Poor Volenski had begun to look very haggard and careworn; the
mental strain of the past few days was beginning to tell upon him. He
was paying less attention to his dress, there was an absence of
elasticity in his step, and an almost furtive look in his usually so
frank, if dreamy eyes. He realised this, as, having reached the
brilliantly lighted cafés that enliven both sides of the Opern and
Kolowrátring, he caught sight of his own figure in one of the tall
pier-glasses beyond the windows of the shops, and noticed the untidy
look of his cravat, the dusty appearance of his clothes. He looked at
his watch; it was barely nine o’clock--time enough to pay a flying
visit to his hotel and remedy the obvious defects of his toilet,
before he sallied forth to accomplish the task he had in a moment’s
resolution set himself to do.
It was with the greatest care that he proceeded to change his clothes
for the conventional black and white of evening attire, not forgetting
the bouquet in his buttonhole, nor the fine handkerchief peeping from
the pocket of the coat. He wished to look the perfect type of the
young man about town--idle, elegant, and gay--a _rôle_ he had played
so much during the greater part of his life that it had become second
nature; and especially he wished to leave absolutely behind him all
traces of the harassed conspirator, who feels himself tracked, and
dreads at every turn to meet his doom.
There was no doubt that since the fatal moment when the candlesticks
were stolen on the Austrian frontier, fate loomed dark against him and
his friends, and he had been alone to face the dangers and
difficulties, to battle against relentless chance. The most adverse
coincidences had surrounded him from the first, and when luck appeared
to be on the turn, some untoward, wholly unforeseen event occurred, to
dash any hope he may have had to the ground. First the Cardinal’s
unfortunate idea of entrusting Madame Demidoff with the candlesticks,
then the robbery at Oderberg, next the escape of one of the thieves
with the very articles that were of such paramount importance; finally
the one grand opportunity he would have had to-night, but for Grete
Ottlinger’s wonderful luck, or foresight, in taking the booty along
with her.
But from all this chaos of mischance the unfortunate young man had
gleaned one fresh ray of hope. He hardly dared to trust to it, but it
gave him the inestimable boon of being able to act for himself, to be
actually employed in trying to rescue himself and his friends from the
terrible position into which his well-meant blunder had led them. It
meant that with tact and diplomacy all was not lost yet, and that in
the meanwhile he would at least be free from the intolerable torture
of inactivity, waiting, wearily waiting, for that crushing blow that
might descend at any moment.
As it was getting late, and Vienna was in the full swing of its usual
evening entertainments, Volenski found his way to the “Kaiser Franz,”
a brilliantly lighted but tumble-down looking hotel in the
Muzeumgasse, which had been named to him by the police as the usual
nightly haunt of Grete Ottlinger. Everyone who has been to Vienna,
probably, has noticed this hotel, with its flashy front, decorated
with masses of gilded plaster, broken and tarnished, and its
showy-looking porters in threadbare knee-breeches that show signs of
once having been of crimson plush, and gold-laced coats that but too
plainly proclaim the second-hand wardrobe dealer’s shop. It is mostly
very noisy from within, especially in the small hours of the morning.
Under the portico, which is always very brilliantly lighted, usually
stand half a dozen or so very young dandies about town, with their
opera hats, worn at the backs of their heads, and a full-flavoured
cigar between their teeth, more with a view to giving them an air of
maturity than for actual enjoyment. They scan the over-dressed,
over-painted, mostly somewhat faded beauties that pass up and down the
street in front of them, waiting for an invitation for supper and
champagne, and do so with an air of nonchalance that would fain betray
the habits of a _roué_.
It was with this crowd of young men that Volenski mixed, though he had
the greatest horror, usually, both for the scanners and the scanned;
but to-night he stood under the gaudy portico, watching the very
unattractive bevy of yellow-haired beauties that passed in front of
him, as if he expected to find the idol of his heart among that crew.
He had taken the precaution to inquire of one of the porters if Grete
Ottlinger had gone within, and being answered in the negative, he also
cocked his hat at the back of his head and proceeded to light a cigar,
trying to look as unconcerned as he could, while he waited for _her_,
the original of the photograph he had so providentially found in that
uninviting garret--her, whose confidence at that moment he would have
purchased with her weight in gold. Would champagne or unlimited cognac
loosen her tongue, he wondered.
