It was 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 a _fiaker_, 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 a _fiaker_, 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
the _fiaker_ slammed 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 disappearing _fiaker_, 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 a _fiaker_, 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 the
_Fremdenblatt_ and 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
the _fiaker_ that eventful night, when she was disguised as the
odalisque, and the two or three _moujiks_, 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----’”
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.’”
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.”
“I am not accusing him,” rejoined the other impatiently, “but the
trusted messenger of our brotherhood had no right to blunder.”
“Well, we know very little so far, do not let us imagine the worst. He
writes hopefully after all.”
“I had better start to-night,” said Mirkovitch. “Can you let me have
the funds? He says much may be wanted; for bribery, I suppose.”
“Come and see me at my house before you start, and I will have
everything ready for you.… And… Mirkovitch,” he added, “do not condemn
unheard. Remember, Iván is young, and has our cause just as much at
heart as you have.”
“Well, if he has, he certainly has it in a different way,” said
Mirkovitch as he shook the president’s hand, and prepared to leave.
The latter sighed as he tried to read the Russian’s thoughts through
his deeply sunken eyes, tried to fathom if there lurked some danger
there for his young friend. Then, half reassured, he gave Mirkovitch a
parting handshake, and watched the old fanatic’s figure slowly
disappearing down the stairs.