BARANOFF’S PROPOSAL
For a moment Ouvaroff fastened his gaze upon the card which he so held
as to be seen by none but himself; then, raising his eyes, he looked
at Wilfrid. There was a sudden coldness in the Prince’s demeanour, and
Wilfrid intuitively felt that the writing on the card had something to do
with it.
“The next dance is a Hungarian waltz, I perceive,” said Ouvaroff in a
changed voice. “I am reminded by this card that a lady is waiting for me.
Excuse my absence for a few minutes. I am so ugly, you see,” he added
with an uneasy smile, “that when I _do_ obtain the favour of a dance I
cannot afford to miss it.”
As honest a fellow as ever lived was Ouvaroff, but the words he had just
spoken were a “white lie,” as Wilfrid quickly proved; for, upon looking
down during the whole course of the waltz, he did not see the Prince
among the dancers.
While Wilfrid was puzzling himself to account for Ouvaroff’s conduct, he
saw Count Baranoff coming along the gallery, smilingly exchanging a word
here and there with those to whom he was known.
Wilfrid watched him and took the measure of the man. His eyes, more oval
in shape than those seen in Western Europe, had the deceitful, furtive
glance of the Asiatic.
“Were I a Czar, that is not the sort of man I should choose for my
minister,” was Wilfrid’s comment.
“Do I address Viscount Courtenay?” said the Count with a bow as he drew
near to Wilfrid.
Yes, he did address Viscount Courtenay. This somewhat bluntly. Wilfrid
had not asked for the diplomatist’s acquaintance, nor was he disposed to
be over polite to an enemy of England.
But the envoy was not to be rebuffed by Wilfrid’s frigid manner. He
sat down in the chair lately occupied by Ouvaroff. The little group of
Prussian officers stared at the pair, wondering what there could be
in common between the Czar’s representative and the eccentric young
Englishman.
As Baranoff seated himself a diamond dropped from his coat. Wilfrid
picked it up and presented it to its owner, who gracefully waved it off.
“It is beneath the dignity of a Baranoff to resume what he has once let
fall.”
“And beneath that of a Courtenay to accept it,” replied Wilfrid, placing
the gem in the exact spot where it had fallen.
This diamond-dropping was an old trick of Baranoff’s whenever he
wished to gain the good graces of a stranger. He had always found the
method very successful—with Russians. It didn’t seem to answer with an
Englishman.
The Count called for a bottle of Chartreuse and helped himself to a
glass, first pouring in from a phial that he produced a few drops of
a liquid that Wilfrid knew to be “diavolino,” one of those Italian
nostrums much in vogue a century ago, as warranted to keep in tone the
constitutions of those given to dissipation.
Wilfrid’s dislike of the man increased.
“You have business with me, sir?”
“Ah, how delightfully English! You come to the point at once. Business?
Yes, we may call it that. At any rate I have an offer—a magnificent offer
to make.”
He eyed Wilfrid curiously, dubious as to how his words would be received.
And indeed it was on Wilfrid’s tongue to tell the envoy to take himself
and his offer to Samarcand, or further, but he refrained for the moment,
thinking that he might as well hear what the offer was.
“I wish,” continued the Count, “to give you the opportunity of earning
three hundred thousand roubles. Such is the price I am willing to pay
for a service to be done by you.”
Three hundred thousand roubles, or, roughly speaking, £50,000 in English
money, would be a welcome gift to Wilfrid, whose family estate had a
heavy mortgage upon it. But, mindful of the character of the speaker,
he determined to learn first whether the proposal could be honourably
entertained by an English gentleman and a patriot.
“Three hundred thousand roubles! It must be a very substantial service to
be worth so much.”
“You speak truth. It _is_ a substantial service.”
“There are thousands of suitable men in Europe. Why select me for the
purpose?”
“Thousands of men—true. But only one Courtenay.”
Wilfrid did not controvert a remark so obviously just.