Still they passed; some of them were accosted and taken into supper,
others tried by a smile to encourage the diffident. They all looked
very much alike, Volenski thought; they might all be sisters, in fact,
as they were sisters in shame and misery.
But _her_ he would recognise. He knew it--he would know her among a
thousand. He had only looked at her photograph one minute, but her
face danced before his eyes; ugly, commonplace as it was, was it not
the face of his destiny?
Ah! there she comes at last. Iván seemed to feel her presence even
before he actually heard her harsh, ill-bred voice, and recognised her
coarse, low-cast features under the shadow of a cheap, gaudy hat.
Even before he had time to speak to her she was close up to him; no
doubt she had noticed how intently he had been watching her. He threw
away his cigar, and trying to look amiably at the poor wretch, he
beckoned to her to follow him.
She surveyed him up and down, took in at a glance that the cloth of
his coat was of the finest, his linen irreproachable, and his cigar
fragrant; this evidently leading her to the conclusion that there
would be plenty of money spent on the supper, she nodded a careless
adieu at her less fortunate companions and followed Volenski into the
hall.
Iván was at the bureau, ordering a private room, and the most
_recherché_ supper, and choicest champagne the “Kaiser Franz” could
boast of. The waiters, obsequious and attentive, were addressing
congratulatory nods to Grete at the gold-mine she had evidently come
across, and very soon Volenski and his companion were ushered into a
gaudy showy apartment on the first floor.
The windows opened on to the Muzeumgasse, and Volenski leaned out into
the cold night air, trying to cool his throbbing temples and calm his
quivering nerves.
The presence of that common, showily dressed woman made him feel
uncomfortable. He could not chase from his mind the vision of that
garret, up a squalid stair, with its bare floor, rickety bed, and
drawers full of dirty, tawdry knick-knacks. He tried to think of her
only as the one being who could, if she would, if he set the right way
to work, save him from his perilous position.
She had evidently hidden the candlesticks in some secure spot, away
from the eyes of the police, or, maybe, had already sold them to an
accomplice. To find this out was his self-imposed task, and the few
moments that elapsed before the waiter returned with the supper, Iván
spent in steeling himself to the ordeal.
For a trying ordeal it would surely be to a young and refined man,
unaccustomed to the coarser pleasures of a gay city. Iván in turning
round caught the woman’s eyes fixed with an amused, half-pitying
expression upon him. Clearly she thought him a young, shy fool,
anxious to taste the cup of dissipation, but with a lingering
awkwardness when brought face to face with it. The part suited Iván;
he determined to play it, and hide his nervous irritability under the
cloak of intense shyness. He did not even know what type of
conversation was expected of him, but he trusted that the champagne,
which he had ordered dry and plentiful, would loosen his own tongue as
well as hers.
Grete had employed the last few moments in divesting herself of her
cloak and hat, and she now appeared in a gaudy evening dress,
displaying charms that, like the Emperor’s candlesticks, had the value
of antiquity.
“Leave everything on the sideboard,” she said to the waiter, “we will
wait on ourselves, and you need not come till we ring for you.”
The waiter, well trained, arranged the supper-table as directed, then,
taking a last look round to see that everything was in order, he
discreetly withdrew.
“I hope you will like what I have ordered,” said Iván awkwardly; “if
not, please ask for anything you want, anything that will make you
lively, you know,” he added with a forced laugh; “we must enjoy
ourselves, Grete, mustn’t we?”
The ice was broken, Grete burst into a merry peal of laughter.
“Well, you are the funniest creature I have ever come across,” she
said, shaking with merriment. “Are you afraid of me? You have not
opened your mouth since you brought me here. No, not there,” she said,
as Iván solemnly sat down opposite her at the table; “I call that
most unsociable, and I give you my word I won’t eat you up. _Ach! Herr
Je!_” she added with a sigh, “the things on the table are much more
appetising than you, and you are not the first young gentleman I have
supped with. Come and sit here, little booby,” and she placed a chair
close to her own.
Iván, glad that she started a conversation--which she was evidently
well able to conduct by herself--changed his seat as she wished, and
poured himself and her a full glass of champagne.
Poor soul! she was enjoying the _recherché_ supper thoroughly, and,
after the first glass of Perrier Jouët, began telling him anecdotes
of her checkered career; a quarter of an hour later she sidled up to
him, looking somewhat amused the while.
