CHAPTER II. "IT WAS NO DELUSION" 21
CHAPTER III. ST. PETER AND ST. PAUL 34
CHAPTER IV. SUSPICIONS 52
CHAPTER V. MIMI'S BIRTHDAY POSY 79
CHAPTER VI. "'TIS A SIREN" 95
CHAPTER VII. THE CANKER WORM OF DOUBT 116
CHAPTER VIII. A SOCIETY DRAMA 139
CHAPTER IX. "IT IS HOPELESS" 154
CHAPTER X. THE SONG OF THE CIGALE 169
CHAPTER XI. INTROSPECTION 189
CHAPTER XII. PLOTTING 203
CHAPTER XIII. THÉ ANGLAIS 227
CHAPTER XIV. "FIND ME THE WOMAN" 239
CHAPTER XV. "THIS LITTLE HAND" 253
CHAPTER XVI. ARRESTED! 262
MISS HILDRETH.
CHAPTER I.
A FACE FROM OUT A CRIME.
The same dazzling and brilliant sunshine, that for so many weeks had
held sway in Petersburg, was still beautifying the Tsar's great capital,
and gilding all things with an illusory sheen, which had all the
appearance of true gold, but which fled away at the approach of
darkness, leaving bare the cankerous fever spots, the dry bones and
wasting disease of the most tyrannous, but most doomed phenomenon of
autocratic power.
During all the early hours of morning the sleeping city lay bathed in
this wonderful alchemy; the Neva resting tranquil beneath the spell,
even its cold grey waters catching reflections from the sun-god's rays.
From above its low bank rose a long grey stone wall, broken here and
there into sharp angles and protected by recurrent cannon, set at
regular intervals; beyond this a tall and slender spire shot up high
into the air, graceful and quivering with a thousand golden lights, that
seemed to break against it, and then fling the fragments broadcast with
careless prodigality; these in falling touched again the fluttering flag
on the white belfry, glanced athwart the Imperial mint, and awoke myriad
reflections in the façade of the Winter Palace.
This tall spire, shooting upwards like a lance, is the crowning glory of
Russia's great State prison, and Russia's Imperial tomb of kings, the
grim fortress of Petropavlovsk. It is a familiar sight to Petersburg's
populace, as they pass to and fro across the Troitski Bridge, or linger
in the spacious Boulevard-park, which is never empty, and through which
the dwellers on the Petersburg side go in and out to their homes.
Beneath its solid foundations lie the bones of Russia's greatest
sovereigns; within its granite walls languish many of Russia's truest
patriots; while without its precincts, separated only by a few rods,
lying almost within its shadow, rises the stately palace, within which
lives Russia's Tsar, conscious always of the everlasting surveillance of
Peter's prison, yet unable to cast it from him, or flee before it.
It was very early in the day, about a month after Olga Naundorff's
interview with Ivor Tolskoi, and as yet but few people were astir in the
city's streets, save those whose avocations called them forth in the
pursuance of itinerant trade. Now and then a mounted orderly would ride
past, leading an uncaparisoned horse by a long rein, the iron hoofs
clattering over the bridge, breaking clear and distinct across the sharp
morning air; presently they would disappear under the arched entrance to
the barracks, and then, perhaps, a dark, sombre figure would come next,
passing swiftly along, with secrecy written on every line of the face
and habiliments, to be swallowed up in the frowning doorway of the
Imperial Chancellerie; while those he passed on his way drew back
instinctively, the women crossing themselves furtively, the men cursing
below their breath. For was not this an emissary of that terrible secret
police, from whom no one was safe, whose inexorable will was as iron and
blood? And who could say who would be the next in turn to feel that
cruel hand upon his throat, and know, with helpless certainty, that
Petropavlovsk was his eternal destination?
Just as the clocks on tower and steeple struck seven, following the
single notes by the ecclesiastical melody of triumph, "How glorious is
our Lord in Sion," a young man appeared, walking quickly, and with long,
swinging steps, across the Troitski Bridge. He was tall and straight,
and though muffled in a long coat and profuse furs, the yellow tint of
his close-cut curls beneath his sable cap, his fresh complexion and
boyish gaiety of appearance, at once betrayed him to be Ivor Tolskoi.
