“Then,” gasped Iván, who was beginning to realise that the Jew was telling the truth, and the candlesticks were really out of his reach once more, “those candlesticks are sold?”
“To a Mr. James Hudson, of 108, Curzon Street, Mayfair, a great collector of antiquities and great connoisseur. You may probably have heard of him. No? Well, I sent him those candlesticks to look at yesterday, knowing well that if he saw them, he would take a fancy to them. They were very beautiful things, sir, and if you happen to have anything more of the same class of goods I shall be very happy——”
“To the point, man. For God’s sake tell me, did he buy them?”
“He did, sir,” said Isaac Davies, nettled at this curious customer’s impatience. “I knew he would. What is the next thing I can do for you, sir? Nothing? Good-morning, sir.”
And seeing another client entering his shop, Isaac Davies turned on his heel and took no further notice of poor Volenski, annihilated by this last most cruel blow of all.
Ill-luck was, indeed, pursuing him. Every now and then a ray of hope-would pierce the darkness of his misery, only to be again dimmed by some terrible difficulty, each of which seemed more insurmountable than the last.
The unfortunate young man was coming to the end of his endurance, and for one brief moment, as he reeled out of Davies’ shop, the idea crossed his mind of ending all this misery, once for all, by throwing himself underneath the first omnibus that passed; but it was only for a brief moment, the next he had realised that his death now, at this point, would mean hopeless, irretrievable ruin to his friends and comrades—all the more so as they would be unaware of their danger, completely ignorant, as they were, of the loss of the compromising papers. It was still on his coolness, his pluck, and perseverance that hung the lives of his comrades, and he determined to make one more effort to save them. “The last,” he thought hopefully.
His plans now would have to be more complicated, and Volenski gathered all his faculties together for the laying of these plans. He had almost mechanically walked out of the Jew’s shop, and, still unconsciously, was turning his footsteps towards Curzon Street. One thing was certain, he must see Mr. James Hudson—any pretext would serve for that—he would think of one later on. What he must think out at once was, what he should say to Mr. James Hudson when he did see him. He knew him well by reputation. He was a man of boundless wealth and boundless eccentricities, generous to a fault, and had been a great favourite with the ladies in Prince Albert’s days. No doubt he was a gentleman, and if… Yes, that was it. The whole interview flashed before his fevered brain as if he saw it on a stage.
Characters: The courteous, benevolent old gentleman, a sort of modern Bayard—Mr. James Hudson. The young man with a past that involved a lady’s honour—himself. Scene: A drawing-room in Curzon Street, Mayfair.
The young man with a past: “Sir, you hold in your hands the honour of a lady. Will you give me back the letter?”
Courteous old gentleman: “The letter, sir, what letter?”
The Y.M.W.P.: “It lies concealed in yon candlestick that adorns your mantelpiece. Sir, years ago we were foolish; we sinned, she and I. Having no means of approaching each other, we used the graceful toys as love’s letter-box. One of those letters—hers—was forgotten, there—she is now married—I am married—we are all married, but you, sir, hold the candlesticks—you hold her fate! Will you give me back the letter?”
Courteous old gentleman: “Sir, pray take it—it is yours!” Tableau.
There is no doubt that, at this stage, poor Volenski’s dreams had become the wanderings almost of a lunatic; his agitated manner, his wild, excited gestures attracted the attention of the passers-by.
He made a violent effort at self-control, and having arrived at No. 108, Curzon Street, rang the bell, and asked the footman who opened the door whether Mr. James Hudson was at home.
The elegant specimen in knee-breeches, silk stockings, and powdered hair looked down at him from the majestic height of his six foot odd inches, and asked, in what seemed to Volenski, very astonished tones—
“Mr. Hudson, sir?”
“Yes; will you please give him my card, and tell him I desire to speak with him at once?”
“Sorry I can’t take the card, sir,” said the footman gravely, and he added in solemn tones, “Mr. James ’Udson died, sir, this morning, suddenly, at ’alf-past two; death bein’ due to hapoplexy, sir. ’E will be buried hat ’Ighgate cemetary on Thursday, sir, at eleven o’clock: no flowers by request. The ’ousekeeper will see you, sir, if it is himportant.”
The voice sounded to Volenski as if it came from very far away—so far, in fact, that it had ceased to have an earthly sound. The man’s face began to dance before his eyes, then to whirl past him at terrific velocity, as did the house, the furniture, the windows. He had only just sufficient strength to tell the man to call him a cab, to get into it, shouting to the driver to take him to Charing Cross Terminus Hotel. After that his senses mercifully left him for a time; the poor, tired brain refused to grasp this last calamity, the failure of this last hope. Volenski never remembers how he got to his room at the hotel, or what happened for the next few days, as complete nervous prostration followed the intense mental and physical tension.
The people of the hotel sent for a doctor, who, under the circumstances, felt justified in opening Volenski’s pocket-book, and, seeing it well filled with banknotes and drafts, ordered a couple of hospital nurses and everything else that was needful, which was chiefly absolute quiet and rest.
Whiletheir comrade was undergoing the various vicissitudes, into which his overanxious zeal had led him, the members of the Socialist brotherhood in Vienna had been going through a very bitter time of anxiety and dread for the future.
A week had now elapsed since Iván Volenski should have, according to his own statement, left Vienna for Petersburg with the papers entrusted to him, and up to this day no message had come from him.
He had promised to give them some definite news of himself as soon as he had reached Petersburg. If all had been well he should have been there three days ago, and must by now have given the papers over to Taranïew. Why then did he not wire, or give some account of himself, to reassure them at least that he and the fateful papers were safe?
The night before they had met in their committee-room in the Franzgasse, and it had been a gloomy and agitated meeting. The conviction had first begun to take root in their minds that the usual fate had overtaken their daring messenger, and that after this any day, at any hour, the crushing blow might fall upon them all.
Once their papers in the hands of the Third Section, probably not one of them could hope to escape. And what was more galling, more bitter even than the fear of death, was the fact that their plot, so magnificently planned, so daringly carried out, would end but in their own perdition, with nothing gained save a gang of convicts tramping to Siberia.
Unless——
Yes! there was an “unless,” a grim and great alternative that, in spite of the president’s almost entreating speeches, in spite of the better, more refined nature in most of them, had gradually but surely forced itself upon their minds. Mirkovitch had put it to them five days ago, when flushed with their triumph they thought of nothing but the great ends they could gain by their success. Now that this success seemed like bubbles, to be bursting before their eyes, they thought once more of their old comrade’s grim words, and began longing for revenge.
The president had asked them to meet again to-night, and towards ten o’clock they dropped in, one by one, anxious for news, full of eagerness.
“Has anything been heard?” were the first words uttered by each as they entered, and, on hearing the gloomy negative, pipes were brought out and smoked in sullen silence.
The president had arrived, urbane, temperate, as usual, but even on his face there sat a look of deep apprehension, which he evidently strove to hide from his younger comrades. Every now and then he glanced anxiously towards the door, where Mirkovitch’s footsteps would probably soon be heard.
