As soon as Iván Volenski lost sight completely of Madame Demidoff’s
carriage, he, with a sigh of relief, retraced his steps up the wide
stairs of the opera house, and joined a couple of dominoes, who,
dressed like himself in uniform grey, stood isolated among the groups
of masks that encumbered the entrance to the _foyer_. Together all
three began sauntering in the direction of the Kolowrátring.
They walked on in silence for some time, smoking cigarettes and
pushing their way through the crowd as best they could.
On the Ringstrasse the scene was as gay as ever; laughing groups of
masks in bands of a score or so occupying the whole width of the
street made progress somewhat difficult. But the three grey dominoes
appeared in no very great hurry; they exchanged jests where repartee
was expected of them, and mixed with the crowd where it was impossible
to avoid it.
The sumptuous houses and gorgeously decorated shops on either side
were illuminated with many-coloured lights, changing this midnight
hour into light as broad as day. On the balconies, gaily festooned
with flowers, groups of onlookers gazed on the animated scene below,
whilst every now and then, from some opened windows, dreamy waltzes
and weird _csárdás_ mingled with the noisy street cries and
laughter, telling of aristocratic balls and parties given within,
where King Carnival was courted with equal mirth if somewhat less
exuberance and noise. Sometimes the groups of mummers would stop
beneath some of these windows and watch the bejewelled figures
flitting to and fro, and listen to the soft cadences of the gipsy
music--the one thing Hungarian, the Viennese cannot bring themselves
to despise.
But the three dominoes did not pause long, amidst this gay and
bustling scene, nor did the brilliantly lighted Ring appear to have
any attraction for them, for presently they turned into a side street,
uninviting and dark though it seemed; and being free to walk more
rapidly, soon left the sounds of merry laughter and revelry far behind
them.
Still they walked on in silence, not heeding now the few muffled masks
that passed them with a laugh and jest, on their way towards the gayer
part of the city.
With these few exceptions the streets they now crossed were completely
deserted; no illuminations from the windows proclaimed the reign of
King Carnival, no sound of dreamy waltz music lent a touch of
merriment to the dismal, stone-paved courtyards that yawned drearily
on either side.
Into one of these the three dominoes presently turned, and, without
waiting to reply to the _concierges_’ challenge as to whom they were
seeking at so late an hour, they found their way to the back stone
staircase, which was but dimly lighted by a hanging lamp, that
flickered in the draught, and threw weird shadows on the steps. Having
reached the second flight, one of the dominoes gave a peculiar
rhythmical knock on one of the doors facing him, which after a few
moments was thrown open, while an anxious voice asked--
“Is that you, Baloukine?”
“Yes,” replied the domino, “with Iván and Serge; let us in.”
The room which they now entered, furnished with an attempt at comfort,
half as office, half as smoking lounge, was filled with some twelve or
fourteen men, of all ages, and apparently, judging from their clothes,
of very mixed social positions; while four or five of them,
collarless, and probably shirtless, wore working jackets and clumsy
boots; some wore beautifully cut dress-clothes and spotless linen,
with a flower in their button-hole, and one elderly man, with pointed
grey beard, and handsome, aristocratic features, wore two or three
decorations fastened to his coat. All, however, whether peer or
peasant, seemed on the best of terms together, and smoking pipes and
cigarettes of peace and fraternity.
“What news?” asked half a dozen voices, as the new arrivals divested
themselves of their grey dominoes, and shook hands with those sitting
around.
“The best.”
“Where is he?” asked a voice.
“In Mirkovitch’s _fiaker_ with Maria Stefanowna.”
“And presently?”
“Mirkovitch’s guest at No. 21, Heumarkt.”
The questions and answers followed each other in rapid succession; the
tension of suspense had evidently been great, the relief at the news
obviously most welcome, for a sigh of satisfaction seemed to rise in
unison from a dozen heaving, oppressed chests.
“And Mirkovitch?” asked one of the older men.
“He will be here anon.”
“As soon as _he_ is safe under lock and key.”
“Then he is in our power?”
“Absolutely.”
“Did Lavrovski attempt to follow him?”
“Not till it was too late, and the _fiaker_ out of sight. He fell into
the trap, without a shadow of suspicion.”
