HEIRESS TO THE THRONE!
On the fifth morning after leaving Gora, Wilfrid and his yamchik were
speeding over a landscape that presented to the eye little more than
a vast expanse of virgin white, sparkling beneath the rays of a pale,
northern sun, that gave light, but not warmth.
“St. Petersburg!” cried the yamchik suddenly, pointing with his whip to
the far-off northern horizon, which, presenting hitherto a smooth line,
began now to have its continuity broken by a series of irregularities.
As the horses raced onwards, higher and ever higher out of the
illimitable sea of white, there rose to view a curious and, to an
occidental eye, fantastic mingling of palaces and minarets, of cupolas
and crosses, each gradually becoming more clearly defined against the
pale lilac of the Arctic sky.
Now, more than ever, did Wilfrid realise the madness of his enterprise.
He was hastening to a city that held two at least of his enemies, namely,
Count Baranoff and the recently alienated Ouvaroff; to whom must probably
be added a third, in the shape of the Czar Paul—which was tantamount to
saying that he had a whole empire against him.
Now with the aid of friends, a man has often succeeded, despite police
and spies, in eluding the vigilance of the Government; but no such hope
sustained Wilfrid, seeing that in all the wide city there was not one man
to whom he could look for refuge.
“I am entering St. Petersburg,” he mused. “Shall I ever leave it? ’Tis
doubtful. I feel, for all the world, like a prisoner riding to the
guillotine. No matter! Honour forbids me to go back. That my princess is
to be found here is a sufficient reason for going forward. If her life
is threatened, let them take mine as well.”
And he consoled himself with that aphorism of the desperate, “What is to
be, will be.”
They were now leaving the silence and monotony of the steppe. Wooden
cabins, with blue smoke rising from them, began to appear by the
roadside, few at first, but by-and-by increasing in number, till they
formed a continuous line. Soon the appearance of stone houses and
handsome shops, of vehicles and pedestrians, told Wilfrid that he had
entered upon the suburbs of the city.
“Hôtel d’Angleterre,” was his reply to the yamchik’s question as to
whither the gospodin would be driven.
The hotel in question, a palatial structure, was kept by an Englishman,
who bore the homely name of John Smith, a rosy-cheeked, rotund little
personage, but having at this time a most lugubrious air, due to the
bad state of business. His hotel, he remarked to Wilfrid, was mainly
patronised by English visitors, all of whom had taken to flight on the
declaration of war, leaving the vast building almost empty.
It was doubtless a very fine thing for patriotic Britons at home to read
of their victories by sea and land, but the war fell hard on the English
resident in St. Petersburg.
All this, and much more, was detailed by John Smith, whose gloomy
prospects Wilfrid tried to brighten with the assurance that it was simply
a game of bluff on the part of Paul, who, as soon as he should learn that
the tall sails of Nelson’s fleet were coming up the Gulf of Finland,
would quickly make peace.
Having paid and dismissed the yamchik, Wilfrid asked for a file of daily
newspapers that should cover the period of the previous three weeks. He
had found it impossible to procure a newspaper at any of the post-inns on
the way; and hence he was in a state of ignorance as to how the world had
wagged.
Going out, the landlord soon returned with a file of Russian journals,
and, looking cautiously around, said: “If your lordship cares for news
fourteen days old, I have here a file of the English _Times_, and that’s
what you won’t find in any other hotel in St. Petersburg. I get them
from the English Club, who contrive to have them introduced into Russia
without their being seen and ‘blacked’ by the censor. Say nothing about
this, or I shall be having a domiciliary visit from the police.”
Taking the papers, Wilfrid sat down and began with the file of the
_Times_, skimming the contents with a quick eye, in the course of which
operation he came across a paragraph that caused him for the space of a
full minute to sit dumbfounded with surprise.
The paragraph which the Russian censor would certainly have “blacked”
out, had the journal in question fallen into his hands, purported to
come from the _Times_ correspondent in St. Petersburg, and was worded as
follows:—
“A strange story, to be received with some caution, is being
whispered among political circles here, to the effect that the
unfortunate Czar, Ivan VI., whose life, it will be remembered,
was spent wholly in a dungeon, contracted a secret marriage
with his gaoler’s daughter, a girl of exquisite beauty.
“The sole descendant of this union is a grand-daughter, now
in her twenty-third year, and said to be of surpassing grace
and loveliness. Till lately she has been living at Moscow,
carefully concealing the secret of her romantic origin; but,
through no act of her own, the story, by some means or other,
has transpired.
“The Czar Paul is said to be convinced by documentary evidence
of her legitimacy and Imperial lineage, a matter to him of
grave import, since, as there is no Salic law in Russia, if the
rule of primogeniture be followed, this grand-daughter of Ivan
VI., as the eldest surviving representative of the House of
Romanoff, should now be wearing the diadem of the Czars.
“With a view of keeping a watch over her, Paul some months
ago removed her from Moscow to his Court at St. Petersburg,
conferring upon her the title of Grand Duchess, and placing
her among the ladies in immediate attendance upon the Czarina.
