THE IMPERIAL CHANCELLERIE.
Three months before that meeting between Patricia Hildreth and Mr.
Tremain--out of which had grown such cynical disillusion on
his part, and which had called forth such cogent reasons for his
disenchantment--winter still held captive the great metropolis of
Petersburg. But a winter of such dazzling brilliancy, such blue skies,
such clear and glittering frost and snow, such floods of sunshine, such
ringing out of joyful sleigh-bells, such flashing past of fair women
robed _cap-à-pie_ in costly furs, and such a constant round of gaiety
and frivolity, as to rob the ice-king of his usual hardships and
terrors.
Looking on as an unbiassed spectator at the life and vivacity of the
scene, the riches and luxury displayed day by day on the Nevski
Prospekte, at the line of handsome equipages, the brilliant uniforms of
the Tsar's Guard Imperial, at the laughing eyes and fair faces of the
fairest women of the world, at the hourly ebb and flow of the splendid
pageant, who could believe, or, believing, realise that not a
stone's-throw away, beneath the horrible gloomy walls of Peter's
fortress, there languished men and women, equal in birth and position to
those gay _flâneurs_ of the present hour, and who once had flaunted
their colours as bravely as the best, but who now, owing to the
inexorable will of an acknowledged tyrant, wore their hearts away in
imprisonment for some political lapse, some inadvertent dereliction, no
matter how slight; perhaps but a word whispered in a lover's ear, a note
given or taken, an uncontrolled exclamation, a gesture of emotion; and
who, victims of that despotic secret police, betrayed, maybe, by their
nearest and dearest, were hurled in one moment from comparative security
and protection into the terrible, silent, unapproachable dungeons of
Petropavlovsk, from which no word or sigh, no cry for help, no appeal
for justice ever resounds, and into which no whisper of comfort or
encouragement, no sign of love, friendship, or remembrance, ever
penetrates, whose only outlook is the still more horrible sentence of
exile to Siberia, or perhaps a merciful deliverance through death on the
weary march thither?
The very air of the gay city breathes disaffection and suspicion, while
upon the brightest countenance, beneath the merriest jest and laugh, one
reads the fleeting look of terror, or hears the echo of strained
anxiety.
It was of Venice that Lord Byron wrote his famous line:
"A palace and a prison on each hand."
And yet, surely, it may well be typical of great Petersburg, where
fair, and grand, and imperial rises the Winter Palace, guarded night and
day by ranks of soldiers and police, within which reign luxury, power,
and wealth, though stalked by the grim shadows of treachery, deception,
Nihilism; while hard by, the frowning bastions of Peter and Paul tell of
the first Peter's cruel tyranny, as of the latter-day hand of iron
despotism and oppression; within whose death-encircling walls languish
many of Russia's proudest sons and daughters, who, grown hopeless from
long and fruitless waiting for deliverance, have become
"... Bowed and bent,
Wax gray, and ghostly, withering ere their time."
Thus does history but repeat itself, and the story of _Ivan Ivanowich_
is rehearsed again and again, only the actors changing, not the drama,
or the _mise-en-scène_.
On one bright and beautiful morning in January, when all the fashionable
world of the famous capital were out and abroad, and to all outward
seeming "youth was at the prow, pleasure at the helm" of the day's
amusements, a group of some half-dozen men were gathered together in a
small inner apartment of the building known as the Imperial
Chancellerie. Of these, some were in the police uniform of the Tsar, the
others in plain morning dress, in one case enhanced by a great-coat
lined with almost priceless sables. Conversation, which had been carried
on in low tones, languished somewhat, and the only sounds that broke the
increasing silence, were the scratching of a quill-pen over rough paper,
or the fall of a coal from time to time from the open fireplace. It was
the owner of the fur-lined great-coat who was writing, and as he sat
busy and preoccupied, the clear, searching sunlight fell full upon him,
and revealed a face of more than usual distinction. The brow was broad
at the temples, growing narrow as it reached the hair that fell heavily
across it, and which was well streaked with grey; the eyes were
intensely black, deep set in cavernous sockets, out of which they
flashed and glowed like smouldering fires; the cheeks were thin, the
complexion olive; a slight, short beard and moustache accentuated the
pointed chin and firm, thin lips; the hand that guided the pen was
slender, nervous, long-fingered, and capable.
