Iván Volenski had spoken gaily, reassuringly to them all. But what
did he know of his own chances of safety across the Russian frontier?
Practically nothing.
Suspect? Bah! anybody might at any moment become “suspect” to the
Russian police. And then,… that anybody’s name is placed on the list.…
After that let him try to get across with papers, valuables, secrets,
and he will soon find out what it means to be a “suspect.”
What did Volenski know of how he stood in the eyes of the Russian
police? Living mostly abroad and consorting in a great measure with
his own exiled countrymen, some small degree of suspicion was bound to
remain attached to his name.
He was a Pole, and, being a Pole, he conspired, not because he
believed in all the Utopian theories set forth by his brother
conspirators, but because it was in his blood to plot and plan against
the existing government.
Whether these plots and plans ever resulted in anything tangible, any
great reform out there in Russia, he never troubled his mind much to
think. He was too young to think of the future; the present was the
only important factor in his existence.
He usually shrank from extreme measures. Mirkovitch’s bloodthirsty
speeches grated upon his nerves, and having spent a miracle of
ingenuity in combining some deadly plot that would annihilate the
tyrant and his brood, Iván would have preferred that it should not be
carried out at all, but left as a record of what a Pole’s mind can
devise against his hated conquerors.
It was not indecision; it was the horror of a refined and even plucky
nature, of deeds that would not brook the light of day. He would have
liked to lead a Polish insurrection, but feared to handle an
assassin’s dagger.
He had vague theories about the “People,” lofty notions of their
immense brain power, downtrodden by powerful officialism, and he
looked forward to the days when that somewhat undefinable quantity
would frame its own laws, appoint its own rulers. How that great
object was to be accomplished he had no practical notions; Mirkovitch
said by killing those now in power; Lobkowitz, their much decorated
president, said, by careful diplomacy and an occasional wholesome
fright. The younger men dreamed, the older ones plotted, and still the
throne of the Romanoffs was far from tottering.
And Iván dreamed with the dreamers and plotted with the plotters,
eager to help, yet shrinking from decisive action.
He had discovered the Tsarevitch’s proposed incognito journey to
Vienna and the opera ball. He was a young man of fashion in society,
invaluable to the Socialists, for he went everywhere, heard all the
gossip, and repeated to them what they wished to hear.
He planned out the abduction in all its details. Mirkovitch was to
lend his house, in which to receive the captive, and his daughter was
to entice him therein. Baloukine and his brother were to watch the
proceedings. And, after that, he, Iván, would do something perilous,
all alone, he cared not what, as long as he did not have to lend a
hand in abducting a helpless youth into a dangerous trap.
Nicholas Alexandrovitch had fallen into that trap, with his eyes shut,
wholly unsuspecting. It had been well set at a time and place when
most young men, be they prince or peasant, are eager for adventures,
and the Tsarevitch was barely twenty, and had come to Vienna to enjoy
himself.
The bright eyes of the odalisque, as seen through her black velvet
mask, seemed full of promise of enjoyment to come; her manners,
essentially Viennese, were provoking to the verge of distraction, and
human nature, even disguised in the garb of the heir to an empire,
would have to undergo very radical changes, ere at twenty years of age
it could resist the blandishments of so enterprising an odalisque.
He jumped into the _fiaker_ after her, only thinking of those bright
eyes and provoking ways, and the short route between the opera house
and Heumarkt only ended in more completely turning that young head,
and subjugating that inflammable heart; for, during that five minutes,
Nicholas had succeeded in dislodging the black velvet mask, and in
ascertaining that the charms that it had held hidden were equally
enchanting as those it had revealed. Perhaps had he been less young,
and therefore more observant, he would not have failed to notice that
a slightly sarcastic smile hovered round the dainty, childlike mouth,
and a look--was it of pity?--gave those bright eyes an added charm.
The _fiaker_ stopped under a portico, that would have seemed dreary
and desolate, beyond description, to the most casual observer, but
Nicholas Alexandrovitch flew up the great, dark, stone staircase with
no thought save for the dainty figure that ran swiftly up some few
_mètres_ in front of him. He followed her through a massive door,
behind which he had seen her disappear, and found himself in a
brilliantly-lighted, dome-like hall, where a well-laden supper-table
occupied the centre, looking most tempting, whilst a valet, in
irreproachable attitude, mute and expectant, stood by.
As the heavy door fell to behind him, with a loud and reverberating
crash, Nicholas Alexandrovitch, looking round him, realised that the
fair odalisque had once more disappeared.
A door at the opposite end of the hall was open; Nicholas passed
through it, to find himself in a comfortably furnished bedroom,
obviously arranged for a bachelor’s wants. It seemed to have no other
egress but the door at which the Tsarevitch still stood, amazed,
wondering where that bewitching houri had managed again to give him
the slip. Somewhere on that dark, stone staircase no doubt, and
Nicholas pondered as to whether he should endeavour to follow her in
that game of hide-and-seek which she appeared to have at her fingers’
ends, or calmly await her return, which could, obviously, not be long
delayed.