There was a pause now; evidently much had to be thought of and serious
points considered, for during the next ten minutes not a sound
disturbed the stillness of the room, save the crackling of burning
logs in the wide chimney, and one or two whispered questions and
rapidly given answers.
Then a heavy tread was heard in the passage outside, the same
rhythmical knock on the door, while a gruff voice said--
“Mirkovitch.”
A herculean man, some six foot three in height, with long grey hair
thrown back from a massive forehead, and piercing grey eyes, half
hidden under a pair of bushy eyebrows, now joined the group of
smokers, greeting them all with but two words--
“All safe.”
“Prisoner?”
“Safely in my house; no windows, only a skylight. No chance of
discovery, and less of escape.”
“And Maria Stefanowna?”
“Did her part splendidly; he suspected nothing till he heard the door
locked behind him.”
“Did he speak?”
“Only to call himself a fool, which remark was obvious.”
“He asked no questions?”
“None.”
“The deaf-mute valet was there to receive him?”
“Yes, and waited on him, while he took some of the supper we had
prepared for him.”
“What about Lavrovski?” asked a voice from the further end of the
room.
“He went back to his box, and is waiting there now, I should imagine.”
“In the meanwhile, Mirkovitch, you have promised us the best possible
treatment for our prisoner.”
“Yes,” said Mirkovitch grimly. “I hate him, but I will treat him well.
The deaf-mute is a skilled valet, the rooms are comfortable, the bed
is luxurious, the food will be choice and plentiful. Very different,”
he added sullenly, “from what Dunajewski and the others are enduring
at this moment.”
“They are practically free now,” said a young voice enthusiastically;
“we can demand their liberty; let them refuse it, if they dare.”
“Yes,” added Mirkovitch with a smile, “it would go hard with Nicholas
Alexandrovitch now if they refused to let our comrades go.”
“To business, friends, there is no time for talk,” said the
authoritative voice of the elderly man, who wore decorations.
The cigarettes and pipes were with one accord put aside, and all
chairs turned towards the table placed in the centre of the room, on
which stood a lamp tempered with a green shade, and, scattered all
about, loose bundles of papers, covered with writing and signatures.
“There are many points to decide,” resumed he, who appeared to be a
leader amongst them; “the deed, accomplished to-night, thanks to those
heads who planned, and those arms who executed it, great as it is, has
still a greater object in view. This, we over here cannot attain; the
turn of Taranïew and the brothers in Petersburg has now come, to do
their share of the work.”
The chairman paused, all heads nodded in acquiescence, then he
resumed--
“We have been obliged to act very hurriedly, and on our own
initiative. Taranïew and the others, so far, know absolutely
nothing.”
“They must hear of it at once,” said one voice.
“And cease any plotting of their own,” assented another.
“It could only now lead to certain disaster,” agreed the chairman, “if
they were in any sort of way to draw the attention of the Third
Section on themselves.”
“Or us!” grimly added Mirkovitch.
“Obviously, therefore, our messenger’s duty to them will be twofold,”
said the president. “The bringing of the great news, as it now stands,
and our instructions as to the next course they must follow to attain
the noble object we all have in view.”
“Yes, the letter to Alexander III.,” said a young voice eagerly.
This was the important point; more eagerness in the listeners, more
enthusiasm among the younger men was, if possible, discernible.
“I have here,” said the president, taking a document from the table,
“with the help of the committee, embodied our idea as to how that
letter should be framed.”
“It will be an appetising breakfast relish for the autocrat of all the
Russias when he finds it, as he does all our written warnings,
underneath his cup of morning coffee,” sneered Mirkovitch, who had
been sitting all this while smoking grimly, and muttering at intervals
short sentences between his teeth, which boded no good to the prisoner
he had under his charge.
“Our letter,” said the president, “this time will contain the
information that the Tsarevitch is, at the present moment, in the
hands of some persons unknown, and that those persons will continue to
hold him a hostage till certain conditions are complied with.”
“Those conditions being?” queried one of the bystanders.
“Complete pardon for Dunajewski, and all those who are in prison with
him in connection with that last plot, together with a free pass out
of the country.”
“Nicholas Alexandrovitch to be set free the day that they have crossed
the frontier,” added a member of the committee.