The latter had not yet arrived; yesterday he had seemed more grim, more sullen than ever. Unlike the other members of the brotherhood, his thoughts seemed in no way to dwell very anxiously on Iván and his probable fate; they seemed to tend with ever-growing satisfaction towards the terrible goal, the attainment of which he hoped to reach shortly. He had not yet put into words these thoughts that he knew already loomed darkly in the minds of all, and which completely overmastered him; but he meant to obtain their consent to-night, and felt, as he entered the room and noted the attitudes of them all, that his would be an easy victory. He had taken good care to sow his seeds in good time; to-night he meant to reap the harvest.
Maria Stefanowna was with him. They all trusted her with the secrets of the fraternity now. The part she had so successfully, so discreetly played at the opera ball had shown them that a woman such as she was is often a valuable adjunct in the affairs of men.
The girl came in with her father, and having greeted those she knew best among the committee, she also lighted a short cigarette and waited to hear what they all had to say.
“Mirkovitch, have you heard from Volenski?” asked a dozen eager voices.
“No,” he replied; “I thought the president or some of the committee would have had some message from him by now.”
There was a silence; then a sullen voice said—
“Swietlitzki declares that the Papal Nuncio did not go to Petersburg at all, but that he has been staying in the Tyrol for the last week.”
“But Iván said that he was starting with him on the following day, Ash-Wednesday.”
“Surely——”
“No!” interrupted the president, “no fear of that.”
“Do you mean that he may have fallen into the clutches of the police?”
“That is impossible,” said the president reassuringly, “for we should not all be sitting here peaceably. By now every one of us incriminated in those fateful papers—and most of us are so, I imagine—would have been arrested. The very fact that we are still, all of us, free men proves that our papers are safe.”
“Our papers might be,” rejoined one of the brethren, “but what about our messenger?”
“He might, before being arrested, have succeeded in destroying the papers, you mean,” said another.
“I feel sure,” asserted one of the older men, “that Iván would sooner part with his life than with our secret.”
There was once more silence in the room. Mirkovitch’s grim eyes travelled mockingly, perhaps even contemptuously, on those assembled round him. Maria Stefanowna took no part at all in the expression of these various surmises and conjectures. She sat listening attentively to all that was said around her, but her eyes, ever and anon, were attached with a curiously anxious and restless look on her father, who sat opposite to her.
“Does it not strike you, my friends,” said Mirkovitch at last, sarcastically, “that it is impossible for us, some eight hundred leagues away, to arrive at any definite conclusion as to what has or has not happened to Volenski?”
That was so, it seemed such a hard and dry fact, and yet there was some slight satisfaction, even in these vague conjectures, shared with one’s neighbour, in hearing what the other comrades’ thoughts and fears were, and every now and then in provoking a reassuring remark from their calm president.
“For my part,” added Mirkovitch, “I think Volenski’s silence is exceedingly ominous. There could have been no possible danger in his sending a wire to the president—who is known to be a great friend of his—apprising him of his arrival in Petersburg. If he had accomplished the journey safely you may be quite sure your chairman would have received such a message.”
The president looked up anxiously at his comrade and stretched out his hand towards him, as if he would check him from proceeding with what he was going to say.
“Speak, Mirkovitch, you have something on your mind,” said one of the committee, and “Let us hear!” came from all corners of the room.
Maria Stefanowna, like the president, made a movement as if she would have wished to stop her father, but, perhaps realising the futility of such an attempt, she resumed her cigarette and her anxious, expectant attitude.
“What I have to say will, I know, not seem pleasant to some of you,” said Mirkovitch, who had now risen and looked down on his assembled brethren from his towering height with that contemptuous smile peculiar to himself. “You see, most of you have had the misfortune of having been born gentlemen. I have not, and, therefore, none of those feelings you call refined have place in my burly, low-born mind. My friends, though you may be gentlemen, you must not be weak and effete like those of your class. For God’s sake, look the facts straight in the face, and try to forget yourselves and your own petty feelings for the good of our country and our people which we serve. You would not listen to me before, against my counsel you used our mighty, our successful plan for the paltry purpose of getting our comrades out of prison. I tell you,” he asserted, bringing his powerful fist down on the table, “that they are all willing over there to die for the good cause. They are not, as we are, fond of life and liberty; they love the cause first, themselves not at all. Why should we care what has happened to Volenski? What is one man against the weal of millions?”
He looked inspired now, a prophet of the Utopia that dwelt in all their hearts, the Utopia at which some of them would have arrived by the most gentle of means, but which this man would conquer by fire and sword.
They all knew what they would hear next; they knew what Mirkovitch had all through wished them to do. Most of them would willingly have stopped their ears not to hear the dreaded manifesto that this powerful man would in the next moment hurl at them.
“We have often had speeches here,” resumed Mirkovitch once more, “to inflame our enthusiasm against the tyrants that hold our destinies and those of our fellow-men in the palm of their hands. I am no orator; the speeches did not come from me. Some of you, who to-night seem weakest, spoke the loudest then. But I tell you, we have a great weapon in our hands against them, the one weapon that must, sooner or later, lay them prostrate at our feet, asking for the mercy they have never granted us.
“That weapon isfear. Let us strike terror in their hearts, my friends; they have no other vulnerable points. When we can, let us strike in the dark, at all times swiftly and surely, so that in days to come, very soon, they will look at each other with blanched faces and trembling lips, and murmur what they dare not say out loud, ‘My turn next perhaps.’ It is then, and then only, that we shall be the masters, when cowardly fear will place them grovelling at our feet. Then we can dictate, then we can negotiate, and before then what matter Dunajewski or Volenski, or a hundred such? What are their lives that we should hesitate for a moment to wield the weapon our own efforts have placed in our hands?”
He sat down once more, and a dead silence followed this speech. Enthusiasm was once more kindling in the gloomy faces around, once more the man with the iron will had imposed it on his weaker comrades, and when his mocking eyes again travelled round the room he could read on the faces before him the result of his powerful words; he could read it in the gradual disappearance of the anxious looks, the unspoken terrors; could read it in the young, dreamy eyes, now once more burning with the glow of enthusiasm, the thirst for valiant deeds, at peril of life and freedom.
“Mirkovitch is right,” was heard on all sides.
Perhaps some of them still shuddered when they realised what his being right meant to the helpless prisoner in the Heumarkt, but they were very few now, and when the president’s anxious eyes and Mirkovitch’s triumphant ones scanned all the faces there, they knew that if the grim Socialist’s wish was put to the vote there would be many “ayes” and very few “noes.”
“After all, my friends,” resumed the stalwart Russian, now laying his trump card on the table, “I am sure, if you were asked, you, none of you, would wish to see our great plot come ignominiously to grief through the liberation of our prisoner by the Russian police, and all of us convicted without having attained anything, after having dared so much. Any hour, any minute now, may see us all in the clutches of the Third Section, while Nicholas Alexandrovitch leaves my house free and unscathed. Every second heightens our peril and diminishes the chances of our triumph. At least if we fall, for there seems no likelihood of our being able to escape undetected, let us have accomplished something that will leave our names for ever glorified in the eyes of every patriot in Russia.”