He was humming lightly as he walked some half-remembered refrain from
last night's ball or opera, but as he reached the middle of the bridge
he halted, and folding his arms upon the parapet looked out across the
marshy delta of the river, to where the Finnish Gulf made an indistinct
grey line.
The gloomy fortress frowned heavily upon him, but the sun's shafts were
making merry with the Palace windows, and Ivor's thoughts had more just
then to do with hope and love, than with treachery and despair. The
opera melody died on his lips unfinished and he heeded it not; his fancy
had leapt the bounds of prosaic realism and was wandering as it listed
in the realms of conjecture.
It was of Olga he thought as he wondered with idle curiosity which might
be her casement among those that glittered and gleamed like jewels in a
crystal setting, across the great marble front of the Winter Palace. If
he waited long enough would he see the blind raised, the silken hangings
withdrawn, and the face of his lady-love look forth to greet the day?
Then would he, standing below her, bare his fair head and veil his bold
blue eyes, and pray the passing wind to carry to her his message of
fealty and true love.
But the windows remained hermetically sealed, the curtains undrawn, and
presently Ivor with a shrug of his shoulders, a laugh at his
sentimentality, and the fragment of song once more on his lips, passed
on his way, looking neither to the right nor the left, and vanished
within the heavy portals of the Imperial Chancellerie.
Mounting one flight of stairs with quick step, and passing along a short
corridor, Ivor knocked at a closed door, and hearing the sharp French
"_entrez_," opened it and stepped within that inner chamber where so few
weeks ago Vladimir Mellikoff had weighed his chances, and made his
choice.
Patouchki sat, as then, at the table writing; and without raising his
eyes from his occupation, bade the young secretary good-morning, signing
him to his place by a gesture of his left hand.
Ivor obeyed at once, and for some time only the rapid passing to and fro
of the quill pens upon the paper were the only sounds.
Ivor Tolskoi had removed his heavy outside wraps and thus revealed the
fact that he still wore evening-dress, and that a white rose-bud
lingered in his button-hole, its freshness somewhat tarnished, but its
perfume as sweet as ever.
After about half an hour's silence, Patouchki pushed back his chair and
laid down his pen, passing his hand rapidly across his forehead once or
twice, and looking keenly at his young companion as he did so. In the
cruelly frank and searching morning light the face seemed to lose
something of its pristine youth; the faint lines about the eyes and
mouth became accentuated, the pallor of the temples more noticeable, the
cruelty of lips and chin more pronounced. He did not look up however,
though aware of the chief's scrutiny, until Patouchki's harsh voice and
bullet-like sentences broke the silence.
"Burning the candle at both ends are you, Ivor? Pardon me if I remind
you that wilful waste will scarcely benefit yourself, or us. Let me also
remind you that that moderation in all things of which the apostle
speaks, has always produced far more lasting results than reckless
enthusiasm and imprudent zeal."
The young man flushed slightly as he replied: "If you would imply,
chief, that my present dress is scarcely suited to my present
occupation, I acknowledge the reproof with all promptitude. I was late
at the Court Ball last night, and had not time to return to my
apartments before making my journey across the bridge. I could not fail
in that, since it was undertaken by your orders, consequently I must beg
your pardon for appearing in such attire."
The words were apologetic enough, but the tone was slightly
antagonistic. Patouchki looked more closely at him; it was not usual for
his subordinates to use any but obsequious words and tones when
addressing him, and his quick ear caught the foreign ring in Ivor's
voice. He passed it by, however, without open comment, though inscribing
it on the tablets of his memory, and replied, calmly:
"And have you brought me confirmation of the business on which I sent
you?"
"Yes, chief," answered the young man, shortly. "I saw the man Mattalini,
who is a veritable specimen of Southern Italy intrigue and falsehood. He
would rather lie than tell the truth, I take it; but he will be faithful
enough to the Chancellerie if paid sufficiently. He had arrived only
last night from Paris, and brought news of Count Vladimir Mellikoff's
occupations and associates in gay Lutetia."
A slight sneer curled Ivor's lips as he spoke the Count's name, which
was no more lost upon the chief than the unusual ring in his voice a
moment before.