Assuming that this story is true, he would be a bold prophet
who, in view of the gloomy and suspicious nature of Paul, would
venture to predict length of days to a lady so dangerous
politically to him and his heirs.”
The paper fluttered from Wilfrid’s hands. He had no desire to read
anything more that day. The political and military affairs of the
Continent sank into insignificance beside this startling paragraph. The
English readers of _The Times_ might regard the story as a romantic
fabrication; Wilfrid had reasons for believing otherwise.
The newspaper paragraph had closed with a sinister prediction, a
prediction that had sent a thrill of fear to his mind. The only way of
preventing its fulfilment was the removal of the duchess from Russia; but
how could he, single-handed, effect the escape of a lady watched day and
night as she undoubtedly must be?
“Matters are growing interesting,” he muttered. “A grand-daughter of a
Czar! Lineal heiress to the throne! So that is why the lady must have no
suitors; she must be prevented from transmitting her rights. And Ouvaroff
and I, and all would-be lovers are to be ‘warned off.’ Well, for my part,
I decline to take the warning. Having more than a liking for the lady,
I intend to carry on my suit; for, if her eyes said anything the other
night, they said love.”
A few questions to his host elicited the fact that the Czarina Mary, the
Czarovna Elizavetta, the Grand Duchesses, and the ladies of the Imperial
Household, were accustomed to take a drive every afternoon at two o’clock
along the Nevski Prospekt.
Thinking that _his_ grand duchess—the _Times_ correspondent had,
unfortunately, forgotten to name her—might form one of this party,
Wilfrid resolved to take his stand near the entrance of the Michaelhof,
in the hope of obtaining a fleeting glimpse of her.
Aware that in St. Petersburg a man in civilian attire is deemed of little
account, Wilfrid resolved to don the uniform of a certain Austrian
regiment in which he held the honorary rank of colonel, a reward
conferred upon him by the Viennese Court for his bravery at the battle of
the Devil’s Bridge, where he had fought side by side with Russians, as
well as with Austrians.
The picturesque uniform of dark blue, rich with gold braiding, was
admirably adapted to set off his graceful figure to advantage, and when,
after assuming his cloak and a jewel-hilted sabre, he took a glance in
the mirror, he was satisfied that he had made the best of himself.
Thus attired, he set off on foot to view the Michaelovski Palace, the new
residence of the Czar Paul.
The building, when seen, proved quite a revelation to Wilfrid, whose very
brief acquaintance with the city had hitherto shown him but two main
styles of architecture, the barbaric, semi-oriental style, seen chiefly
in its churches, and the _façades_ copied from the boulevards of Paris,
seen chiefly in its hotels and mansions.
But the Michaelhof differed from both styles. Here, in the very heart of
St. Petersburg, was a feudal castle, with donjon and towers, battlements
and loopholes, portcullises and drawbridges; and, finally, a surrounding
moat, which, however, just then availed little for defensive purposes,
inasmuch as it was frozen over.
Wilfrid had seen numerous fantastic castles in his time, but none to
compare with this bizarre-looking pile. One might have fancied that a
mediæval architect, given to wine, had fallen asleep and dreamed; and
that this palace was the petrifaction of his dream-fortress, although
the bristling cannon and sentinels with their bayoneted rifles comported
somewhat incongruously with this relic of a bygone age.
The building had for Wilfrid a fascination due not so much to its strange
character as to the fact of its being the residence of his princess.
Which of those gloomy towers did she inhabit? Over which drawbridge would
the Czarina and her ladies come forth?
“An Englishman, I perceive,” said a voice close to Wilfrid’s ear. He
turned and saw beside him a cloaked and sworded figure, wearing the
uniform of a general in the Preobrejanski Guards; a man tall and strong,
broad and burly, with somewhat vulgar-looking features, and with a rich,
florid complexion, evidently due to a liking for ardent spirits; as a
matter of fact, his breath exhaled an aroma at that very moment. He had
eyes of a light blue, a snub nose, and a truculent tawny moustache, and
he carried himself with a kind of bluff swagger, probably mistaken by him
for ease.
Wilfrid might well wonder how so commonplace a man should be wearing a
general’s uniform; yet the man was to be a history-maker; in the time to
come he was to surprise Europe, and perhaps himself, by the brilliancy of
his campaigns against the invading French.
“An Englishman, I perceive,” he repeated smilingly.
“What is the evidence?” asked Wilfrid.
“You go on foot. A Russian gentleman never walks when he can ride.”
“By the same rule you are not a Russian—ah—gentleman.”
“You are right. I am a Hanoverian—General Benningsen. At your service,
sir,” replied the other, raising his hand in military salute.
The name might well strike Wilfrid with surprise, for Benningsen was a
man great in his family connections, if in nothing else. As a youth, he
had wandered forth from Hanover to seek his fortune, and entering the
Russian military service, had the good fortune to attract the notice
of the great Catharine, ultimately marrying a natural daughter of that
Empress.
