WILFRID DEFIES THE CZAR
“The orang-outang, confound him!” muttered Benningsen savagely, catching
sight of the odd little figure. “Run, before he sees us. Quick! This way!”
“Why should I run?” demanded Wilfrid haughtily. He received no answer.
Benningsen, holding his cloak over his face as if to prevent recognition,
was running down a side street as fast as his legs could carry him.
Wilfrid watched him in amazement.
“Afraid to face the Czar, his brother-in-law! Is the fellow an impostor,
assuming the name of Benningsen for the purpose of fooling me?”
But as Wilfrid turned again he saw in a moment why Benningsen with some
few others had vanished down the side streets; saw, too, why the square
in front of the Michaelovski Palace had been deserted by all but the
sentinels and those officials whose duty took them there.
For the truth was that even loyal Muscovites had come to regard a meeting
with the Czar as little short of a calamity, since it was required by him
that whenever he passed through a street all traffic must be suspended,
pedestrians must cease their promenading, the occupants of vehicles
must dismount, and everybody, from the serf to the boyar, must kneel
bareheaded, be the wind never so cutting or the snow never so deep, till
the “Little Father”—the expression is not meant to be ironic—had passed
by. This practice, an old usage belonging to the barbarous days of the
Empire, had been abolished by the good sense of Peter the Great; but
Paul, on his accession, had revived the custom in all its rigour, so that
Wilfrid, glancing along the Prospekt, saw two lines of kneeling people,
some of whom even, with a servility truly Oriental, were touching the
slush with their foreheads.
Close to Wilfrid was a landau from which there had alighted two ladies,
the one aged and feeble, the other young and delicate, both obviously of
noble blood since the panels of their carriage bore an armorial device;
yet there they were, side by side with their coachmen and footmen,
kneeling in the roadway upon a horrible mixture of snow and mud that
chilled their limbs and stained their fur cloaks.
And woe to them and to any other person who should rise too quickly after
the Czar had gone by! If detected by a backward glance of the Imperial
eye it was well for the offenders if they escaped the knout or Siberia.
As Wilfrid beheld the obvious discomfort of these two ladies, a fierce
anger flamed in his breast against the sovereign who required such
humiliating obeisance. During all this time the regiment, marching twelve
abreast, was drawing nearer to the place where Wilfrid stood.
Some of the kneeling throng, conjecturing from his attitude that he was a
foreigner, ventured to give him good-natured advice.
“Kneel to the Czar, little father!” they cried. “Kneel if you would
escape the knout. See! his eye is upon you.”
That fact made no difference in Wilfrid’s attitude. Determined to assert
his English manhood he stood erect as a palm.
Other Englishmen besides Wilfrid had declined to bow the knee, but they
had been strong in the knowledge that they could obtain the protection
of Lord Whitworth, the British Ambassador. Wilfrid had no such hope to
sustain him, since the withdrawal of that minister, on the outbreak
of the war, had left Paul free to do as he liked with those obstinate
Englishmen who refused to acknowledge his divinity.
“Halt!” yelled the little figure, who, for his size, possessed marvellous
lung power. “Halt! Stop that music!”
The regiment ceased its marching, the band its playing. There was a
terrible silence as the Czar, with a glare in his eye, marched straight
up to Wilfrid. A shiver of expectancy ran through the throng. Some
wriggled forward upon their knees with a view of getting into a better
position for watching the sequel.
Wilfrid, who had seen not a few kings in his day, thought that the being
now advancing towards him was the sorriest specimen of sovereignty he had
ever met with—a very Caliban of royalty. He could scarcely bring himself
to believe that the grotesque creature to whom all were kneeling as to a
god could really be the crowned head of a vast empire.
He beheld a man, short of stature, bald and wrinkled, with a leaden
complexion and large, glaring, dark eyes. The countenance was of the true
Kalmuck type, so frightfully ugly that, if history speak truly, its owner
shrank from looking into a mirror. (His wife, it is said, fainted at the
first sight of him.) Certain it is that, differing from his predecessors,
he forbade his likeness to be stamped on the coinage, with the result
that since his time the Czar’s head has not figured on the Russian
currency.