In a word, the man writing in the inner sanctum of the Petersburg
Chancellerie, and the man paying his _devoirs_ to Patricia Hildreth, and
conversing amicably with Mr. Tremain, are one and the same, Count
Vladimir Mellikoff. It was easy to see that he was the ruling spirit of
the group assembled, each one of whom treated him with deference and
respect.
The quill-pen continued its noisy progress over the official paper for
some moments, and the silence grew so intense that the tinkling of the
sleigh-bells and the echoed laughter of the occupants of the droschkies
as they flew past could be distinctly heard, despite the heavy double
casements. At length the door opened and another person entered, at
sight of whom the assembled men fell into attitudes of anxious respect,
even Count Mellikoff rising from the table and bowing deferentially to
him.
The new-comer was a tall and handsome man, with a stern, uncompromising
face, and of alert and dictatorial manner. He was dressed in morning
attire, and wore on his coat more than one ribbon of merit or
distinction. He advanced rapidly, bowing comprehensively, and took the
chair offered him by Count Mellikoff, from which the latter had just
arisen, with a courteous word and gesture.
This personage, for he well deserves the grander designation, was Paul
Patouchki, a naturalised Russian, who owned Poland as his mother, yet
yielded his allegiance to the Tsar; he was the head and chief in
Petersburg of that secret section of the Chancellerie whose work it was
to keep strict watch and ward over the Imperial subjects, who, from
business or pleasure, elected to live without the Tsar's boundaries.
Patouchki was trusted implicitly by his superiors, whom, indeed, he had
often served at the risk of his life, and by them, the Emperor of all
the Russias not excepted, he was entrusted with the organisation and
development of the most delicate missions; for by no harsher word were
the despotic actions and orders of the Chancellerie ever designated.
Patouchki seated himself and drew towards him a heavily brass-bound
despatch-box, and unlocking it with a key suspended from his
watch-chain, took from it his morning's correspondence; this he
scrutinised rapidly, sorting out the more important papers, and pushing
the largest number towards a fair, boyish-looking young man, who had
entered with him, with a muttered, "For you, Ivor," and then opening and
reading with quick and comprehensive eyes the few special
communications he had reserved for his own perusal.
Indeed, every movement and action of this remarkable man bespoke a
character of keen perceptions, unbending will, inflexible opinions, and
quick deductions. As he finished his letters he folded them neatly and
laid them down with nice precision, in due regularity of sequence of
importance; this done, he leant back and looked up at the men who stood
somewhat back from him in the same respectful attitudes. This slight
movement was evidently a signal well known, for each one of the group
now advanced in turn and laid before Patouchki their reports, which were
in the form of sealed documents; then falling back again, waited for the
chief to speak.
When he did so, his voice was harsh and crisp, the words fell from his
lips with the precision of bullets from a repeating revolver, and it was
noticeable that, whatever the bearing or meaning of his instructions,
his countenance and expression never changed or softened; that hard,
imperious, unsympathetic human mask was never known to show emotion of
any kind.
"Count Vladimir," he said, addressing the most distinguished of the
group, after himself, "I have read and considered your report of the
work done by you in western France, which, I am requested by his
Excellency to say, does you infinite credit; it has been decided by the
secret committee of the Chancellerie to give into your hands a somewhat
delicate mission. What say you, sir, to an expedition into the heart of
Africa?"
"His Excellency knows he has but to command me at all times, and in any
mission," replied Count Mellikoff, his musical voice sounding in marked
contrast to the other's harsh tones; "my life is at the service of our
father the Tsar."