Thus was the doom of the prisoner sealed; very little discussion followed. Unwillingly, but still unanimously, they had given their consent to the dastardly deed which Mirkovitch but too willingly offered to do for them. One or two of them asked for a respite—twenty-four hours—during which, after all, some news of Volenski might yet arrive. The old Socialist, satisfied at having carried his point, willingly agreed to wait till the morrow, and a final meeting therefore was convened for the next day, at the same hour. The president had said nothing. What was his influence against that of his grim comrade? The tide of feeling, a mixture of mistaken duty and misguided enthusiasm, had sealed the fate of the young Tsarevitch.
The weight of indecision seemed to have been lifted from the minds of them all. Although they neither smoked nor chatted, according to their wont, the gloom had quite given place to irrevocable determination. No more questions or surmises were put forward as to Volenski’s probable fate or their own certain doom. The word “assassination” had sounded once, pronounced by many lips with a shudder. It was now called “execution”; Mirkovitch, the willing executioner; they, the judges who had arrested and condemned a prisoner just as their tyrants did with the millions over which they held sway.
Half an hour later they were all preparing to depart, sober and silent, with thoughts of the great morrow. No one had taken much notice of Maria Stefanowna, whose large dark eyes had been fixed on her father, as if he held her in a trance. When most of them had gone she also slipped out of the room, not waiting to see if Mirkovitch was accompanying her, as she brushed past him. Out in the street she hailed afiaker, jumped in alone, and was driven rapidly in the direction of the Heumarkt.
Maria Stefanowna’sposition in the great Socialist brotherhood was a curious one. The only woman among so many men, she yet knew all their secrets and plans, and, though young, had often been of good counsel to them.
Mirkovitch, her father, had early in life accustomed his motherless daughter to his mysterious ways and curious, weird speeches. Maria had been born and bred in the hatred of the rulers who sat upon the Russian throne, and listened to all her father’s sometimes bloodthirsty schemes, not often sharing in them, but always with silent approval.
When the brotherhood, after full deliberation, decided to entrust her with the most importantrôlein the abduction of the Tsarevitch, she felt proud and happy at the thought of being for the first time of use to the great cause, which she had just as much at heart as the most enthusiastic among them. When Dunajewski and his comrades had been arrested the girl’s ears were filled with horrible tales of the tortures they would undergo, both whilst in prison at Moscow and afterwards during that weary tramp across the snowy desert, with horrible intervals of so-called rest in overcrowded, evil-smelling halting-places; then the mercury mines, that in three years change the hale and hearty youth into an old man, palsied and imbecile.
And the cruel fate could be spared them if she, Maria, was clever enough to play the part that had been assigned to her, could lure the Tsarevitch into a prison, not only comfortable, but luxurious, where he would only be kept until those poor martyrs at Moscow were once more restored to liberty and happiness.
She threw herself into the part of the enterprising odalisque, with the finesse and coquetry peculiar to all the daughters of the East, and the next day was able to receive with pride and delight the congratulations and thanks of the brotherhood, assembled to do her honour.
She guessed her father’s dark thoughts with regard to the helpless prisoner under his charge, but so far had had no occasion to tremble for his safety. She knew most of her comrades as being of refined and temperate nature, knew the high-minded, aristocratic president, the gentle and dreamy Poles, who were in strong majority, and felt that her father’s evil designs would be held well in check.
But when Volenski, the trusted messenger, gave no sign of the success of his mission, when all spirits waxed gloomy and lips began to murmur, Maria’s heart began to beat anxiously, both for the safety of the young captive, and for the honour of the cause.
The great cause that she revered and worshipped, to which she meant to dedicate her life, was about to be polluted by a crime so foul, so cowardly, that Maria Stefanowna’s whole soul rose in rebellion, and imperiously demanded of her woman’s wit to find a means of averting so terrible a catastrophe; and it had been she who had led Nicholas Alexandrovitch to what threatened to become an unknown grave. She looked shuddering at her hands, and wondered if some of the young blood would not leave on them a life-long stain.
All night she paced up and down her room in restlessness and terror. At times she thought she could hear her father’s footsteps creeping stealthily towards the prisoner’s room, and then she had to stop her ears not to hear the last agonised cry of the young man, surprised and helpless in the hands of his assassin.
It was broad daylight before her nerves and brain found a short respite from the terrible anxiety that had tortured her, since that last decisive speech of her father’s at the meeting last night. Woman-like, she had obstinately pondered till she thought she saw a way out of the difficulty. Being a Russian she was very devout. She prayed long and earnestly for the success of her scheme, which was to save the prisoner from murder, and her comrades, her father, the great cause itself from eternal shame.
Ithad been a weary, an anxious time of waiting for Count Lavrovski, while forced to sit patiently at the hotel, watching for news of the truant, and sending reports of the Tsarevitch’s imaginary attack of measles to the authorities at home.
But obviously the deception could not be carried on much longer. Already the Tsaritsa had spoken of coming herself to Vienna and nursing her son, and one or two imperious demands had been made through the ambassador for bulletins, signed by the great physicians, who no doubt had been called in to attend upon the illustrious patient. A day or two more would see the catastrophe, all the more terrible as Lavrovski’s deceit would be taken as a sure sign of complicity; and the old Russian now cursed his own weakness in not having immediately shifted the responsibility of this fearful calamity from his own shoulders, which would have been, as events proved, by far the wisest course to pursue. Disgrace would have been the result then—perhaps an order to spend a couple of years abroad; but now he saw no hope before him, only a vision of Siberia, there to end the last years of his life.
He had looked, half shudderingly, half resolutely, at the tiny revolver that would be his supreme and forlorn hope. No doubt, in consideration of his long years of faithful service to the family, his Imperial master would grant him the inestimable boon of death, instead of the slow tortures of a Siberian prison.
Oh! how Count Lavrovski wished he had never consulted that French detective, or having done so, had confided the whole truth to him, for had he not led him into these additional days of deception, which he felt would prove his ruin?
While Volenski, stricken down by his persistent ill-luck, had at last found in physical prostration merciful oblivion from the harrowing anxieties of the past few days, Count Lavrovski, in no less pitiable a plight than the young Pole himself, sat meditating as to whether he would once more seek out the old detective, this time armed with the determination to tell him all, or whether he would send a wire at once to Petersburg asking for immediate help. The latter was undoubtedly the wiser course. Prudence and duty both dictated it, but human nature, ever prone to put off an evil moment to some more distant time, begged inwardly for more delay.
It was, therefore, with a mixture of buoyant hope and surprise that Count Lavrovski heard that a lady desired to speak with him on a matter of urgent business. She had refused to give her name, the waiter said, but had asked him to tell the Count that she was the bearer of a message from M. Furet.
“Show her up at once,” said Lavrovski eagerly.
What could it be but good news? Something of importance the detective had heard and wished to communicate with him at once. Count Lavrovski rose as M. Furet’s purported messenger entered the room, and bowed instinctively as he beheld a lady of refined bearing—so different from the usual female detective’s aid he had expected to see. Her face was closely veiled, but her figure and general appearance bespoke youth as well as refinement.
She took the chair which the old Count was offering her, and dexterously placed it so that her back was against the window, while Lavrovski’s face remained in full light.
“Monsieur le Comte,” she began courteously, “I must first tender you my humble apologies for the slight deception I have been forced to practise upon you. I wished to make sure of being allowed to see you without delay, and used M. Furet’s name as an introduction to your presence. I am not his messenger.”