“If in answer to this he simply sets the Third Section on our track?”
queried a voice diffidently.
“The message shall also contain a warning,” said Mirkovitch grimly.
“That in case the police are mixed up in the matter----?”
“They would not even find a dead body.”
A pause followed this ominous speech. This was the dark side of this
daring plot; the possible murder of a helpless prisoner. Yet they all
knew it might become inevitable; the hostage’s life might have to be
weighed against theirs in case of discovery, and, instead of barter,
there might be need for revenge.
“They will never dare to refuse,” said the president, endeavouring to
dispel the gloom cast over most of these young people by the
suggestion of a cold-blooded murder; “there will be no need for
measures so unworthy of us.”
“They know how completely the Tsarevitch’s life is in our hands,” said
Mirkovitch authoritatively. “They cannot defy us, they are bound to
treat and bargain with us. We might demand the freedom of every
convict now languishing in Siberia, and they would have to remember
that the heir to all the Russias sleeps with a dagger held over his
heart, and be bound to grant what we ask.”
“But let them be just and merciful, and we will be so likewise,” added
the president’s more gentle voice; “let Dunajewski and all those
concerned in the last plot cross the frontier with a free pass, and
that day the Tsarevitch will be restored to liberty. But let Alexander
understand also that, the day on which there is the slightest
suspicion of police investigation, the life of the hostage will from
that hour be considered forfeited.”
There was no reply to this; the president had been putting into words
the decision of all those assembled. Mirkovitch still sat, his
powerful fist clutched on the table, in his eyes a dark, lurid fire
that told of dangerous thoughts.
“There is one person whom, I think, the committee have omitted to
consider,” said a voice at last, breaking the silence, that had lasted
some minutes, “and that is Lavrovski.”
“Pardon me,” said the president, “we have, I think, all thought of
that incompetent, though, at the present moment, important personage,
and all reflected as to what his possible attitude would be
throughout.”
“I have not the slightest doubt,” said a voice from the further end of
the table, “that it will take Lavrovski some days before he will make
up his mind to communicate with his own government.”
“Yes,” assented another, “I have met him in Petersburg once or twice,
and he has always given me the idea of being a weak and irresolute
man.”
“Whose first feeling, when he realises--and it will take him some days
to do that--that the Tsarevitch has effectually disappeared, will be
one of intense terror, lest the blame for the disappearance be
primarily laid upon him, and he be despatched to Siberia to expiate
his negligence.”
“And the fool puts up with being a mere valet to a dynasty who would
treat him with such baseness, and serving a government which, at the
first opportunity, would turn on him and whip him like a cur,”
muttered Mirkovitch wrathfully.
“We have, therefore, every chance in our favour,” resumed the
president, “that Lavrovski will _not_ communicate with Petersburg, at
any rate for the first few days, whilst he will be busying himself in
trying to obtain some clue or idea as to his charge’s whereabouts.”
“He may probably,” suggested someone, “employ some private detective
in this city, and, until that hope has failed him, endeavour to keep
the Tsarevitch’s disappearance a secret from the Russian government.”
“Be that as it may,” concluded the president, “I think we may safely
presume that our messenger will get a few days’ start on that
slowly-moving old courtier, and three days is all he will need to seek
out Taranïew, who will lose no time in seeing that the letter reaches
its proper destination.”
“You are, of course, presuming all the time,” now said a voice--an
elderly man’s voice, sober and sedate--“that Lavrovski, thinking only
of his own safety, will at first merely endeavour to keep the matter
of the disappearance of his charge as much of a secret as possible;
those of our friends who know him best, seem, by judging his pretty
well known dilatoriness, to have arrived at this conclusion, which no
doubt is the right one. But we must all remember that there is one
other person--shall I say enemy?--whom Lavrovski may, in spite of his
fears, choose for a confidant, and that person is neither dilatory nor
timorous, and has, moreover, an army of allies of every rank in Vienna
to help her both speedily and secretly--you all know who I mean.”
The question was not answered. What need was there of it? They all
knew her by reputation, the beautiful Madame Demidoff, and all
suspected and feared her; yet who dared say she was a spy or worse,
this _grande dame_ who was one of the ornaments of Viennese society?
“I spoke to her at the opera ball to-night,” said Iván Volenski, who
up to this point had taken very little part in the discussion.