"Tolskoi grows restive," he mused, letting his keen black eyes rest
piercingly on the young man's face for several moments; "nor is he quite
frank with me. He keeps something back concerning Vladimir, whom I have
noticed he never mentions without a covert sneer. There is without doubt
a woman in the case. It is always so; Eve's daughters ruin our most
promising patriots, sapping their energy, their spirit, their wit, and
talent, by slow but sure degrees. And for what? A gleam of white teeth
in a dangerous smile, the pressure of a traitorous hand, the hypocrite
tears in melting eyes! Ah, bah! It's the old old story of the garden,
for ever repeating itself--'the woman tempted me and I did eat;' and
eating of the forbidden fruit, have become dead to all things save the
unsatisfied desire it creates but never satisfies."
Aloud he said: "Did Mattalini give you no packet or papers for me?"
"Yes, chief," replied Tolskoi, "here they are," taking from his inner
pocket a small sealed envelope, and holding it out to Patouchki. As the
latter's long fingers closed over it, Ivor continued, in a half-nervous,
half-jocular tone, and touching his fair moustache with his white
fingers: "Might one interested in the cause inquire, chief, what news
you have of Count Mellikoff and his mission? It is something of an open
secret _why_ he has gone in certain circles, and I, for one, should be
glad to know how far he has succeeded."
"To pass on the information to those of your friends who are so keenly
interested in and solicitous for the welfare of our father, the Tsar?"
answered the chief, sharply. "Why, Ivor, I did not know you were so much
of a gossip."
The young man bit his lip and frowned.
"You mistake me, chief," he said, and once again his voice had a ring of
antagonism in its tone, "and you misjudge me. My question was in some
sort a warning, and put forth that you might dictate such an answer as
best suits the interests of the Tsar and Chancellerie. There are those,
chief, who do not hesitate to assert that Stevan Lallovich's murder was
but an act of justice on the part of his repudiated wife; those, too,
who have the ear of our Empress, and who are never weary of instilling
dislike and distrust of the Chancellerie in her mind, and who insinuate
that Count Mellikoff's mission has more to do with secret and
treacherous intrigues against the Tsar, than with the finding of a
fugitive woman. And when the Chancellerie is struck at, you best know
for whom the blow is intended. This was my motive for my friendly
inquiries regarding Count Mellikoff."
He finished with a slight bow, and stood looking full into Patouchki's
face. For a moment the immobility of that sphinx-like countenance was
broken up, a wave of dull-red blood rose slowly in the sallow cheeks,
the black eyes flashed ominously, a sneer rested on the thin lips and
repeated itself in the frown that gathered on his forehead. When he
spoke his voice vibrated with greater distinctness and staccato emphasis
than ever.
"There will always be fools, Ivor, as long as time endures; even in
eternity we shall doubtless find similar spirits to vex our hard earned
rest. If I have misjudged you, it is enough, I beg your pardon. That
there are traitors on every side who can know so well as I, who hold my
life not worth the price of a rush-light! To be accused wrongly forms
the greater part of man's experience, but to know one's own rectitude is
sufficient compensation. The Chancellerie is for the moment secure in
the integrity of its members, I believe; though in this Petersburg of
ours, who can say how long even our institution will stand, or who
shall prove the first traitor to its system? Let it be known then, Ivor,
that Count Mellikoff has at present reached America, and that he is
working under our protection and our surveillance. Even he needs to
tread warily, for not even he is free from our suspicion, or our
watchful care. No one, Ivor, no one, in all our great machinery, but has
his double, whose duty it is to report to us every action, word, or
occupation. A traitor would find short mercy, he might think himself
fortunate had he time for a _pater_ or an _ave_, or a cry to our Lady of
Kazan. I need say no more, your warning will be remembered and acted
upon."
Ivor bowed again in silence and turned back to his desk, but before he
reached it Patouchki stopped him.
"I shall not require you longer, Tolskoi," he said, in his usual quiet
voice, "you had better get an hour or two of rest now; at twelve I shall
desire your attendance with me upon the Emperor and Empress, who will
make at that time a private visit of inspection to Petropavlovsk. Meet
me at the private entrance of the Palace, and now S'Bogorn: not
understood."
"I will be there, chief," replied Ivor, promptly, a little smile
creeping into his eyes and about the corners of his mouth. He drew on
his heavy furred coat and stood for a moment, holding his cap under his
arm, as he pulled on his long gloves, glancing now and then at
Patouchki, who had returned to his writing, and was apparently so
engrossed with it as to be oblivious of Ivor's presence, and forgetful
of Ivor's warning.