The valet still stood, correct in attitude and dress, mute and
expectant. His intense impassiveness grated on the young prince’s
turbulent nerves, strung to aching point whilst waiting for the
odalisque who did not reappear.
Then it began to strike him as strange, that though the supper
appeared sumptuous and plentiful, it had only been laid for one; for
the unknown odalisque no doubt; but then, the bedroom adjoining was
obviously not a lady’s room. Nicholas frowned, and forced his nerves
to be still, and his brains to recommence to act; a breath of
suspicion--the first--seemed to have crossed his mind. He walked
deliberately to the door--it was locked. It did not surprise him, the
breath of suspicion had suddenly developed into a hurricane of doubt.
“Where am I?” he asked the valet.
The latter bowed very humbly and pointed to his own ears and mouth,
shaking his head the while.
“Real or assumed?” was the Tsarevitch’s mental query.
Obviously it was no use to try and force that door, it looked solid
enough to resist an assault. Nicholas understood that he had been
trapped, for what purpose remained yet to be proved.
A few moments elapsed, then the door was gently opened from without;
the deaf-mute valet went up towards it. The thought of making a rush
for that same door may have presented itself to Nicholas’ mind then,
but fortunately the humiliation of an unsuccessful attempt was spared
him, for behind the door stood two stalwart _moujiks_, equally mute as
their comrade, and equally correct in bearing; one of them stepped
forward, and with deep obeisance presented a letter to the Tsarevitch,
who tore it open impatiently.
A few words only, to tell him what he already knew, that he was a
helpless prisoner without hope of escape. His life inviolate, but held
as hostage, pending negotiations with his exalted father, which no
doubt would soon terminate in the most satisfactory way. And in the
meanwhile the lodgings, poor as they were, were entirely at the august
prisoner’s disposal, as well as the three deaf-mute _moujiks_ told off
to do his bidding.
Nicholas Alexandrovitch called himself a fool, then tried to become a
philosopher. He had every confidence in the far-seeing, far-reaching
police of his country, trusted to Lavrovski to use every effort and
despatch, and resigned himself to the inevitable with the
characteristic placidity of his race. One last tribute to youth and
folly he paid, when he felt an aching pang at the thought that the
provoking odalisque had only used her blandishments for purposes so
far removed from his poetic imaginings. The next half-hour saw the
heir to the Tsar of all the Russias eating a sumptuous supper all
alone--and a prisoner--with youthful appetite, and no thoughts for the
morrow.
As for Count Lavrovski, in attendance upon his Imperial Highness, he,
no doubt, was in a worse position than his abducted charge.
To have allowed the Tsarevitch, for whom he was, so to speak,
responsible, to so completely slip through his fingers, was an event
unparalleled in the history of a Russian courtier. No doubt, the case
being unprecedented, the punishment would be equally so, and Lavrovski
already, half an hour after the Tsarevitch’s disappearance, could,
when shutting his eyes, see visions of convicts, of prisons, of mines,
and Siberia.
Half an hour is a long time for the son of the Tsar to remain
unattended, and when two or three hours had slipped by, and the crowds
of mummers had begun to thin, Lavrovski began enduring mental tortures
he had up to that time had no conception of. And when presently, at
some small hour of the morning, the last of the giddy throng were
preparing to depart, the old Russian still sat staring into the crowd,
cramped in body, and with mental faculties rendered numb with nameless
terrors.
The officials asked him to leave; the lights were being turned out,
and Lavrovski had perforce to leave his box and find his way into the
streets. One or two discreet questions from porters and attendants
about an odalisque and a domino brought only mirth for an answer.
Fifty odalisques, two thousand dominoes, had passed up and down the
opera-house steps during the last few hours.
At the Hotel Imperial the sleepy hall porter had not seen the young
stranger, and the Russian valet, the only other attendant on the
Tsarevitch, made a mute inquiry as to his master, which he dared not
put into words.
This man would have to be told something; he was trustworthy; might be
of help. Lavrovski told him half a truth.
The Tsarevitch had thought fit to go on a young man’s escapade. They
two must keep that a secret; Nicholas Alexandrovitch might return
to-morrow, he might be away some days. Count Lavrovski could not say;
he relied on Stepán to be discreet.
The next day, when no news came, the old Russian began looking
longingly at a tiny revolver, he always carried with him. Better that,
than to be dragged home to Russia, arraigned for high treason, and
sent to Irkutsk to dig out salt for the Imperial exchequer, for having
neglected his duties as keeper and caretaker of the young heir to the
throne.
But Lavrovski was over sixty, and at that age life seems very sweet, a
dear friend we have known so long, and therefore from whom we are loth
to part. He replaced the pistol in his dressing-bag, and looked
elsewhere for counsel and guidance.