“The work,” continued the Count, “is one requiring a spirit that will
dare great things.”
“Then, who more qualified for the task than Count Baranoff?”
“You are very good,” smiled the envoy. “But I was not at Saxony in the
summer of 1792—you were.”
“So, too, were many other men in the year you mention.”
“True, but you were the central figure in a certain affair, forgotten by
you, perhaps, but remembered by others. I will explain anon.”
The summer of 1792 was about eight and a half years back. Wilfrid
hurriedly reviewing his brief sojourn in the kingdom of Saxony, could
recall nothing to explain Baranoff’s words.
“What I require for my three hundred thousand roubles is that you shall
make love—successful love, mark you—to a certain lady.”
Wilfrid gave a scornful laugh.
“I thought the enterprise was one demanding a high degree of courage!”
“And so it does. There’s great danger in it.”
“That makes it interesting. Where is this Lady Perilous to be found?”
“In the city of St. Petersburg.”
“Is the lady young or old?”
“She is in her twenty-third year.”
“Seven years my junior. Ill-favoured, perhaps, and therefore unable to
obtain a suitor?”
“She has the loveliest face in St. Petersburg.”
“Not ill-favoured? The daughter of a vulgar merchant, or of some wealthy
serf desirous of obtaining a nobleman for his son-in-law?”
“On the contrary, her father is a prince.”
Wilfrid started. He thought of the gipsy’s prophecy.
“Is the lady of fallen fortunes?”
“She can command millions of roubles.”
“A prisoner immured within a fortress from which you would have me rescue
her?”
“Nothing of the sort.”
“A cloistered nun, repentant of her vows?”
“Not at all. She moves freely in Court circles.”
“Demented, or that way inclined?”
“As sane as women in general.”
“Subject to some hereditary taint? Epileptic or the like?”
“As sound in physique as yourself.”
“Then by all that’s holy!” cried Wilfrid, in a paroxysm of perplexity,
“explain why a lady of princely birth, beautiful, and rich, can lack
suitors among her own nation? Why must a foreigner from distant England
play the lover?”
“Because there is no one in St. Petersburg bold enough to take upon
himself that _rôle_, since discovery means certain death to the lover,
death perhaps to her.”
“Death!” queried Wilfrid, somewhat startled at the word.
“At the hands of the State.”
“Ah!” said Wilfrid, beginning to receive a glimmer of light. “She is a
lady important politically?”
“Very much so,” replied the diplomatist with a look that confirmed his
statement.
“What prospect have I of winning this lady’s affections?”
“I have discovered, no matter how, that you are the only man in Europe
who can succeed.”
“Really! That’s very flattering to my vanity,” laughed Wilfrid. “The lady
did not send you on this mission, I trust?”
“She is modesty itself, and would die rather than commission any one on
such an errand.”
“I ask her pardon for wronging her in thought. Have you got her portrait?”
The Count hesitated for a moment, and then drew forth an ivory miniature.
“Painted three months ago. It scarcely does her justice.”
As Wilfrid’s eyes fell on the miniature he fairly held his breath. It was
a face more beautiful than any he had ever seen. The soft violet eyes
and the lovely delicate features, with their sweet grave expression that
spoke of a nature, pensive and _spirituelle_, might well inspire love
in the heart even of the coldest; much more then in that of a romantic
character like Wilfrid.
“Well, what do you think of it?” asked Baranoff.
“It is the face of an angel,” replied Wilfrid as he returned the
miniature. “What is her name?” he added.
“You do not recognise her?”
“No.”
“I thought perhaps you _might_ have recognised the face. Her name?
Pardon me, I will give it if you are prepared to undertake the _rôle_ of
lover—if not, ’twere best, in the lady’s interests, to keep it secret.”
Wilfrid reflected. A lady of political consequence, Baranoff had called
her, threatened by the State with death if she listened to love-vows!