But though a sort of brother-in-law to the Czar, Benningsen was not in
favour at Court. As a matter of fact, he had been exiled for a time, and
though recalled and restored to his rank as general, he was excluded
from the Council of the Empire, the membership of which his Imperial
family connections might naturally entitle him to expect. It was openly
whispered that this exclusion, together with his banishment, had made
Benningsen disposed to favour a change of Government, no matter what, so
long as it was a change. Indeed, it was even asserted that he had been
heard to say he would have his revenge on the “little orang-outang,” his
name for the Czar Paul.
“As an Englishman and a soldier, you are my brother,” exclaimed the
Hanoverian theatrically.
The Czar being at variance with England, it pleased Benningsen to
patronise everything and everybody coming from that country. On learning
the name of his new “brother,” Benningsen was loud in his admiration and
delight at meeting with one who had shown the Russian troops how to pass
the Devil’s Bridge by scaling the rocks above it, leading the way in the
very fire of the enemy.
“Your gallant feat of arms,” he assured Wilfrid, “is remembered with
gratitude and admiration by every officer in St. Petersburg.”
It was characteristic of Wilfrid that he thought, not of the effect that
his deed might have upon the Czar, but upon—some one else. If his feat of
arms had given pleasure to the Princess, it mattered little to him how
Paul and others viewed it.
Benningsen, with a sweep of his arm, directed Wilfrid’s attention to the
Michaelhof.
“‘In my father’s house are many mansions,’” he remarked. “And that’s the
style of them,” he continued pointing to the palace. “Truly the angels
have curious ideas respecting architecture.”
As Wilfrid’s face showed that he was quite in the dark as to the other’s
meaning, the General proceeded to explain.
“Evidently you are not aware that my august brother-in-law received a
visit one night from the Archangel Michael, who, showing him the plans
and elevation of a palace, bade him build one like it. Fact! At least,”
he added with a side glance at Wilfrid, “it’s a fact that Paul says so,
and it is never prudent to doubt the word of a Czar.”
“You speak freely.”
“Why, one may speak freely with an Englishman. With a Grand Duke ’twere
otherwise. To return to Paul. As soon as he had received the Archangel’s
commission he was in a devil of a hurry to carry it out. Five thousand
men were at work daily. To dry the walls more quickly red-hot plates were
affixed to them. All to no purpose. The place is so damp that the dear
Czar, the Empress, and the Grand Duchesses, are in a continual state of
coughing. And the price of all this?—Eighteen million roubles!”
Wilfrid let him rattle on without interruption, perceiving that he was
one of those men who are never better pleased than when hearing the sound
of their own voice.
“You see that window facing us on the third story,” continued Benningsen,
pointing it out. “What sort of room do you suppose lies behind it?”
“A prison, if one must judge by its numerous crossbars.”
“Wrong. Paul’s bedroom. Difficult to enter from the outside, eh?”
“Are you contemplating the feat?” smiled Wilfrid, for Benningsen really
looked as if he had some such idea in his head.
“The window barred,” murmured the General, as if following out some
train of thought rather than addressing Wilfrid, “and the bedroom-door
difficult of access, since to reach it one must traverse a network of
corridors so like a maze that to find one’s way requires the thread of
Ariadne.”
“Are such precautions necessary?”
“The dear Czar thinks so.”
On learning for what purpose Wilfrid had come to the Michaelovski Square,
Benningsen made the disappointing announcement that a distressing cough
on the part of the Empress—“due to the damned palace”—prevented her and
the Imperial ladies from driving forth that afternoon.
Benningsen, who was a member of the English Club situated on the Minerva
Prospekt, suggested that Wilfrid should accompany him thither, to which
proposal Wilfrid assented, moved more by the hope of there getting rid
of the General than by any other reason. So the two set off, on foot,
because, as Benningsen remarked, it was “so English.”
The Minerva Prospekt, when reached, turned out to be a wide and noble
_boulevard_, alive with pedestrians of the lower orders and with the
sleighs of the wealthier classes. The barbaric, yet handsome, costume
of the boyars, the gay dresses and rich furs of the ladies, with their
bright eyes and laughing voices, the furious galloping of steeds and the
jingling of silver bells made a scene of colour, movement, and sound,
that offered a striking contrast to the stillness, the emptiness, the
monotony of the Michaelovski Square.
Then, in a moment, all was changed!
“_Gossudar zdes! Gossudar zdes!_”
Such was the cry—“The Czar is coming!”—that flew from mouth to mouth
along the Prospekt.
Pedestrians stopped short in their walk; vehicles were hastily reined
in, and dismay appeared on the faces of all, as with a crash of military
music there suddenly debouched upon the Minerva Prospekt a regiment of
footguards, in front of whom, and keeping time to the music with the
waving of his cane, strutted an odd little figure, who was evidently
taking a huge delight in the soldiers, in the marching, in the music.