"Well said," replied Patouchki, shortly; then, turning towards the
others, he continued: "Gentlemen, we will dispense with your presence;
we wish you good morning, sirs."
The salutation was a command, and so understood by those to whom it was
addressed; they responded to it by bowing and withdrawing in silence;
all but Ivor, who, as the chief's private secretary, was a privileged
person.
As the door closed on the last departing agent, Patouchki turned
somewhat hastily towards Count Mellikoff, and bade him be seated. Ivor
Tolskoi's fair head was bent in studious attention over his official
papers, and the chief had learned by experience that Ivor, despite his
boyish face and girlish complexion, was both deaf, dumb, and blind when
it behoved him to be so in the service of his master, even as his soft
dimpled hand could, when occasion required, sheath itself in a gauntlet
of iron, and deal a giant's blow.
"Vladimir Mellikoff," said the chief, dropping the more ceremonious
title, "we have tried your metal often, and know of what true steel it
is fashioned; but the mission I am now desired to commit to your skill
and judgment is one requiring even more _finesse_, delicacy, and
determination than any that have gone before. Let me put well before you
its hazards and unpleasant features, that you may withdraw your
acquiescence, if you so desire."
Count Mellikoff, whose mobile face had responded by varying expressions
to Patouchki's warning, now flushed suddenly, and as suddenly paled
again; he leant forward impetuously, and spoke rapidly, the nervous
fingers of his right hand moving restlessly as he did so.
"In what have I failed, chief, that you should think such words
necessary?"
"In nothing, Vladimir Mellikoff," replied the other, coldly and without
change of expression or voice; "we have ever found you ready and willing
and zealous in our service; indeed, but one reproach can be attributed
to you, and that is more an attribute of temperament than a fault; _trop
de zèle_, Vladimir, _trop de zèle_, has ruined more than one diplomat,
and frustrated more than one mission."
Count Vladimir drew back as if struck an unexpected blow; his eyes
flashed for a moment intemperately, the lines about his mouth tightened;
then the habitual and tutored reserve and control of long apprenticeship
reasserted itself, and when he bowed in answer to the implied reproof,
his face was as expressionless and cold as that of his monitor.
Patouchki continued:
"It goes without the saying that your mission will not take you into
Africa, that was but a _pour-parler_; indeed, you must leave the East
behind you and travel westward to the great continent of America; your
work lies there, and if I mistake not, within the somewhat narrow limits
of New York. You have read the minutes of the murder of Count Stevan
Lallovich, and you know that our suspicions regarding the murderer all
point to a woman, either as instigator or accomplice. _You_ must find
that woman, Vladimir. Stop," raising his hand imperatively, "we ask no
impossible _devoir_; you shall have every facility afforded you, and as
the case now stands, you will want no deadlier weapons than tact,
_finesse_, and delicacy, the surest tools with which to meet a woman,
since they are essentially her own."
"It is but a poor warfare, chief," replied the Count, a smile curving
his lips in disdain.
Patouchki frowned.
"No warfare is poor or trivial, Count Vladimir, that sustains the safety
of our father the Tsar, or that strengthens the hands of his Government.
Women have proved ere now our most dangerous foes; they strike in the
dark, and pay no regard to honourable codes. Since, then, we may not
fight them openly, let us turn their own forces of cunning, artifice,
and falsehood against them. He who would serve the interests of the
Tsar must put aside all considerations of sex."