“But, madame—mademoiselle——” stammered Lavrovski, bewildered at this strange preamble, “I——”
“You are at a loss to understand,” rejoined the stranger, “how I knew that M. Furet’s name would be a passport to you. I will tell you that presently, when I have delivered you the message with which I am entrusted, and for which I will venture to ask your kind attention.”
Count Lavrovski was too bewildered to reply. There was a slight pause whilst the mysterious stranger was evidently collecting her thoughts, and Lavrovski instinctively felt some dread he could not account for, some undefinable fear that he would hear a message of life and death.
“I think I am right in stating, monsieur,” she resumed, “that you are at this moment in grave anxiety concerning the disappearance of an august personage whom I need not name. That is so, is it not?”
Lavrovski had half expected this, and yet he turned pale with emotion when he heard this stranger so calmly talking of this dreaded subject. He did not reply; the lady seemed not to expect it, for she proceeded at once.
“Let me assure you first of all, monsieur, that that august personage is well in health, and for the present in no personal danger.”
She emphasised the words “for the present,” watching the effect on Lavrovski’s face.
“True,” she continued, “he is a prisoner at this moment, in a prison at once luxurious and comfortable. But he is in the power of persons—those whose emissary you see before you—who will be only too glad to give him back his freedom.”
A look of relief crossed the old Russian’s face. He thought he understood it all now. In spite of her sex, her well-cut clothes, and refined appearance this woman was one of a gang of desperadoes, who lived by abducting persons, instead of stealing goods, demanding high ransoms, like wayside brigands. Well! thank God! there was no great harm done, and money in Russia is always plentiful when needed. Count Lavrovski without another word took out his pocket-book, and laying it down on the table said simply—
“Name the price.”
“It is my object, in coming here to-day, to do so,” said the stranger imperturbably; “but I will ask you, Count Lavrovski, to put back that pocket-book—the price of the Tsarevitch’s liberty is not contained therein.”
Lavrovski stared in mute surprise; every minute of this strange interview plunged him into ever-growing mazes of astonishment.
Then, rapidly and to the point, Maria Stefanowna plunged into her subject. She hardly paused to take breath, she had arranged the whole interview so thoroughly in her mind during those long, harrowing hours she had spent pacing up and down her room last night. She explained to the now almost bewildered old courtier the daring plot that had placed the heir to the Russian throne a helpless prisoner in the hands of a few young enthusiasts. She explained to him her own share in the matter, recalled to his mind the mysterious odalisque, and assured him that the august prisoner’s comforts were attended to by herself with the utmost care.
She spoke in clear, well-defined tones, with a briskness that fairly took Count Lavrovski’s breath away. The old Russian listened, horror-struck, to the open allusions or covert threats of his Imperial Highness’s dangerous position. He heard with amazement how so monstrous a thing had been planned and executed on so sacred and august a personage by a gang of young men whose very existence he had been ignorant of, and he realised at once how futile would have been any effort on his part, or M. Furet’s, to fight so many enemies in the dark.
“I think, monsieur, I have now made it clear to you, that the Tsarevitch’s life is entirely in the hands of those who hold him prisoner, and my purpose in coming here to-day is to tell you on what conditions Nicholas Alexandrovitch shall be restored to life and liberty.”
“Conditions, madame? I will hear no conditions,” exclaimed Count Lavrovski, who at last recovered his speech at this outrageous audacity. “Death, swift and sudden, shall overtake you, one and all, and those who have sent you. Thank God, the Russian police are far-seeing, far-reaching enough to reach the son of its beloved Emperor, without having to listen to conditions dictated by such as you.”
He had jumped up full of wrath, and his hand was already on the bell-pull, in order to summon Stepán to guard this villainous emissary of evil tidings, while he himself sent forthwith to Petersburg for the wherewithal to punish this daring crew.
Maria Stefanowna had sat there unmoved; her foot tapping rapidly on the ground was the only sign of impatience she gave.
“Monsieur, remember,” she said quietly, “that if you pull that bell your young master will be dead before another night has passed over his head.”
The old Russian understood. What a fool he was! The woman spoke truly. What could he do but wait patiently, meekly, to hear the manifesto of these wretches who held the dagger against a Tsarevitch’s heart?
Later, perhaps, revenge might come, but now they must negotiate, treat with them, however galling it might be.
“You are right, madame! No doubt you and your companions know how completely we are in your power, or they would never have dared to send you to me.”
Then with a violent effort at self-control he added—
“I will listen to what you have to say.”
Maria Stefanowna gave a sigh of satisfaction. She had gained his undivided attention, as well as his confession of the power she held in her hand. The plan she had formed in her mind needed now but propounding; she was sure at least of undivided hearing.
“Monsieur,” she said, “although I own that the prisoner we hold in our power is one whose safety and liberty are of vast importance to—shall we say?—onesection of the Russian Empire, at the same time, perhaps, it has never struck you that he, in the person of his adherents and officials, holds captive many a one whose life and liberty are also of infinite value. Have you ever heard the name of Dunajewski mentioned before now?”
The old courtier knew it well, the ardent, unforgiving Nihilist, whose capture, together with a score of his comrades, a month ago, had been the triumph of the Third Section. He guessed now what this woman’s object was in coming to him. An interchange of prisoners it was to be. Great heavens! What mattered it if the world was populated with thousands of liberated convicts, as long as that one precious life was safe?
“I have here, monsieur,” Maria Stefanowna was saying, “a letter which we propose you should lay before your master the Tsar. In it we tell him that his son is in the hands of persons, who hold him as hostage under certain conditions. These conditions are—complete pardon for Dunajewski and his comrades now in prison, together with a free pass out of the country. On the day that they have crossed the frontier Nicholas Alexandrovitch will find his prison doors open, and afiakerready to drive him to his hotel.”
The old Count shuddered a little at the thought that he was to be the bearer of these fearful tidings; that he it was who would have to tell the anxious parents that their son was even now a captive within range of an assassin’s dagger. Visions of the terrible revenge the Cæsars were wont to wreak on the messengers of evil news, rose before his mind, and he thought of that momentous question the sorely-tried mother and father would put to him, “What hast thou done with our son?”
“Is that all that is contained in the letter?” he asked with an effort.
“Not quite all,” she said. “In it we repeat to the Tsar what I here solemnly declare to you.”
“And that is?”
“That we wish you to remember, monsieur, that you have no cause for the fear that Nicholas Alexandrovitch is in danger of his life. Give us back our comrades, and we will hand you over our hostage as well in health as enforced captivity will allow. But also bear always in mind this one all-important fact, that the other side of the wall, where the Tsarevitch lives, breathes, and sleeps, stands a guardian grim, determined, ever wakeful. He needs nought but some confirmed fear, perhaps the sound of an alien footstep on the stairs, and the dagger ever held in his unerring hand will be plunged straightway in the prisoner’s heart.”
The old courtier bowed his head, and sat for some time mute, horror-stricken. It all seemed like the most terrible nightmare, this daring plot, these fanatics, and he the unjust steward who had betrayed his trust, and now was being, oh!—so cruelly punished for the wrongs he had committed. Who knows? had he been less cowardly, had he trusted to the great system of Russian police, they might have succeeded in dealing the return blow to these miscreants before they had had time to realise that they themselves were in danger. Alas! it was too late to mourn now. He, Lavrovski, the Russian police, aye, the Tsar and Tsaritsa themselves, were in these villains’ hands, and nothing could be done to crush them, to torture them, to annihilate this young messenger, who came to him with a smile on her lips and the threat of death in her hands.