A good detective--private, not official--might save matters and
unearth the truant, if he was still alive. Well! if he were not,
Lavrovski’s life was in any case not worth an hour’s purchase, and the
revolver would always be handy.
Stepán asked no questions. Lavrovski looked harassed and anxious;
that was sufficient information for the stolid Russian.
The morning papers had no account of mysterious dead bodies found
looted in the streets, and Lavrovski sallied forth to seek out a
detective.
They recommended him one at one of the newspaper offices--M. Furet, a
Frenchman, a man of wide experience and good connection.
Lavrovski went to him. He had tried so far not to think too much; the
thoughts to which he did not allow coherence, would have led him to a
lunatic asylum, and he wished to keep his mind clear of all things,
save his duty to his missing charge and to the honour of his own name.
M. Furet was astute, wise, but not omnipotent. Lavrovski told him too
little; he felt it as he spoke. The detective, a Frenchman, guessed
there was some mystery, and tried to probe the Russian’s secret.
But Lavrovski was obdurate. When the time came for throwing himself on
the detective’s discretion he shrank from the task, dared not avow to
him the identity of the missing stranger, and spoke vaguely of him as
a young foreigner of distinction.
The matter was hopeless. M. Furet was waxing impatient.
“Monsieur,” he said at last, “it seems to me that you have come here
to-day with the idea no doubt of enlisting my services in a cause
which you have at heart, but also with the firm determination to keep
your secrets to yourself. You will, I feel sure, on thinking the
matter over, see how impossible you have made it for me to be of much
service to you.”
“Can you do nothing then?” asked Lavrovski in despair.
He seemed so dejected, so broken-hearted, that the detective glanced
up at him with a certain amount of pity, and said--
“Will you go home, monsieur, and give the matter your full
consideration, quietly and deliberately? Read the police news
carefully to ascertain that no mysterious death has occurred, or
unknown dead body found. I, in the meanwhile, will make what
exhaustive inquiries I can, both at the opera house, the _fiaker_
stations, and at the different railways. Your truant may, after all,
re-appear in the next day or two. Young men are often led into
adventures, that last longer than two or three days. Then come back
and see me on Saturday afternoon, but come back armed with the
determination to tell me _all_. If you cannot bring yourself to do
that, do not come at all, and in that case, if I, in the meanwhile,
have not found the slightest clue, I will consider the matter dropped
as far as I am concerned. And now will monsieur excuse me, my time is
valuable, and I have many clients to see.”
M. Furet rose, the interview was over. Lavrovski felt there was
nothing more to say, that nothing could be done unless he fully made
up his mind whether he would confide in a third person or not, and
that, for the present, he was not prepared to do. The Frenchman might
after all be speaking truly, there was every chance that the
Tsarevitch was but pursuing a young man’s adventure, and nothing
further could be lost by waiting. If those who had abducted him had
meant harm to him, that harm would by now be accomplished, and the
three days Lavrovski gave himself as a respite--either for the return
of the prodigal, if he was alive and unharmed, or for throwing himself
on the Tsar’s doubtful mercy, if evil had come to Nicholas
Alexandrovitch--could matter but little.
He took up his hat, and promising M. Furet to think the case over, in
the light he had suggested, bowed to the old detective, and soon found
himself in the streets once more.
He had determined to wait till Saturday, therefore wait he would,
without confiding in anyone, still trusting that this terrible
adventure would end happily before then, and in the meanwhile bearing
his own burden of anxiety alone.
The only person that would of necessity require some sort of
explanation--humble in position though he was--was Nicholas’ valet.
However little intelligence the man might possess, it would yet strike
him as suspicious that his master should leave the hotel, and stay
with friends so unexpectedly, that he did not even arrange for the
most ordinary necessities of his toilet to be brought to him.
Lavrovski, therefore, determined to tell him the partial truth; the
truth, that is to say, such as he himself would wish it to be.
“You must understand, Stepán,” he explained, “that his Imperial
Highness has thought fit to absent himself from this hotel for two or
three days. But before leaving he gave me the strictest injunctions
that we are to keep his absence the most profound secret from
everybody, both here and at home. It is not for you, or even I, to
question the Tsarevitch’s right to act as he pleases, all we can do is
to obey his orders as accurately as we can. To everyone, therefore,
his Imperial Highness is confined to his bed with an attack of German
measles, which is not serious but might last some days. Now do you
quite understand me? and can his Imperial Highness entirely rely upon
your fidelity and discretion, both now and in the future?”
“Nicholas Alexandrovitch is my master,” said the Russian simply; “he
has always found me faithful when he wanted my help, silent when he
required my silence. The words I speak are as much at his commands as
the deeds I do; I will say what he wishes, or hold my tongue as he
desires.”
“That is well, Stepán,” said Count Lavrovski; “be sure his Imperial
Highness will remember what you do for him to-day.”
Lavrovski knew he could rely on this man, all was well then for the
next two days. After that--in God’s hands, he thought, with
characteristic oriental fatalism.