Wilfrid was sufficiently versed in Russian history to know that the
reigning dynasty was a younger branch of the House of Romanoff, and that
a return to the rights of primogeniture would deprive the present Czar
of his crown. Was the lady with the angel-face a descendant of the elder
line, and thus so nearly related to the throne that, in the Court of
the gloomy and suspicious Paul the First, it would be perilous for any
man, even the highest among Russia’s nobility, to aspire to her hand?
Imbued with this idea Wilfrid began to weave a whole political romance
around the person of the beautiful unknown. Was she, though nominally at
liberty, a virtual prisoner at the Czar’s Court, watched by a hundred
suspicious eyes—pining for affection, yet forbidden to marry?
To try to set her free from such gloomy environment was no more than his
duty.
And Wilfrid, if Baranoff had spoken truly, was certain of gaining her
love! To woo and carry off a fair princess from the power of a jealous
Czar was just the sort of enterprise that appealed to his knightly and
romantic character. He could no longer hesitate.
“Do you assent?”
“Assent!” echoed Wilfrid. “Is it possible to dissent? You say that
provided I succeed in marrying this lady you will add to the pleasure
by paying me the sum of three hundred thousand roubles! Really, your
proposal is so extraordinary, so captivating, that I am almost inclined
to think that you are trifling with me. And,” he added in a graver tone,
“it is not wise, sir, to trifle with a Courtenay.”
“No trifling is intended. But, pardon me, I have not, it seems, made my
meaning quite clear. You are labouring under a slight misapprehension. I
spoke of _love_: I did not speak of _marriage_.”
Wilfrid stared hard at the speaker, upon whose lips there now appeared a
sinister smile. Then, vivid as fire upon a dark night, the full meaning
of the proposal flashed upon him. He was deliberately to set to work to
corrupt a woman’s innocence! The lady in question had given some offence
to the powerful diplomatist, who chose this diabolical method of revenge.
The fall from purity, the shame that is worse than death, would destroy
whatever influence she possessed in Court circles, and probably at the
same time remove a political obstacle from Baranoff’s path.
Now whatever sins might be imputed to Wilfrid, he had not yet played
the rake. In an age when gallantry was considered one of the marks of
a gentleman, and even the clergy were not conspicuous for purity of
morals, he had kept his name stainless, thanks to the influence of a good
mother, who had bidden him see in every woman a saint.
His anger, then, can be imagined. He blamed himself for holding converse
with so cold-blooded a barbarian.
“I deserve this insult,” he muttered. “What else could I expect? Can one
meddle with pitch and not be defiled?”
“You must not talk of marriage,” resumed Baranoff. “What I require is
that the lady shall be induced to compromise herself.”
“So that all the world shall hear of her fall?” said Wilfrid, smiling
dangerously.
“Why, truth to tell, ’twill not avail me much if the _amour_ remain
secret.”
The candour with which Baranoff spoke showed that he was quite convinced
that Wilfrid had consented to his scheme.
“But you have said,” commented Wilfrid, “that the affair, if discovered,
may bring upon her the penalty of death.”
“So it may, if it be discovered while she is on Russian ground. But I
will so arrange matters that both you and she shall have every facility
for escape. Once over the frontier you are safe. As I have said, the
danger is great. But so, too, is the reward. Think! Three hundred
thousand roubles!”
“Your Excellency,” said Wilfrid with the air of one who has formed an
irrevocable decision, “I will at once depart for St. Petersburg.”
“Good!”
“I will seek out the lady.”
“Excellent!”
“And I will warn her of your damnable designs.”
“Ha!” muttered Baranoff, looking thunderstruck.
As he caught the angry sparkle of Wilfrid’s eye, it suddenly dawned upon
him that he had mistaken his man. Reared in the atmosphere of Catharine’s
Court, in its day the most licentious in Europe, Baranoff had become dead
to all sense of honour, and failed to understand how a man could resist
the twin temptation of a pleasant _amour_ and a rich bribe.
“Do I take it that you refuse my offer?”