He read the letter through that was to be laid before the Tsar, then he looked up at the young figure before him, and vainly tried to read behind the closely drawn veil all that there was of enthusiasm, of eagerness, of mistaken sense of the rights of man.
“Madame,” he said at last, “I have no doubt that when your friends sent you to me to-day they knew that my consent to their demands was a foregone conclusion. The hostage you all hold is so precious a one that it is not for me to take vigorous measures unaided, for coercing you into submission. If my young master’s life is, as you say, in danger—and whilst he is in your hands I doubt not but what it is—no action of mine shall increase that danger. It is for his Imperial Majesty the Tsar to decide what shall be your fate, for, believe me, a crime such as you have perpetrated will not remain unpunished long. Sooner or later it will bring its own doom, even though you may seemingly obtain your wishes now. I will take your letter to my Imperial master, and he shall decide what course he will wish to pursue.”
He had said this with much dignity. Maria Stefanowna rose. There was nothing more for her to do; her self-imposed task was accomplished. Once alone she would feel able to think of it as such, and try to realise whether she had gained a great victory or delivered herself, her father, and her friends, bound hand and foot, into the hands of the enemy.
She rose, and Lavrovski accompanied her to the door, courteous as ever, though in his heart he would have wished to crush this emissary of evil tidings. For some time he sat, his head buried in his hands, then he rang the bell and ordered the Russian valet to pack his valise and bag, and be ready to leave the city by the evening express. The latter, schooled to unquestioning obedience, manifested no surprise, asked for no explanations, and was ready at the time appointed to take the journey to Petersburg with Count Lavrovski.
The old Count started with a heavy heart; the terrible adventure into which the Tsarevitch’s impetuosity had led them both was, as he feared, threatening to end tragically, not for the heir to the throne probably—though who could trust these murderous Socialists?—but to himself, the innocent one, who would be made the scapegoat, the whipping-boy, on whom the Imperial wrath would be free to vent itself.
Onceout in the streets Maria Stefanowna breathed freely again, and lifted the heavy veil from her face. She was not afraid of being followed, for she well knew that in one thing at least she had completely succeeded, and that was in so absolutely terrifying that pusillanimous old courtier, that he would think of nothing save of the means of reaching Petersburg in as short a time as possible, and then shifting all responsibility as to the Tsarevitch’s safety on to other shoulders.
Before she encountered the members of the brotherhood again, however, Maria Stefanowna wished to be alone with her thoughts. Her resolution to dare this greatcouphad been taken so suddenly, her one great anxiety as to the best means of preventing the hideous contemplated murder had been so overwhelming, that it never occurred to her to conjecture as to which view her father and the committee would take of her interference in their affairs.
She had acted from motives of justice and honour, consulting only her woman’s heart, and knew that certainly the president and most of the older and more temperate men would approve of what she had done.
Probably had they been given time and opportunity to think over the whole matter themselves, they would have desired some such plan as she had carried through herself. But Mirkovitch’s powerful speeches, breathing of hatred for the tyrant and all his kindred, impressive and enkindling as they were, carried all their more feeble wills before his strong personality. And they had never paused to think of the hideousness of their crime, but thirsted with Mirkovitch for vengeance when they began to realise that their messenger had somehow failed them.
As to what had actually happened to Iván Volenski, Maria Stefanowna could not conjecture; she dared not think that, perhaps, while she was striving for victory on her side, he should have fallen into the hands of the police, together with all the compromising papers he carried, and they all of them irretrievably lost, while Dunajewski and the other comrades were made free.
Ah! if that terrible thing had happened, if she was destined to see her father and all her friends arrested and dragged to Petersburg for trial—that trial a mockery—then she would pray to God that the vengeance which had slipped from their grasp they would vent on her, and punish her for her daring interference before she was allowed to witness their sufferings.
In the Franzgasse that night the meeting had been a gloomy, a melancholy one. Twenty-four hours more had elapsed and yet no sign or sound from Volenski. That some terrible mishap had befallen him there was now no room for doubt, and the only hope that remained in the heart of some was the faint one, that he had succeeded in destroying the compromising papers ere he allowed them to fall into wrong hands. For this hope they considered they had reasonable cause. The Tsarevitch was still a prisoner in the house in the Heumarkt, and they themselves were still free and unmolested. As for Volenski, much loved and esteemed as he was by all, their thirst for vengeance rose high when they thought of his probable fate.
Dunajewski and his comrades were now hopelessly lost, and Iván, no doubt, would be made to join them. Mirkovitch had said right, they none of them valued their lives and liberties; one and all of those martyrs out there in Moscow would willingly sacrifice both for the great cause, that was to free Russia for ever from the tyranny that places her in the hindmost ranks of civilisation.
Well, at least they should not remain unavenged! The last, lingering hesitation had vanished, the last feeling of honour and chivalry had died away; the refinement, to which Mirkovitch had so sneeringly alluded, was at last effectually smothered in the thirst for the annihilation of him, who was one of the hated crew, of him whom at least they held in their power.
No one noticed, as she entered some time after her father, that Maria Stefanowna was paler than usual, that her attentive, respectful attitude was changed to one of courage and determination.
The usual purposeless, wearying questions were put with regard to the possible news from Volenski, the usual conjectures put forward as to his probable fate, and that of the compromising papers.
Mirkovitch sat at the head of the table, drumming impatiently with his fingers, anxious evidently to hear the end of these barren conjectures and surmises.
“Too late to think of all that now,” he said at last, rising abruptly, unable to control his impatience; “let us to God take it for granted, that Dunajewski, Volenski, and the others are lost to us for ever, that on all of us the blow might fall at any hour, any moment, and let us give ourselves over in the meanwhile to the joy that is divine, the joy of vengeance.”
“Mirkovitch, you are right,” said a member of the committee; “I myself was one of those who wished to attain great ends by gentle means. I see now that we should all have been wiser to listen to your powerful counsels before; we should have saved our much-valued comrade, Volenski, from joining Dunajewski in a fate that we could not avert. There is no news of him to-day, though ten days have elapsed since he left us; he is either dead or a prisoner. I propose that sentence be passed onourcaptive, as, all but too soon, it will be passed on him.”
A curious joy illumined Mirkovitch’s stern features, a look of triumph flashed across his sunken eyes. His hands clenched, as if he already held in their grip the son of the great tyrant who ruled and oppressed the people; his tall figure seemed to grow even more majestic as he stood there, the prophet of that vengeance which is the Lord’s, the vengeance that would bring all the tyrants to their knees, grovelling in abject fear.
The president took no part in the proceedings, his whole being revolted against the bloodthirsty scheme, but he was powerless to withhold the tide of feeling, and therefore remained in implied, if not actual, approval.
Mirkovitch had said, “Let us vote,” and most hands were raised to give consent to the terrible deed. But Maria Stefanowna had at last gained sufficient composure, sufficient strength of mind to oppose her woman’s personality against this sea of masculine will-power.