As if he were some character in a comic opera, whose part it was to
burlesque royalty, he wore a shabby old military surtout reaching down
to his heels, jack-boots with immense spurs, and an enormous cocked
hat carried beneath his arm. No matter how many degrees of frost the
thermometer might register, that hat was never seen upon his head. It
seemed as if he had set himself to contradict the current opinion that
St. Petersburg is the coldest capital in Europe. Cold? when a man can
walk about in the open air without furs and without a hat! Pooh, don’t
talk such stuff as that, sir!
Thus arrayed he was accustomed to play at soldiering by parading through
the streets at the head of a regiment of footguards, flourishing a baton,
marching on tip-toe with mincing air, and looking so like a little bantam
that if he had flapped his arms and cried, “Cock-a-doodle-doo!” one would
have felt little surprise.
The regiment that accompanied him was the famous Paulovski Guards, a
creation of his own and worthy of him. The face of every soldier, like
that of his Imperial master, carried the ornament of a snub, upturned
nose; and, as if to render the face still more grotesque, the moustaches
were brushed upwards to the ears.
Not only did Wilfrid’s erect attitude give displeasure, but his six feet
of handsome and athletic manhood was likewise an affront to a ruler, who,
on account of his diminutive and ugly appearance, had been so sneered at
by his mother’s tall and shapely courtiers that he had come at last to
hate the sight of a well-favoured person, and was jealous even of his own
son’s stature and beauty.
Directing a terrible glance at Wilfrid, the Czar spoke, and by that act,
Wilfrid, did he but know it, had become a very illustrious character.
“There are but two great men in Russia,” Paul had once said, “myself, and
he to whom I happen to be speaking at the moment.”
“Why,” demanded the Czar—and though Wilfrid had never before seen or
heard him, there seemed something oddly familiar, both in his face and
voice—“why do you refuse to us the homage of the knee?”
“Because, Sire,” replied Wilfrid, bringing his hand up to the salute, “I
revere the memory of the great Peter, who was wont to employ his stick
upon the bodies of those who knelt to him!”
This was hitting Paul full in the teeth, for if there was one thing upon
which he prided himself it was the imitating of his great-grandfather.
“We follow,” frowned the Czar, “a custom more ancient than the reign of
Peter.” And then, confident that Wilfrid’s boldness could spring from but
one nationality, he added, “You are an Englishman?”
“A man cannot choose his own parents, Sire.”
“Your name?” cried Paul, growing more angry.
“Wilfrid, Lord Courtenay.”
The Czar closed his eyes in thought. He seemed as if trying to recollect
something. Wilfrid wondered whether the Emperor was connecting his name
with that of the Princess. Suddenly opening his eyes again sharply, Paul
said—“We have heard of you from Baranoff. You are the artist who tried by
a picture to create an outbreak against established order?”
“I painted a picture portraying the murder of that royal lady, whose
daughter till lately was under your protection, Sire.”
Paul winced, recalling first with what state he had welcomed the daughter
of Marie Antoinette, and then, how he had sent her packing at a moment’s
notice, merely to please his new ally Napoleon.
“We have heard of you,” he repeated. “A spy of Pitt’s, with whose gold
you bribed Frederick William to hold aloof from the Russian alliance.”
The charge of being a spy came with a good grace, Wilfrid thought, from
the very head and front of the spy system.
“No Courtenay was ever a spy. Question your own officers, Sire, and they
will tell you that I have shed my blood in the service of Russia.”
“The more effectually to disguise your calling. A spy of Pitt’s. Silence!
Do you brave the Czar to his face? On your knees, rascal, or——”
And up went the stick that had been often applied to the bodies of his
subjects.
Wilfrid, his face somewhat pale, stepped back and half unsheathed his
sword, and thus the two stood looking at each other. There was in
Wilfrid’s eye a gleam which seemed to say that, if struck, he would
strike back, and strike hard. As if realising this the miserable little
man slowly lowered his stick, and just as slowly Wilfrid’s blade went
down into its scabbard again, finishing its descent with a little clang.
During this episode no man moved, whether among soldiers or civilians—not
a hand was put forth to defend the Czar. The significance of this fact,
which did not escape Paul’s notice, served only to increase his fury.
“You would see your Czar murdered?” he cried, turning upon his regiment.
“Lieutenant Voronetz, arrest this man.”
A young officer, motioning four men to follow him, approached Wilfrid.
“You are my prisoner,” he said, with a look that entreated the captive to
give as little trouble as possible.