“You funny booby,” she laughed, “you may, you know,” and she stretched
out a very red cheek towards him.
“Look out! the waiter is coming,” said Iván, pushing back his chair
and hastily jumping up from the table.
The bare idea of having to kiss that ugly, elderly woman sent a cold
shiver down his spine.
“What if he is, booby mine?” she replied, giving way to an
uncontrollable fit of laughter--the idea seemed so amusing. “Do you
think he has never seen me kissed before? Come, cheer up, sit down
again; your mammy shan’t know. There now, this is much more
comfortable,” she added, for Volenski, on whom the importance of the
present situation flashed again in an instant, had offered his
feelings as holocaust on the altar of the great cause, and resumed his
seat beside the donna--with an arm round her antiquated waist. She
placed her yellow head languishingly on his shoulder.
“Do you know, little booby, that, as a rule, I don’t much care for
young gentlemen like yourself?”
“No?” he asked indifferently.
“Well, you see,” she said with a pout, “it is difficult to get any fun
out of them, they are so mortally afraid of being seen in our company
that they won’t take us anywhere.”
Iván could not help smiling to himself at the idea of taking this
beauty--say to the opera--and meeting his Eminence on the way, and did
not wonder that Grete was not very often taken to the theatre by
“young gentlemen” like himself.
“Who are the people you like best then, Grete?” he asked, in order to
keep up the conversation.
“Oh! I have many friends--real friends,” she said. “But that’s a fine
ring you are wearing, booby!”
Volenski felt at this moment that it was of the most vital importance
that he should hear something of Grete’s real friends; he must get her
to tell him about them; surely the accomplice, the one who was
arrested at Oderberg, was one, and, who knows, another might at this
moment be actually in possession of the fateful candlesticks!
Taking the ring off his finger he slipped it into Grete’s hand, and
said with an effort at cordiality--
“Pray accept it; it will adorn your pretty hand. But do tell me some
more about your friends--the real friends that were not young
gentlemen?”
“One of them was an actor, and earned quite a lot of money--he used to
play all kinds of parts--and, Lord! sometimes now, he makes me laugh
with the clever way in which he can disguise his handsome features.
Never mind, my pretty one,” she added coaxingly, “you have got a nice
little face of your own too, and----”
“Never mind about my face; tell me about his.”
“Now you are angry,” she said with a pout. “I shan’t talk any more
about him, though he _is_ a clever chap! I could tell you one or two
of his tricks. But there, that’s nothing to do with you.”
Volenski felt the conversation was becoming interesting. He swallowed
the last vestige of repulsion he felt for this coarse, now decidedly
intoxicated, woman, and pouring her out a large tumblerful of
champagne, “Drink this, my girl,” he said, “and tell me some of your
friend’s tricks. I should like to hear something that will make me
laugh.”
She drank the champagne and said nothing for a few moments, then burst
into a loud laugh.
“Ah! but I did the best trick of all to-day; I tricked them all, every
one of them; they thought themselves mighty clever they did, but Grete
Ottlinger was one too many for them. Booby, don’t look so scared; give
me another glass of champagne, and I’ll tell you all about it. Another
glass, booby; fill it to the top. I don’t often get champagne; men
mostly only give me beer or spirits. You see, I am not so young as I
was. But champagne--I love champagne----”
She was getting very tipsy and very noisy. Volenski, no less excited
than herself, tossed down a couple of glasses. He felt nothing, he was
conscious of nothing, except that in five minutes he would know his
fate, and that this woman held it in her hands.
“Oh! it was funny,” she laughed again; “I knew they were after me. I
am no fool. They let me come back to Vienna; they meant to search my
rooms while I was out; they thought I wouldn’t know.”
“Booby,” she whispered, “old Moses Grünebaum was waiting at the
station for me. He had the things already in his shop, while the crew
were following me round the town and turning out my rooms; and they
will find nothing. Ha! ha! ha! what a lark, booby! Eh, booby? What’s
the matter with you? Here! I say, booby, what on earth are you after?”
For Volenski was fumbling for his hat, his gloves, his coat, and
tossing a hundred guldens to the woman he had fled from the hotel,
past the astonished waiters into the streets, leaving Grete to pay for
the supper, and still muttering to herself: “Booby--well I never!
_Gott in Himmel! Ach, Herr Je!_”