“Monsieur,--I feel sure that the receipt of this letter will cause
you no surprise.
“We are in each other’s power. Obviously it would not answer either of
our purposes to fight out this duel. Shall we exchange our _pièces de
conviction_, monsieur, to-night at my hotel--after the walnuts and
wine. I dine at 7.30.
“Yours,
“Anna Demidoff.”
Iván Volenski held the delicately scented little pink note in his
hand, and read and re-read it till he knew its brief contents by
heart. It was such a strange ending to his terrible adventures of the
last fortnight, culminating in that fierce struggle under the
auctioneer’s desk, and Iván, who was not thirty, and was a man before
he became a Socialist, thought of that foe whom he had known and
dreaded so long, as she stood imploringly by his side, with the tiny,
gloved hand resting on his coat-sleeve.
Since that moment he seemed to remember every subsequent event but as
a half-distinct dream. He had grasped the candlestick which he
believed held the secret papers with a wild feeling of exultation, and
carried it home to his hotel. Once there, and his door securely
locked, he had touched the hidden spring and seen the papers resting
within the depths of the receptacle. With trembling hands he took them
out, and his aching eyes travelled over them feverishly.
Oh! the first feeling of nameless horror when he realised that that
writing, those papers, were not the ones he had fought for so
valiantly, now, after so bitter a struggle; the hopeless sensation of
utter despair, that seemed to numb his faculties, and deaden them even
to the extent of not realising the contents of the papers he held in
his hands!
It was not till fully half an hour afterwards, when he heard
Mirkovitch’s heavy step on the stairs, that he succeeded in rousing
himself from this strange apathy.
The old Socialist had tried Iván’s door, but finding it locked, had
evidently gone away again. Iván did not want to see him then; he was
beginning to think, and think he must alone, in peace, without fear,
and with complete calm.
Madame Demidoff, the agent of the Russian Government, held the papers
of the Socialistic brotherhood. True, but in exchange he, Volenski,
held what would brand her before all the world as the spy of the
Russian police, and for ever prevent her following that calling again.
If made publicly known that her papers had fallen into wrong hands,
her Government would, as is customary in such cases, disown their
agent, and probably wreak vengeance upon her for her carelessness.
Obviously, then, though the brotherhood was at this moment in Madame
Demidoff’s power, the fair Russian was equally in the power of the
brotherhood, and----
It was at this point of his now calm reflections that the waiter
brought Iván the pink, scented note, which had been left at the hotel
for M. Volenski, while the bearer waited for an answer.
It was a triumph for Volenski. She had spoken truly; it would not
serve either of their purposes to fight out so well-balanced a duel.
“Madame,--To-night at 7.30 o’clock I will wait on you as you
graciously bid me, and trust that our enmity, after a mutual laying
down of arms, will change into friendship over the walnuts and wine.
“I am, Madame,
“Your humble and devoted servant,
“Iván Volenski.”
He sent this note down, made a hasty toilet, and still purposely
evaded his grim comrade, whom he did not wish to meet till he could
lay the fateful papers in his hands.