"Good morning, chief," said Tolskoi, again ignoring his elder's more
solemn salutation, "and thank you."
But Patouchki replied only by a gesture of his hand, and the next moment
the heavy door closed noiselessly on Ivor's retreating figure. As he ran
lightly down the short flight of stone stairs, and stepped out into the
brilliant sunshine, the smile deepened in his eyes and about his mouth,
and became a short gay laugh, that rang out clear and joyfully, cutting
the cold keen air like a bell, and causing an old woman creeping slowly
on her weary way, to turn and bless his youth and good looks in Our
Lady's name.
"_Hé!_ but 'tis good to be young, monsieur, and beautiful. Saint Peter
send you a fair lady-love, and a short shrift!"
Ivor laughed again, and tossed the old dame a small coin; but the mirth
died on his lips as he passed beneath the shadow of the great fortress,
and recalled the gruesome context of the blessing bestowed upon him. "A
fair lady-love, and a short shrift!" What a ghastly conclusion! What had
he or Olga to do with death and death's ceremonies? He made very sure of
winning his fair lady, but to take account with death, now in the full
vigour and strength of his youth, had not entered into his calculations.
A plague on all old women--evil prophets!--let them look after their own
souls; as for him, a long life and a merry one stretched before him.
Then he began to hum again the broken strain from the opera; and as he
did so, his thoughts travelled far ahead, and were on the whole
satisfactory. Vladimir Mellikoff well out of the way, suspicion raised
against him, no matter how faint, and the Italian, Mattalini, to dog his
footsteps--for Ivor knew the Italian was the one picked out to serve as
the Count's double--what might not he, Ivor Tolskoi, accomplish? Was not
the way opening clear and straight before him, with Olga--beautiful,
proud Olga--as his prize? What could be more opportune than the chief's
selection of him to act as aide during the Royal inspection of the
fortress; for well Ivor knew that Olga Naundorff would accompany the
Tsarina, and that of necessity she would fall to his escort, as they
passed from casemate to corridor of the giant prison.
Ivor was a firm believer in propinquity, and here would be a rare
occasion for him in the relaxation of the strict Court etiquette, that
usually hedged Mdlle. Naundorff about with a thousand barriers, for on
such ex-officio occasions it was well known that the Tsar and Tsarina
appeared with only a strong guard, and one lady and gentleman of their
suite.
The great chimes of the fortress cathedral were ringing out the mournful
cadences of the liturgy--"Have mercy, O Lord"--which in Petersburg mark
each quarter of the hour, as Ivor passed out of the Chancellerie. It was
close on eight o'clock, and already the streets and promenades were
showing signs of renewed life. The great doors of St. Isaac's stood
open, and into the vast misty building the devout of both sexes were
passing rapidly.
Ivor paused, went up the steps, and looked within. The lights on the
altar at the far end gleamed like so many tiny stars, through the
diaphanous incense clouds, that clung always about the holy of holies.
The dull gold on the massive ornaments and in the frescoes shone out
here and there, thrown into relief by the more sombre purples and blues
of their surroundings.
Before a statue of the Virgin and Child a woman had thrown herself in
the abandonment of grief and petition; two or three scarlet kaftans of
the Imperial Guard gave a touch of vivid colour, and contrasted
chromatically with the white alb and golden vestments of the officiating
priest. The low monotonous voices of the congregation rose and sank,
like the murmur of the ocean breaking on the sands, as they, wrapt in
private devotions, made known their petitions in low undertones, and
quite irresponsive of the priest's function; while he, standing at the
high altar, offered up the sacrifice of the mass.
As Ivor gazed half spell-bound, and half disbelieving, the woman who
knelt before the Virgin's statue got up and moved slowly towards the
door. She had thrown back her long veil, and her face against its
blackness stood out in cameo relief. As Tolskoi's glance fell upon it,
he started violently, and put out one hand involuntarily, as though to
bar her way. But the woman dropped her veil instantly, and pushing
rudely by him, walked rapidly down the steps and across the promenade;
disappearing from view even as Ivor, recovering from his amazement,
turned to follow her.
"Good God!" he exclaimed, standing for a moment uncertain what to do,
the look of horror still stamped upon his features, "as I am a living
man, that was the face of Adèle Lamien, the murderer of Stevan
Lallovich, and his repudiated wife!"