Hardly were the words—
“You all consent then?” out of her father’s mouth, than she stood up opposite to him—alone, defiant.
“No, father, they donotconsent.”
All heads were turned towards the young girl, whose voice they were so unaccustomed to hear in these assemblies, whose very presence they no doubt had forgotten, or they never would have discussed the dreaded topic before her. She had latterly been so much one of themselves, that her very sex had been forgotten in good-fellowship andcamaraderie, and none had thought of forbidding her to come to-night when a death-sentence was to be passed, which her woman’s ear had no right to hear.
“Maria,” said Mirkovitch, somewhat gently, “I am sure all our friends will agree in blaming me severely for allowing you to be here to-night. The harm done, however, cannot now be undone; we must all of us only entreat of your good sense, of your patriotism, not to try to oppose your weak will against what has been decided for the good of the cause, but to endeavour to gather strength, such as is necessary, if you wish to become a useful member of the fraternity. In the meanwhile you must let me take you home. This is, indeed, no place for one so young as you.”
She had listened to him somewhat impatiently, though respectfully, since he was her father, but as soon as he paused she resumed—
“My friends, my comrades, my brothers. I have no right, I know, beyond that of friendship, to force you to listen to me, but I know so well what is passing in the minds of you all at this moment. You have none of you paused to think what a dastardly crime it is that you are all meditating——”
“Maria!” thundered Mirkovitch’s imperious voice.
“No, I will not stop, my father, even if you all should decide that my audacity shall be punished with the same assassin’s dagger you are even now sharpening for a helpless, defenceless youth.”
Mirkovitch had advanced towards his daughter, a dangerous look was in his eyes, ten pairs of hands interposed to prevent the father from striking that audacious daughter. No one else had spoken, and Maria had repeated: “No, that hideous, that low, dastardly crime will, thank God, never be accomplished.”
“And who will prevent it, Maria Stefanowna?” asked Mirkovitch, half wrathfully, half sneeringly.
“I will!” said Maria, and looked round quietly at the enthusiastic faces, all raised hopefully towards her.
Then, while silence fell on all those assembled, while Mirkovitch himself listened awe-struck at what her woman’s wit had imagined and carried out, she told them, in glowing words, of what she had thought and done, since twenty-four hours ago she first began to realise, that these Utopian dreamers were descending the path that leads to dishonour, low, abject, and irretrievable. She told them of her horror when she thought that it had been she, who had drawn an unsuspecting youth into a death-trap such as they were preparing for him; told them the misery the thought caused her, that it should be her own father’s hand that was destined to strike the cowardly blow.
Then she reminded them of the worthy object they had in view, when first they thought of abducting the young prince; she spoke to them of Dunajewski, of their comrades languishing, so far, in prison.
“Remember,” she said, “that that object was a noble one. Why should it ever have been abandoned? Our friend Volenski may have been arrested, stopped, it is true, but we have other means in our power still to save Dunajewski, and not to abandon Iván to his fate.”
They did not understand what she was driving at, but still they listened to her glowing words, unwilling to interrupt her. Then she began to tell them of what she had actually accomplished, her interview with Lavrovski, the old courtier’s attitude, his confession of impotence, the letter which she had given him to hand over to the Tsar, and which was but a replica of the one Volenski was taking across to Petersburg for them.
It seemed incredible that a young girl, who had seen so little of the world, should have been able to so coolly mature a plan of such wondrous audacity, and having matured it, should have been capable of so successfully carrying it through.
And it was wonderful to see the magical effect of the girl’s words on all the gloomy spirits round; the feeling of manhood, of uprightness, temporarily smothered under the dark thoughts of vengeance, struggled for mastery once more; young faces were once more aglow with enthusiasm, that breathed of exalted patriotism and love for their fellow-men.
Mirkovitch only looked grim and sullen still, though every now and then a careful observer would have noticed in his eyes a look of pride for the daughter that had done this deed.
When she had finished a silence fell over them all, but this time it was a silence of happiness, of relief after the oppression of the past twenty-four hours.
The president was the first to break it. He rose with much dignity, and went up to Maria Stefanowna, who still stood, her cheeks aglow, her eyes aflame, watching the result of her words, trembling, yet hopeful.
“Maria Stefanowna,” he said simply, “I think I speak the words of all those assembled when I say ‘I thank you!’ ”
These few words seemed to relieve the tension. An enthusiastic vote of thanks was passed to Maria, who now, woman-like, feared she might break down through over-mastering emotion.
Harmony seemed restored once more. Mirkovitch only sat smoking grimly and silently; the others were chattering gaily, and Maria was assailed with questions.
“When can we hear from Dunajewski as to whether they have crossed the frontier safely?”
Maria Stefanowna had thought of everything.
“It is to be officially announced in theFremdenblatt,” she said.
“And that very day, Mirkovitch, you will be relieved of your charge.”
“I think,” he said obstinately, “that all tyrants and their brood are best out of the world altogether. And in the meanwhile,” he added with his usual grimness, “we are to hope, I suppose, that Volenski and our papers are safe.”
But they refused to allow their enthusiasm to be damped. Hope reigned supreme in the committee-room in the Franzgasse to-night. The papers could not be in wrong hands, for the Tsarevitch was still a prisoner in the Heumarkt, and they themselves were still free; and if their papers were safe they had, they believed, every reason to hope that their messenger was likewise.
The meeting was prolonged far into the night. Happy conjectures now took the place of the gloomy ones, and Maria Stefanowna was the heroine of the hour. As soon as she felt quite convinced that her plan had been approved of, and that there was no more danger of her father reimposing his dark views upon them, she left them, followed by their cheers and blessings, to pray quietly in her own room that the rest of her plan might turn out as successfully as the beginning.
Far away in a foreign though hospitable land, in a hotel and surrounded by strangers, this same comrade of theirs was hovering between life and death in the throes of an acute brain fever. The strain had been too great; the aching brain refused to bear any further burden. And the compromising papers—the fated candlesticks; where were they now? In whose hands would they fall? Would, after all this plucky fighting, the victory remain in other hands, and if so, would God grant that they were not the hands of deadliest enemies?
Itwas about a week later, that Nicholas Alexandrovitch, wearied by long captivity, was surprised late one evening to find on his supper-table a neatly folded silk handkerchief, together with a letter addressed to himself. Any news to a prisoner is always good news. He tore the envelope open with eager alacrity, and read with amazement the following brief communication:—
“If Nicholas Alexandrovitch will securely tie round his face the accompanying handkerchief, and allow, without resistance, some persons to lead him out of his present abode into afiaker, he will find himself restored to complete liberty. The persons entrusted to accompany Nicholas Alexandrovitch will wait upon him one hour after midnight.”
“If Nicholas Alexandrovitch will securely tie round his face the accompanying handkerchief, and allow, without resistance, some persons to lead him out of his present abode into afiaker, he will find himself restored to complete liberty. The persons entrusted to accompany Nicholas Alexandrovitch will wait upon him one hour after midnight.”
It would have been more than folly to allow foolish pride to stand in the way of possible escape. The thought that this might be some dangerous trap flashed through his mind, only to be instantly dismissed; had his gaolers wished to do him further bodily harm, or to remove him to some other place of safety, they had every power to do so without the preliminary farce of apprising him of their intentions, or of requesting him to blindfold his own eyes.