For one moment Wilfrid hesitated. The wild blood of his viking ancestors
danced in his veins, urging him to defy his enemies. He was convinced now
that in any case death would be his lot; then why not die heroically,
with his trenchant blade whirling round his head?
“Give me his sword,” cried Paul, who had taken a fancy to the weapon. He
was a collector of swords, and kept a little store of them in his bedroom.
“This sword,” said Wilfrid, drawing forth the blade, “the gift of the
Prussian Queen, shall never be handled by a Muscovite barbarian.”
And ere his guards could stop him, Wilfrid snapped the blade in half, and
flung the two fragments upon the snow.
“An honourable way of treating a Queen’s gift,” sneered Paul; and then,
addressing the officer, he added, “To the Citadel with him. To be brought
to the Red Square at the first parade to-morrow. Your life for his, if he
escapes. Forward,” he cried, addressing the regiment and waving his cane.
The band struck up a march, and the grotesque Paulovski Guards, with the
Czar at their head, moved onward again; and as they passed the wearied
Petersburgers rose and straightened their stiffened limbs. They took care
to keep at a respectful distance from Wilfrid, and to maintain silence.
It was dangerous to express sympathy.
At a signal from Voronetz, the four soldiers fell into position, two
before Wilfrid and two behind, the lieutenant taking his place at the
prisoner’s right hand.
“Draw sabres. March.”
Four swords flashed simultaneously from their scabbards; and, as the
guard moved forward, Wilfrid mechanically moved forward with them,
scarcely able to realise that he was a prisoner, so quickly had the event
happened.
“Gospodin,” said Voronetz, “when the monkey plays the flute you should
dance. You have acted foolishly.”
“Wisely; for I have maintained the dignity of an Englishman.”
“And put yourself into prison.”
“No more in prison than yourself, good Voronetz. Russia is a prison.”
“’Tis a pretty large one, then. Gospodin, if one is not prepared to obey
the laws of Russia, one should keep out of Russia.”
“There’s something in that argument,” laughed Wilfrid. “Whither are you
taking me?” he asked presently.
“To the Petropaulovski Fortress.”
“The Pet—? ’Tis a melodious name.”
“’Tis called the Citadel for shortness.”
“Where situated?”
“On the other side of the Neva.”
“Far or near?”
“Three versts away. If the gospodin likes, he may hire a vehicle to take
us thither.”
“Thanks; but I’m in no particular hurry to reach your polysyllabic
fortress. Who is the governor of it?”
“Count Arcadius Baranoff.”
“The devil!”
“I believe he is, or a near relative. The post was given him as a sort
of reward for his successful mission to France. There’s a fine salary
attached to it.”
The thought that he was to be put into the power of his enemy, Baranoff,
was a somewhat disquieting one to Wilfrid. A dark cell and irons was the
least merciful punishment he could expect from the malignant governor.
Wilfrid’s position seemed to weigh little with the chatty lieutenant;
for, as they marched along, he took upon himself to point out to his
prisoner various buildings of note, thinking, perhaps, that as Wilfrid
was not long for this world, it would be a pity for him to pass out
of it without taking with him some knowledge of so fine a city. “See
Petersburg, and then die,” was evidently his motto. And as it is better
to be cheerful than gloomy, Wilfrid tried to take an interest in the
proffered remarks.
“And what place is this?” he asked, as they passed by a wide, open space.
“This is known as the Red Square.”
“And that hillock in the centre——?”
“Is where the condemned criminal stands.”
“And the wooden pillar——?”
“The post to which he is tied while receiving the knout.”
“The knout. What is that?” asked Wilfrid with assumed innocence.
“Now you jest, gospodin. ’Tis a whip.”
“Does it—ah!—hurt?”
“You’ll soon be in a position to judge.”
“How so?”
“You heard the Czar say that you are to be brought to the Red Square at
the first parade in the morning.”
“You mean that I am to be knouted?”
“As surely as the sun will rise to-morrow. If the gospodin has any money
or jewelry upon him, he had better entrust them to me.”
“For what purpose?”
“To bribe the executioner, so that he may accommodate you according to
your taste.”
“I fail somewhat to grasp your meaning.”
“Why, look you, knouted you must be in some way or other, for the Czar
will be present to see his orders carried out. Now, there are three ways
of swinging the lash.”
“Really? You interest me.”
