperor Alexander I., on Christmas Eve, 1807, leaving an only unmarried daughter, the well-known Countess Anna Alexéevna. It remains a secret till now whether his conscience tormented him for his treachery to Tarakanova, or whether the stings of remorse had no hold on his hardened soul. However, it is a well-known fact, that the agonies of death must have been for Count Orloff especially terrible, because, in order to drown the horrible screams and groans of the dying “Giant of his time,” it was found necessary to make his private orchestra, at that time learning a sonata in the neighbouring pavilion, play as loudly as possible.
THE END.