One hour after midnight he was ready, the handkerchief tied round his face. He heard the door open and the sound of several footsteps; then he felt his hands taken hold of by some powerful grip, and was led through the room and down the stone stairs he had climbed a fortnight ago with such buoyancy of spirit. Evidently he was under heavy escort, for it seemed to him that someone was walking in front of him and someone behind, whilst on each side a third and fourth guardian held each of his wrists in a relentless grip.
He was helped into afiaker, still blindfold and his wrists still tightly held, and after about a quarter of an hour’s drive the vehicle stopped, the doors were opened, and Nicholas Alexandrovitch was helped to alight. It seemed to him that the hold on his wrists slackened, then was released altogether; the next moment he heard the doors of thefiakerslammed to, and the vehicle start off at a breathless gallop. He realised that he was free, and alone, and rapidly tore the handkerchief away from his face. He looked round him bewildered. The street in which he was, was long and deserted—a row of houses, all built on the same pattern, not very brilliantly lighted, not a soul in sight, but in the far distance the now fast disappearingfiaker, a mere speck, which also was soon lost to view.
As if in a dream, and not knowing where he was, the Tsarevitch walked on for a little while at random, hoping to emerge soon on some more busy thoroughfare. Presently he met one or two passers-by, from whom he asked directions as to the best means of finding a vehicle at this hour of the morning, he being a stranger in the city and having lost his way.
The information was given him, and five minutes later Nicholas Alexandrovitch found himself once more in afiaker, this time being driven rapidly in the direction of the Hotel Impérial.
In the vestibule his faithful Russian valet awaited him, whose joy at seeing his young master safe and well seemed unbounded. Behind him stood two or three official-looking personages, who saluted respectfully as the Tsarevitch alighted. Lavrovski was not there, but an elderly man with a decoration in his buttonhole advanced, as Nicholas beckoned to him to follow him to his rooms.
“No doubt, monsieur,” said the Tsarevitch, “you are here for the purpose of giving me an explanation, how some miscreants succeeded in keeping the heir to the Russian throne under lock and key for fourteen days, before your minions managed to discover my whereabouts, and forced them to let me go free?”
“Your Imperial Highness,” replied the old official, “is justly wrathful at what must seem to you our unpardonable negligence, but——”
“You must have known I had mysteriously disappeared the night of the opera ball.”
“Count Lavrovski only thought fit to inform his Majesty that your Imperial Highness was confined to your room with a slight indisposition.”
“And——?”
“And it was not till four days ago that he arrived at Petersburg bearing the terrible news.”
“You were told, of course, at once to set all your staff at work?”
“I was given no orders, your Imperial Highness; and no one, not even I, knows what passed between his Majesty and Count Lavrovski; nor was I officially informed of your Imperial Highness’s terrible predicament. The day before yesterday I was ordered to take two of my chief officers with me, and with Stepán, your Imperial Highness’s valet, to proceed at once to Vienna, and stay at this hotel under some assumed names, always ready to receive your Imperial Highness whenever you arrived.”
“This all seems very mysterious; I cannot understand it. Are you then not to attempt to trace the daring abductors of my person?”
“We are only, it seems, to thank heaven that your Imperial Highness has been once more providentially restored to us. That is all the information I have—officially.”
“And privately?”
“Oh! mere conjectures.”
“I must hear them.”
“I will give them to your Imperial Highness for what they are worth. But it is not often that my long experience as chief of his Majesty’s police leads my instinct on a wrong track. Before I started for Vienna, I had in my hand his Majesty’s letter, granting a free pardon to the gang of Nihilists, headed by one named Dunajewski, who were waiting condemnation for their last attempt against the very life of our august monarch. The letter was accompanied with a free pass for all of them across the frontier, signed by his Majesty’s own hand, and to which I was ordered to affix the official seal.”
“And these Nihilists?”
“Were set free that very evening, and under safe escort crossed the frontier in the early hours of last night, when they were handed their passports, and left to go whither they chose.”
“Even now I do not quite understand.”
“An official telegram was sent from Russia announcing this unparalleled liberation of Nihilist convicts to every Viennese paper, who have published the news this morning.”
And the Russian chief of police took from his pocket a copy of theFremdenblattand one or two other papers, and handed them over to the Tsarevitch.
“Then you think that I was taken as hostage?”
The Russian nodded.
“This is mere supposition on my part,” he said.
“The right one, I feel sure, and my liberty was to be at the price of that of these ruffians.”
“That is why, no doubt, your Imperial Highness, that the eyes and hands of the Russian police remained tied——” Then he added between his teeth, “For the present.”
“And Lavrovski?”
The old Russian shrugged his shoulders.
“I will not have a hair of old Lavrovski’s head touched,” said the Tsarevitch impetuously; “he did enough to prevent my running after this mad adventure. He could do no more.”
“He should have communicated with us at once,” said the chief of the police resentfully; “we might have caught the villains.”
“And probably found me a dead man; no, no, my good Krapotkine, he acted for the best; he believed I had gone on a young man’s escapade, and wished to save my reputation. Lavrovski is not to blame.”
“No doubt your Imperial Highness has every influence to avert the disgrace from Count Lavrovski’s head. In the meanwhile I and my men are ready to escort your Imperial Highness back to Petersburg.”
“Like a schoolboy who has been playing truant. Well! I shall be glad to leave this city, with its unpleasant associations. We will start homewards to-night.”
And Nicholas Alexandrovitch, tired and enervated, dismissed the chief of the police with a smile and a bow.
It had been a curious adventure, and he wondered if he would ever hear the true version of it, or if those who had so daringly planned it, would ever come under the far-reaching clutches of the police.
That this was extremely unlikely both he himself and the astute Krapotkine were fully aware when, during the rapid journey back to Petersburg, they discussed the possibility of bringing the miscreants to justice.
The Tsarevitch himself had never as much as set eyes yet on any of his abductors; the only one he had ever seen throughout his captivity had been Maria Stefanowna, of whose face he caught but a mere glimpse in thefiakerthat eventful night, when she was disguised as the odalisque, and the two or threemoujiks, purported to be deaf-mute, who had been his servants and guardians in his imprisonment. That, through a description of them made by the Tsarevitch, some faint clue might be obtained was just possible; but Krapotkine well knew that the chances of tracing a man by mere verbal description are excessively remote. As for the house, or even the locality where so exalted a prisoner had lived and breathed for over two weeks, there was no hope of ever arriving at a conclusion as to its whereabouts. The Tsarevitch was a complete stranger in the city, and could not even have told in which direction it lay. The outside of the house he had never seen, nor anything in it, save the two rooms he had inhabited.
The chief of the police bit his moustache in impotent fury, when he realised how magnificently the whole plot had been carried through, and how, in all probability, the daring conspirators would also escape after the great victory they had gained, in the liberation of Dunajewski and his brother Nihilists.
The same night on which their prisoner was once more restored to liberty, at about the same hour, the members of the brotherhood sat once more together in committee, smoking and chatting gaily. The president, who seemed quite restored to his former urbane self, was talking of Maria Stefanowna, whom he regarded as the saviour of them all. All the older men looked up to her as one who had prevented lifelong remorse from haunting the rest of their lives; and the younger ones as the prophetess of their Utopia, who would lead them to victory through her wise counsels and daring deeds.