“To the devil with your offer!”
Baranoff elevated his eyebrows and affected the extreme of amazement.
“I hold out to you the prospect of an _amour_ with a beautiful and
charming woman, to be followed by a free gift of three hundred thousand
roubles, and you refuse!”
“Repeat your infamous offer, and I’ll—yes, by heaven! I’ll fling you over
the rails of this balcony!”
Unconsciously Baranoff backed a little from the table, for Wilfrid looked
quite capable of putting his threat into execution.
There was a brief silence. Then Baranoff spoke.
“So you will visit St. Petersburg and put the lady on her guard,” sneered
he, mightily pleased that he had withheld her name. “I fear that if you
seek to enter Russia at this present juncture you will be taken for a
spy of Pitt’s. As minister of the Czar it would be my duty to order your
arrest.”
“Oh, indeed! Do you really entertain the hope of returning to Russia?”
“What is to prevent me?”
“Myself.”
“You!” exclaimed Baranoff disdainfully.
Wilfrid laughed pleasantly.
“I shall certainly do my best to provide you with a grave in
Brandenburg’s sand. In seeking to make me the agent of an infamous deed
you have offered an insult not to be passed over by an English gentleman.
You will have to defend your conduct with the sword.”
There was a very palpable start on the part of Baranoff, and his face
paled. Though well versed in the art of fencing he durst not measure
swords with the man who, inside of three minutes, had transfixed the Abbé
Spada, the champion duellist of France.
He sought to shield himself behind the privileges of his high offices.
“It would be contrary to etiquette,” he remarked loftily, “for a _chargé
d’affaires_ to accept a challenge. My imperial master would never
forgive me for putting my life to the hazard of a duel while engaged in
conducting a diplomatic mission, otherwise——”
“Now you are talking nonsense,” interrupted Wilfrid, bluntly. “The Czar
loves a duel, for only a few weeks ago he invited all the sovereigns of
Europe to his Court to settle their international disputes by single
combat.”
And Baranoff, well knowing that the eccentric Czar _had_ so acted, felt
himself deprived of his argument.
“Fight me you must! I will force you.”
“Force me? indeed!” said the Count. “In what way?”
“By publicly branding you as a coward; by putting affronts upon you in
every assembly you frequent. For example, if you are among men I shall
walk up to you with a pair of scissors, and after asking, ‘Why do these
Muscovites wear their beards so long?’ I shall proceed to clip yours. If
you are sitting with ladies I shall relate in their hearing and in yours
the story of how you propose to deal with one of their sex. It may be
that through fear of me you will keep within your hotel, in which case I
shall have to affix a notice at the chief entrance, stating the reason of
your enforced seclusion! In short, sir, I shall make your life at Berlin
so abominably unpleasant that for very shame you will have to fight.
There must be a meeting unless you wish to see the name of Baranoff
turned into a byword for a coward.”
The Count listened with secret consternation, feeling certain that this
obstinate pig of an Englishman would keep his word. A man who had not
shrunk from defying the First Consul to his face was not likely to pay
much respect to the status of a diplomatic envoy.
And to whom could he look for protection? Not to Frederick William. So
long as Queen Louisa was by his side that monarch would avow, rightly
or wrongly, that he was powerless to control the actions of one who was
not a native-born subject. Not to the British Ambassador at Berlin. That
magnate, in view of the hostile relations between Great Britain and
Russia, would be highly amused at the mortification of the Muscovite
envoy.
While he was thinking of all this Wilfrid, too, was thinking, and it
suddenly occurred to him that there was another and better way of
punishing Baranoff—one that would likewise strike a blow at Bonaparte.
“As your Excellency seems to have no liking for the duel, I give you the
alternative of quitting Berlin within twenty-four hours.”
An instant feeling of relief swept over Baranoff. Here was a way of
escape. Then he began to reflect that if he should depart within the time
prescribed he must sacrifice the promised interview with King Frederick,
and go back to St. Petersburg without gaining the adhesion of Prussia to
the Northern Confederacy—a sad blow to his hopes!