Again Count Mellikoff bowed; and after a moment's silence the chief
continued:
"You know the incidents of the murder, Vladimir, no need to recapitulate
them; you know Count Stevan's near kinship to the Tsar, and the
consequent lesson that must be read to all miscreants who think to spill
the Imperial blood of Russia and escape unpunished. You know also of the
oath sworn by that wretched woman, when, by Imperial ukase, her marriage
to Stevan Lallovich was pronounced void; you know her subsequent career,
and the chain of circumstantial evidence that points to her as at least
an accessory to the crime. We have reason to believe that she has
escaped to America, and is living there in disguise; the chain has
narrowed its links until we can confine ourselves to one state and one
city of that great country--New York, or a narrow radius therefrom. But
so far the Chancellerie has been unable to lay the finger of certainty
upon her, so far she has eluded our absolute knowledge; and therefore it
is to you we would depute the task of tracking her, dogging her, and
bringing her personally within the power and jurisdiction of the
Imperial Chancellerie. Are you willing to accept this work, Vladimir?
Remember, we ask it in the service of the Tsar, to whose protection you
have hitherto, with undeviating fidelity, sworn to be true, even at the
cost of your life."
Count Mellikoff, as Patouchki concluded, rose from his chair and walked
quickly across the room to the window. As he did so, Ivor Tolskoi raised
his fair head and youthful face, and looked after him. "Does he
hesitate?" he said within himself. "By our Lady of Kazan, I wish the
chance were but offered me. The chief should find me ready, and as
adamant against the softest lures of the fairest woman of all her sex."
Then he dropped his innocent blue eyes, and continued the monotonous
pen-work on which he was engaged.
Vladimir Mellikoff remained for several long moments beside the window,
looking out with unseeing eyes upon the well-known scene before him;
upon the gaily decorated sleighs and droschkies flying by; upon the
frozen Neva, over whose glittering ice the skaters were deftly circling;
upon the Austrian band playing before the Admiralty, their light-blue
uniforms seeming like a bit of the sky above, fallen to earth; upon the
huge Imperial Winter Palace, whose innumerable windows glanced like
jewels in the crisp cold sunlight; upon the officers and sentinels
relieving guard at its gates; upon the throng of brightly attired
pedestrians coming and going, up and down the broad streets, in quick
succession; he knew it all so well, had been part of it for so many
years. Was not this very scene photographed upon his brain's camera,
with all the high lights accentuated, and all the shadows deepened? Who
shall say what wave of memory swept over him, as he stood there gazing
down, seeing, yet not seeing the ever-changing panorama that since his
boyhood had been dear to him; from the unique charm with which only
youth and youth's memories can embellish the most ordinary scene?
Did he hesitate, or draw back from this mission laid upon him; did his
heart and soul shrink from hounding out a woman, whose wrongs and griefs
had hurried her on to the perpetration of a crime, which even he felt to
be but an outburst of that savage justice that reigns deep down in every
human heart? Did he confess to himself that it was but coward's work to
bring to bear upon this wretched fugitive all the political force of the
Imperial Chancellerie, with himself at its head as its willing and
revengeful agent?
He knew well that if he undertook this mission he would carry it
through to the very end, that was his nature; combining something of the
sleuth-hound and the bulldog, he could track his prey indefatigably, and
could fasten his cruel fangs upon it relentlessly when found. But was it
worth his while, was the game noble enough; was not fighting a woman,
with her own weapons, but poor sport for one who had won his spurs in
signal service under far braver and more dangerous circumstances?
As he stood thus, wavering within himself, a hoarse and mighty shout
went echoing up to the blue vaulted sky; then came the clank of arms,
the rattle of metal trappings, and a mounted guard swept into sight,
their scarlet kaftans brilliant against the snow, the precursors of the
Imperial equipage, in which, as it dashed past, Vladimir recognised the
Tsar and Tsarina, enveloped though they were in robes and mantles of
rarest furs. Behind them came another sleigh in which sat two ladies and
an equerry; as they passed the Chancellerie, the lady nearest
Vladimir's window lifted her face and turned it towards the grim walls;
it was a pale and beautiful face, enhanced by the rich cap of sables
that seemed to embrace lovingly the waves and masses of golden brown
hair beneath it. As Count Vladimir caught sight of that proud, fair
countenance, a sudden smile broke over it, called forth by some remark
of her companion's, and melted all the pure still lines into the
tenderest curves of youth.