“She was there then?” queried an anxious voice.
“She always is everywhere where there is a brilliant function,”
replied Iván, “and it is just possible that she may have had
instructions to keep her dainty ears open, whenever she came across
any of her compatriots; when I met her, it was just after Maria
Stefanowna had driven off in the _fiaker_, Madame Demidoff was wanting
her carriage, and asked me to help her in finding it.”
“No doubt she is our greatest danger,” said the president, “for if
anything did rouse her suspicions to-night, she certainly would not
hesitate to employ a whole army of private and police detectives, and
may force our hand before our brothers at Petersburg have had time to
play the trump card.”
“After all,” said Mirkovitch, “if we find that she is exerting her
powers too much, it is always within our means to give her a warning,
that the Tsarevitch’s life is in actual danger through her
interference.”
“Anyhow, my friends,” now concluded the president, “it is well that,
knowing our foes, we keep a strict watch over them. After all, let us
always remember that, though we all risk our lives and liberties,
they, in their turn, must first see that the Tsarevitch is quite safe.
We hold the most precious of hostages; for once we are absolutely
masters of the situation. I don’t think we gain anything by discussing
any further what Lavrovski and Madame Demidoff may or may not do. They
must be strictly watched, that is evident, but the message to
Taranïew is the important point; we can include as many conditions in
our letter as we like, and leave them at Petersburg to do the rest.”
“Yes, the message, the papers,” was the unanimous assent to the
president’s last decision.
He took up the papers one by one that were lying on the table, and
divided them into two bundles.
“These,” he said, handing one of the packets to his neighbour, “are
not of much value, and in view of the approaching crisis, in my
opinion, had better be destroyed. Will you all glance through them and
decide?”
The papers were handed round, carefully examined by most of those
present, and the president’s decision being endorsed, they were
consigned to the flames.
“This,” said the president, with a certain amount of solemnity, “is
our account of the Tsarevitch’s abduction, as planned and executed by
us; and this is the letter, which Taranïew must find means of
conveying into Alexander III.’s own hands; these two papers, together
with this small bundle of notes and plans, relating to our
brotherhood, are the vital things which we will entrust to our chosen
messenger for safe delivery into Taranïew’s keeping. We are thus
giving into his hands, not only our own lives and liberties, who are
assembled here to-night, but the last hopes of Dunajewski and our
unfortunate companions who are in prison. Would to God there was no
necessity for so much written matter--hopelessly compromising to so
many of us--to be taken across the frontier, but unfortunately that
necessity is an imperative one, and we must remember that we all may
trust our messenger implicitly.”
All eyes were now turned towards Iván Volenski, as, almost trembling
with emotion, he had received, from the president’s hands, the letters
and papers which were held out towards him.
Descended from an ancient and once glorious family, Iván Volenski was
now private secretary and confidant to his Eminence Cardinal d’Orsay,
the Papal Nuncio, accredited to the courts of Paris, Vienna, and
Petersburg. But the Polish blood within him could not rest peacefully
in the midst of comfortable surroundings. The spirit of plotting
peculiar to his countrymen--fanatical, hot-headed, and
enthusiastic--had thrown him into the arms of this Socialistic
brotherhood, for whose sake he daily risked his position, his liberty,
his very life.
In the midst as it were of diplomatic and social life, Iván Volenski
was a priceless ally to these plotters, who needed men of his stamp,
that mixed in the very society they wished to annihilate, and could
keep them well informed of the comings and goings of the exalted
personages whom they wished to attack.
It was Volenski who found out for his comrades that the Tsarevitch was
in Vienna under the strictest incognito, attended only by an elderly
court functionary and a confidential Russian valet, and staying at the
Hotel Imperial under an assumed name, and in the guise of a private
gentleman, remaining in town to view the Carnival.
Then it was that the daring plan was conceived by some of these
fanatics, to obtain possession of so august a hostage, and then barter
his liberty against that of some comrades in Russia, who, implicated
in an abortive intrigue, were awaiting condemnation, languishing in a
Moscow prison.
Iván Volenski now leaned across the table and said, turning to the
president--
“I am proud and happy to feel that it is in my power to render the
brotherhood so great a service. I will convey the letter, the news,
and the papers, safely to Petersburg.”