“First, there is the merciful way. The strokes are made to descend upon
the back only; in which case one has a chance of surviving the lash, even
though gunpowder be rubbed into the wounds and set on fire.”
“Is that one of the features of the merciful way?”
“The people sometimes demand it; it pleases them, and need not hurt you.”
“How is the pain to be avoided?”
“A bribe to the knouter, and he will, before beginning business,
administer to you unseen a stupefying drug.”
“Good! And the second way——?”
“Ah, that is terrible, gospodin, terrible! The executioner causes the
lash to coil entirely round the body, cutting the flesh as with the
edge of a razor, laying the very bones and bowels bare. No one can
survive this method, which is the one he’ll adopt, unless bribed to act
otherwise.”
“And the third way?”
“Is the happy despatch; he kills at the very first stroke by breaking
the spine. You have but to say which method you prefer and Vladimir will
oblige. You’ll always find the friends of the condemned at Vladimir’s
door on the eve of a knouting.”
Wilfrid had no fear of death, as such, provided it should come in swift
and painless guise. But death by knouting! To stand half-naked, on a
grey, wintry morning in sight of a gaping crowd, his flesh hanging in
strips from ribs and spine, was an end so dreadful that it might well
have shaken the iron nerves of Zeno himself.
Just as he was preparing to make a dash for liberty at some side street,
gateway, or any other convenient opening, and was looking keenly ahead of
him with a view to this contingency, he noticed, not far off, and on his
side of the road, a man wearing the livery of some nobleman; a man who
commanded attention by reason of his stature, for he was fully seven feet
high and proportionately broad. He stood smoking a cigar, and lounging
at the foot of a flight of steps that led up to the door of a stately
mansion. Though attentive, apparently, to nothing but his cheroot, this
man was in reality keeping a watchful eye upon the advancing escort,
whose lieutenant was walking on the side remote from the steps.
Though struck somehow by the man’s manner, Wilfrid was not prepared for
his action.
As the little party came up and was in the act of passing, the hitherto
listless giant displayed a sudden and remarkable activity. Putting forth
his mighty hands, he grasped the two near guards, namely, the one who
marched before Wilfrid, and the one who marched behind, and hurled them,
each against his neighbour, with such force that all four went sprawling
to the ground, their sabres flying with them. At the same moment, Wilfrid
found his wrist clasped by the hand of a young lady, clad in a handsome
set of sables.
“Quick,” she said, her eyes dancing with excitement. “Up these steps, and
you are safe. Quick!”
Wilfrid required no second bidding. Pulled by the lady upon one side, and
by the giant upon the other, he was swung up the steps towards the door;
it opened at a touch, and the three disappeared before the very eyes of
the astonished escort. The rapidity of the feat was the most astonishing
part of it: the affair had not taken more than six seconds.
Recovering from his surprise, Voronetz called upon his men to follow him,
and flourishing his sabre he sprang up the steps, bent on forcing his way
into the mansion, when he suddenly stopped short at sight of some letters
upon the glass lamp above the door.
“We cannot enter here,” he said, his sword-arm dropping limply to his
side; and then, realising the consequences of Wilfrid’s escape, he
muttered, “Holy St. Nicholas! I shall lose my head for this.”
While Voronetz stood there, irresolute and despairing, Wilfrid, having
passed the double doors of the mansion, found himself in a stately
entrance-hall with a gilt gallery supported on marble pillars. The
tapestries and mirrors, the statues and pictures, rivalled the splendour
of Versailles.
Four lackeys in gold-laced liveries, stationed at different points, gave
an additional touch of grandeur to the scene. Two well-dressed gentlemen,
conjectured by Wilfrid to be secretaries, passing through the hall at
this moment, glanced curiously in his direction.
The lady who had rescued Wilfrid was about twenty-five years of age, with
dark hair and dark eyes. Wilfrid, who, it must not be forgotten, was an
artist, contemplated her tall and graceful person with secret pleasure.
He had seen only _one_ face more beautiful; and it was quite possible
that if his princess and this stranger were to stand side by side, an
impartial judge might have awarded the palm for beauty to the latter.
She laughed with all the gaiety of a schoolgirl at the feat she had just
performed.
“I was a witness of your arrest,” she said, “and hurried on before you.