There was eager expectancy on all the faces round, and many were the glances that stole towards the clock that seemed to be ticking in a provokingly slow way.
Ah! at last! there was the sound of footsteps outside, and soon the door was opened, and four of the comrades, including Mirkovitch, came in. They were greeted with a unanimous cry of inquiry, “Well?”
“Well!” said Mirkovitch, “the last chapter of our sensational novel is closed. Dunajewski and our comrades are by now on their way to England, and Nicholas Alexandrovitch is discussing with Krapotkine the possibility of bringing us all into the clutches of the Third Section.”
Derisive laughter, full of gaiety, triumph, and enthusiasm, greeted this suggestion.
“That is an impossibility,” they all asserted; “they have not the faintest clue.”
They refused to listen to Mirkovitch’s threatening speeches, his regrets at the happy escape of one of the tyrant’s brood. They were discussing Dunajewski’s surprise when he found himself a free man, with a passport, allowing him and his comrades to go whither they chose. One or two of the older members had gone to meet them at Hamburg with money and clothes to enable them to embark for England.
Maria Stefanowna had gone with them. It had been thought wiser that she should be out of the country for a little while, both for her own safety and for that of all her comrades.
Let them, out there at Petersburg, do their worst to discover the originators of this great plot so complete in its victory. What could they do when there was no clue?
“None!” said Mirkovitch quietly, “except our papers, which we have entrusted to Volenski, and of which and of our messenger we have not the slightest news.”
If his wish was to damp an enthusiasm which he had not kindled, he certainly fully succeeded. It certainly did seem strange that no news of any sort or kind had been heard of the young Pole, since the night when he had announced his departure, under the protection of his Eminence the Cardinal, for the following morning; and nearly a fortnight had elapsed since then.
Though every confidence was still felt in the messenger, there was a curious restlessness—a vague, undefined fear appreciable when his name was mentioned. The president’s uneasiness at the topic was also decidedly ominous; but he evidently, though unable to account for Volenski’s protracted silence, would not allow the slightest doubt to be cast on his absent young friend’s good name.
The ugly word “traitor” had been whispered once or twice, but not in his hearing. The older men believed in some untoward accident to the messenger, but still hoped that the papers were safe.
It would be such a crushing blow, after the great victory, to have to face defeat so complete, so humiliating, with no hope of vengeance, now that their hostage was out of their hands; those papers were so hopelessly compromising, both to them and to those at Petersburg to whom they were addressed, that not one of them could possibly hope to escape.
The president, as usual, tried to reassure them, and to calm the tide of feelings that began to rise high against Volenski.
“Remember,” he said, “we must not condemn him unheard. After all, our papers cannot at this moment be in wrong hands, or we should not be sitting here unmolested, and what occurred an hour ago would not have taken place.”
That was obviously the case, and all felt perhaps a trifle reassured. Anyhow, it was but waste of time to sit and discuss Volenski’s possible movements at this moment. News, good or bad, was bound to reach them sooner or later, that would clear up this mystery.
Some future meeting in a day or two was arranged, and all prepared to leave. As Mirkovitch was about to turn to the door, something in the eyes of the old president made him pause and wait, till they two were left, the sole occupants of the room.
“You know something, Lobkowitz, what is it?”
“Look at this letter I received this morning.”
“From Volenski?”
“Read it.”
Mirkovitch began reading half aloud:—
“ ‘Charing Cross Hotel, London.“ ‘My dear Lobkowitz,—You will wonder at the place I am writing from, and still more so at what I can possibly be doing there. I have been at death’s door, my good friend, owing to a series of the most terrible misfortunes that could befall any man. Do not be alarmed, though the news I am at last able to send you is of a most terrible kind. The papers are out of my possession——’ ”
“ ‘Charing Cross Hotel, London.
“ ‘My dear Lobkowitz,—You will wonder at the place I am writing from, and still more so at what I can possibly be doing there. I have been at death’s door, my good friend, owing to a series of the most terrible misfortunes that could befall any man. Do not be alarmed, though the news I am at last able to send you is of a most terrible kind. The papers are out of my possession——’ ”
Here a half-suppressed oath escaped Mirkovitch’s lips, and his hands clenched themselves over the almost illegible letter, obviously written by a sick man, hardly able to hold the pen.
“For God’s sake read on,” said the president, “there is not a moment to be lost.”
“ ‘The most fatal conglomeration of mishaps’ [continued Mirkovitch] ‘originally deprived me of them, at the very moment when I had placed them in what I considered absolute safety. Since that terrible hour all my energies have been spent in recovering them, for, although I have always known where they were, they always have by some almost diabolical coincidence evaded my grasp at the very moment when my hand was, so to speak, upon them. At last the strain on my brain shattered my health, and I have been thrown on a bed of sickness. Again I say do not be alarmed. To the best of my belief no mortal eye has, as yet, rested upon our papers, and our secrets are still our own. But I am now too feeble to act alone, I must have help from one of you, and I may want a great deal of money. I dare not ask what has happened in Vienna, if our comrades are free, if, not hearing from me, you have dared to act, or if Nicholas Alexandrovitch still remains a hostage. For God’s sake, I beg of you, my friend, not to mistrust me, and, if possible, not to alarm our comrades unnecessarily. All is not lost yet, but I must have your help. Come as soon as you can.“ ‘Your friend and comrade,“ ‘Iván Stefanovitch Volenski.’ ”
“ ‘The most fatal conglomeration of mishaps’ [continued Mirkovitch] ‘originally deprived me of them, at the very moment when I had placed them in what I considered absolute safety. Since that terrible hour all my energies have been spent in recovering them, for, although I have always known where they were, they always have by some almost diabolical coincidence evaded my grasp at the very moment when my hand was, so to speak, upon them. At last the strain on my brain shattered my health, and I have been thrown on a bed of sickness. Again I say do not be alarmed. To the best of my belief no mortal eye has, as yet, rested upon our papers, and our secrets are still our own. But I am now too feeble to act alone, I must have help from one of you, and I may want a great deal of money. I dare not ask what has happened in Vienna, if our comrades are free, if, not hearing from me, you have dared to act, or if Nicholas Alexandrovitch still remains a hostage. For God’s sake, I beg of you, my friend, not to mistrust me, and, if possible, not to alarm our comrades unnecessarily. All is not lost yet, but I must have your help. Come as soon as you can.
“ ‘Your friend and comrade,
“ ‘Iván Stefanovitch Volenski.’ ”
Mirkovitch did not speak, made no comment; he crushed the letter in his hand, and there was a dark scowl on his face.
The president waited for awhile, he knew the fanatic Russian’s violent temper; he began to fear for his young sick friend, who already seemed to have suffered so much.
“I cannot go, unfortunately,” he said at last, “and there is no one I could trust more completely than you, Mirkovitch.”
“Oh! I will go, all right enough,” said Mirkovitch, “and take the money, since money is wanted; but,” he added fiercely, “let Iván look to himself if our papers fall into wrong hands.”
“It was a blunder, at worst, I feel sure,” said Lobkowitz; “Iván is no traitor, I pledge you my life as to that.”