Disposed to take a favourable view of matters, he had that very day sent
off a despatch to the Czar stating that King Frederick seemed slowly
coming over to Russian views. He must now return to report the failure of
his mission, and, if he should speak the whole truth, to confess that he
had been frightened from Berlin by a single Englishman! The neutrality
of Prussia meant the loss of so many war vessels to the Confederacy, and
was practically equivalent to a bloodless naval victory on the part of
Wilfrid.
Some such thought as this caused Wilfrid to smile. Baranoff, quick to
read his thoughts, was consumed with secret rage.
No, he would not withdraw from Berlin at Wilfrid’s bidding, and he said
as much.
“Go you shall,” retorted Wilfrid. “As General Bonaparte, your dear ally,
banished me from France, so I in turn do banish you from Prussia. ‘Tit
for tat,’ as our English children say.”
Baranoff gave a scowl of baffled hatred.
“How much has Louisa paid you for this business?” he sneered.
With disdain on his face Wilfrid rose.
“When next you take to pamphleteering let the theme be, ‘Is it possible
for a Russian to be a gentleman?’ My present address is the Hôtel du
Nord. If by to-morrow evening at six of the clock you have neither left
Berlin nor sent me your second, you may prepare for humiliation. I take
my leave. _Adieu_, or _Au revoir_, whichever you please.”
And so saying Wilfrid withdrew to the quietude of his room in the hotel
to think over matters.
It was a fascinating thought that during a brief stay in Saxony he had
been seen by a girlish and beautiful princess, upon whose imagination he
had made an impression so powerful that after the lapse of eight years
she still retained him in mind. True, Baranoff was a person upon whose
statements little reliance could be placed, but in the present instance
Wilfrid was convinced that he had not spoken falsely.
“The lady has a real existence,” he muttered. “Now how ought I to act in
this affair?”
It was hard that a princess who cherished his memory with affection
should meet with no return. Yet, on the other hand, it would be
embarrassing for both if he should be unable to requite her love.
If he went it was doubtful whether he would find her, so slight were the
clues he held.
Would his friend Ouvaroff be able to identify her? The thought had no
sooner entered Wilfrid’s mind than he recalled the Prince’s strange
saying in connection with his own love suit. “There is deadly peril in
aspiring to her hand.” This could scarcely be a coincidence—Ouvaroff’s
lady must be Baranoff’s princess.
“Humph! if Serge were first in the field,” thought Wilfrid, “it seems
unfair to cut him out. But, if the princess _won’t_ have him——”
Early on the following morning he called at Ouvaroff’s quarters. To his
extreme disappointment he found that the Prince had taken his departure,
leaving a note to the effect that he had been hastily summoned to St.
Petersburg by command of the Czarovitch. “Pardon my running off without a
farewell,” he wrote, “but Alexander’s service brooks no delay.”
Ouvaroff was not the only Muscovite to leave Berlin that day, for in the
evening the political circles were surprised, and probably relieved, by
the news that Count Baranoff had suddenly departed for St. Petersburg,
thus relinquishing his attempt to make Prussia a member of the Armed
Neutrality.
And now was Wilfrid continually haunted by the lovely face in the
miniature. It filled his mind by day; by night it mingled with his
dreams. Sometimes he saw the face, its lips curved into a witching smile
as if inviting a kiss; sometimes the eyes would assume a sad, wistful
look, as if appealing to him for aid.
To visit St. Petersburg, or not to visit it? was the question to which
for a long time he could discover no answer. Still in doubt he looked
one night from his hotel window, and saw the face of the sky as one dark
cloud. But while he gazed, there presently came a rift, and through the
rift one planet sparkling bright.
Hesperus, the star of Love!
It seemed like an answer to his thoughts. Love in the shape of a fair
princess was beckoning to him. His mind was made up—he would go to her!