It was but an instant. Then the sleigh had passed by, and was already
far down the Nevski Prospekte, while the shouts and cries of "Long live
the Tsar! Long live the Little Father!" grew fainter and fainter as the
crowd followed in the wake of the Imperial _cortège_.
Count Vladimir started as from a reverie, and unconsciously drew up his
tall figure proudly, while his face became haughty and resolved. Well he
knew that fair, proud woman, and long had he served her as the most
ardent and loving of her slaves. She had been a hard task-mistress, but
he loved her, and to win her would gladly have sold his soul to the
Prince of Darkness. She had given him some half-encouragement when last
he urged his suit, and laughing half tenderly as she dismissed him, bade
him bring her yet one more proof of his undeviating fidelity to the
Tsar, augment by one more public expression his unqualified loyalty, add
one more ribbon to those he already wore on State occasions, and
then--why, then, she, Olga the beautiful, the Tsarina's favourite, most
beloved and loving maid of honour, Olga the cold, the proud, the
unbending, would consider his passionate pleadings, his long service,
and perhaps reward it in the way he implored.
"You must hesitate at nothing, Count Vladimir," she had ended, "if it is
to serve our father the Tsar. Remember, it is in small actions, rather
than in great ones, that we prove our loyalty. Nothing can be too
trivial or too heroic if it be undertaken for him."
And Vladimir had gone from her presence resolved to win her at any cost.
Here then, lay his opportunity close to his hand. He turned abruptly
from the window, and met Ivor Tolskoi's eager blue eyes with such an
expression of determination and pride that that youth dropped his
abashed, and felt his chances of superseding Count Mellikoff to be but
vain and delusive hopes.
"Your pardon, chief," said Vladimir, in a quiet voice, once more taking
the chair facing Patouchki; "I have taken, perhaps, too much time to
consider the flattering mission his Excellency would honour me with. My
answer is, as it ever has been, and ever will be, that I am at the
disposal of my gracious father the Tsar. My life is his, consequently
what his Government elect for me to do, I can but consider as an
Imperial command, and consecrate myself to its fulfilment. I am ready to
leave Petersburg at a moment's notice."
"It is well said, Vladimir," replied Patouchki, over whose composed
features passed the faintest suspicion of relief. "My instructions are
that you leave within the week; to-morrow your papers of detail will be
given you. I need not remind so faithful a servant of the Tsar that
secrecy, despatch, and caution should be your watchwords. Be discreet,
Vladimir, and watchful. Remember how much depends upon our having this
woman within our power; and remember, also, that in choosing you as
their emissary, the secret committee have had particular regard to the
exigencies of the case, and to the fact that you will have to deal with
people of the upper classes, and through them work your way to the
completion of the chain of evidence. Distrust every one, Vladimir; but,
above all, distrust the ladies of the great world, they are our
cleverest enemies, even as they are our best friends. Your letters of
introduction and credit will be sent you in due course. And now,
good-bye, Vladimir, for the present. You have carried good luck with you
so far, may it not fail you now."
A week later saw Count Vladimir Mellikoff on his way to Paris, _en
route_ for the United States, and as he settled himself comfortably in
the _salon coupé_ reserved for him in the _train de luxe_ going
southward, it was with the memory of Olga's blue eyes looking kindly on
him, and Olga's hand resting just a moment longer in his than was
necessary for good-bye, and his heart was warm within him, and he smiled
as he watched the outlines of magnificent Petersburg fading in the
distance.
His glance lingered longest on the glittering spire of Petropavlovsk, as
it rose above the Neva, and when at last this was lost in the distance,
he murmured, with a sigh upon his lips:
"Fate is stronger than conscience. I go to make war upon a woman, with a
woman's smile as my reward!"