I knew your guards would take the Nevski Prospekt, because it is the
direct route to the Citadel; and I knew, too, they would take this side
of the Prospekt, as being the sunnier. So I stationed François at the
foot of the steps with orders to snatch you from their hands. And we have
succeeded. You are safe here. The Czar and all his armies dare not enter.”
“What place is this, then?”
“Monsieur le vicomte,” she said, with a graceful little curtsey, “welcome
to the French Embassy.”
Wilfrid’s face clouded at these words.
“I thank you, mademoiselle,” said he, folding his cloak around him, and
taking a step towards the entrance, “but I must wish you adieu. An enemy
to France, I cannot in honour accept this asylum.”
“Stay a moment,” she replied, raising her forefinger with a pretty air.
“There is a twofold France, royalist and republican. For which are you?”
“For royalist France, undoubtedly.”
“You hate Bonaparte?”
“I do not love him.”
“Let me whisper a secret. I hate Bonaparte; yes, that is the word—hate.
Is not this a dreadful confession to come from the daughter of the
Ambassador that represents him? _Mon père_ is a republican, a servant
of the Consulate; but as for me—‘_Vive le roi_’ is my motto. Now, if I,
a foe of the Republic, do not scruple to reside under the roof of the
French Embassy, why should you not accept its hospitality, at least for a
day or two?”
“Will you let me see Monsieur l’Ambassadeur?”
“At present he is out. He will return shortly.”
“It is generous of you to offer me an asylum, but—your father may object.
My presence here is certain to bring trouble upon him. The Czar will
demand my surrender, and——”
The young lady drew herself up proudly.
“You are my guest, for I invite you here. _Mon père_ is a gentleman, and
will not hand his daughter’s guest over to death merely because he has
had the manliness not to kneel to a tyrant.”
Wilfrid began to waver. Why should he not accept her invitation? Not
only would he be escaping a terrible fate, but there would be in this
new situation a piquant charm that appealed to his love of mischief. He
pictured the First Consul’s rage on learning that the Englishman who had
defied him to his face, slain his fencing-master, and defeated his policy
at Berlin, had now put the finishing touch to his audacity by taking
refuge for a few days under the very roof of the French Embassy! “It will
turn his hair grey,” thought Wilfrid.
“Come, you must not go from here. Will you deprive me of your society,
when I have been expecting it these many days?”
“The deuce you have,” thought Wilfrid.
The young lady here drew forth a letter, and directed Wilfrid’s attention
to the signature, “Louisa R.”
“Do you know this handwriting?” she asked.
“I think I recognise the autograph signature of my friend, the Queen of
Prussia.”
“As children we were friends together,” said the Ambassador’s daughter,
“and though our lives now lie far apart, we still correspond with each
other. In this letter she bids me exercise surveillance over a favourite
knight of hers, Lord Courtenay, now on his way to Russia; for, to quote
her very words, ‘If I have rightly gauged his character, he will not be
twenty-four hours in St. Petersburg without coming into collision with
the authorities.’ See how excellently she has judged you,” smiled the
young lady, as she folded up the letter and put it away. “You haven’t
been a day in the capital, and yet you have already got, as you English
say, into hot water. The good queen having charged me to watch over you,
it is my intention to fulfil the trust.”
Her smile was so arch and her manner altogether so charming that Wilfrid
could no longer resist. He would accept her hospitality, conditional, of
course, on its being sanctioned by her father, the Ambassador.
“That is well,” said the young lady on hearing his decision.
She now informally introduced herself as Pauline de Vaucluse, daughter of
Henrion, the Marquis de Vaucluse.
“But you mustn’t give him his title,” she added. “He is a _çi-devant_,
that is, an ex-noble, a Republican. He has dropped the ‘_de_,’ and must
be addressed as Citoyen Henrion.”
“And you are the Citoyenne Pauline,” smiled Wilfrid.
“My faith, no!” replied the young lady, with a flash of energy. “I am
the Baroness de Runö in my own right; and claim the title due to my
rank.” Then, turning to Wilfrid’s rescuer, who, during this dialogue, had
been standing near by, but out of earshot, she said, “François, conduct
Viscount Courtenay to the Porphyry Suite. My lord,” she added, with a
graceful inclination of her head, “I hope to see you again within half an
hour.”
“Truly, my lines have fallen in pleasant places,” thought Wilfrid, as he
followed François to the apartments assigned him.