Many hands were stretched across the table towards the young Pole, who
grasped them warmly.
“When can you start?” asked Mirkovitch.
“In about two days,” replied Iván.
“Too late, cannot you go before?”
“Impossible! The Nuncio leaves Vienna the day after to-morrow. I shall
be forced to remain twenty-four hours longer to finish and classify
his correspondence, after that I am free and can start immediately.”
“Let Iván act as he thinks best,” said the president; “not one of us
could cross the frontier as safely as he, and a delay of three days is
not so dangerous as the entrusting of the papers to anyone else.”
“So far I have never been suspected,” said Volenski reassuringly;
“true, those brutes on the frontier did seize and search all my papers
once,” he added sullenly; “that was after Dunajewski’s arrest, when
every Pole was an object of that type of tyranny. Fortunately I was
carrying nothing compromising then.”
“And this time?” asked an anxious voice.
“I shall take the precaution of wrapping our papers in an envelope
which I shall stamp with the seal of the Papal Legation. My position
is well known, and the papers will be safe enough.”
“Fairly safe, shall we say?” retorted a grim voice from the further
end of the room.
“Anyhow, it is obvious that we can have no safer messenger than
Iván,” decided the president; “his is the only plan that promises the
slightest measure of safety.”
A general murmur of approval confirmed this decision.
“In four days, then, from now, I pledge you my word that these papers
will be safely handed over by me to Taranïew and the Petersburg
committee,” said the young Pole with fervour, “together with the news
of the glorious act we have accomplished to-night, which is to result
in the freedom of Dunajewski and our other comrades, whom we had
looked upon as lost. And will you tell me now, as my duties with his
Eminence may prevent my seeing you before I start, what you propose
doing in the meanwhile?”
“There is very little that we can do,” said the president; “some of us
will watch Lavrovski; others, Madame Demidoff. If there is the
slightest suspicion of their moving in the matter and calling in
police aid, we will convey to them the same warning that Taranïew
will submit at headquarters.”
“Remember, Volenski,” added another member of the committee, “that our
anxiety for the safety of our papers and of you, our messenger, will
have reached its culminating point on the fourth day from this; and
that if you can do so with prudence, try to communicate with us as
soon as you have seen Taranïew.”
“I will most certainly do so,” said Iván. “Never fear, the papers
will be quite safe; as soon as I have delivered them I shall find my
way towards the frontier, where I shall await Dunajewski and our
comrades with the money, the committee has entrusted me with, for
them. They will be in need of that. Moreover, I shall be very happy to
shake hands with them and tell them--for they will still be ignorant
of it--how we effected their release.”
The discussion was closed now; cigarettes and pipes appeared once
more, and a quiet hum of conversation, where no mention of plot or
Tsar was made, took the place of enthusiastic discussion. The
president was chatting quietly with Volenski, who had slipped the
precious papers into his breast-pocket.
Iván was the first to rise.
“I must leave you all now,” he said. “When we meet again it will be on
my return from Petersburg, when our great work is all complete, and
Dunajewski with our comrades are free once more to join us in studying
how best to accomplish the weal of Russia and of her people.
Good-night, all.”
“Good-night!”
“God-speed!”
A score of hands were stretched out towards him, their friend, their
comrade. In the minds of some of them, perhaps, there rose the thought
that they might never see their daring messenger again; but these, who
had these thoughts, were the older men--those who knew that no scrap
of paper is ever really safe in Russia. Inwardly they called forth a
blessing, and perhaps a prayer for his safety, as he shook hands with
all his friends.
They were all preparing to depart, as they obviously could discuss
nothing further that evening, and most of them, though they were
Socialists at heart, were also young besides, and longed to take a
last glance at the merrily lighted streets of the city, the gay
festivities of the Carnival.
And ten minutes later these few men who had so daringly organised, so
successfully carried through, one of the most audacious plots in the
annals of secret societies, were mixing gaily with the mad throng,
bandying jests with merry masks, and seemingly forgetting that there
were such things as princely hostages and secret missions, or that one
of their comrades, their chosen messenger, would soon--holding all
their lives in his hands--have to convey their secrets to Petersburg,
in the very teeth of the most astute police in the world.