A VOW TO SLAY!
On the day following the dismissal of the Pahlen Ministry Wilfrid
received a visit at his hotel from Pauline; a welcome visit, for he was
not so foolishly enamoured of the Grand Duchess as to be altogether
insensible to the charms of other fair ladies, and Pauline with her
bright smile looked very charming indeed at that moment.
“I have been on a two days’ visit to Peterhof,” said she, “and returned
only this morning to find all the city talking about you and your
pictorial feat. I offer you my congratulations. You are a maker of
history,” she continued admiringly. “_Ma foi!_ if some of the ladies
of St. Petersburg could only see me now! How they would envy me my
friendship with _le brav’ Anglais_!”
Wilfrid’s mind turned to the one lady. Would _she_ feel envy, he
wondered, could she have seen Pauline at this moment in confidential chat
with him?
“Now, at last,” continued Pauline, “I have learned why for three months
you have lived an unsocial life, working mysteriously in an attic at the
top of the hotel, any why, whenever I have called, you have looked cross
at my coming, and glad of my going; and——”
“I assure you, Baroness,” began Wilfrid, laughing, “that——”
“Hush!” said Pauline, raising her forefinger playfully. “Don’t say it
wasn’t so. I am not blaming you. You were engaged on a noble work.”
Naturally Pauline was all curiosity to know whence he had learned the
true account of Paul’s death. Wilfrid enlightened her; but, desirous
of keeping his love-story a secret, he referred to the Empress’s
intermediary as “a lady whose name I do not know, because she declined
to give it”—herein stating nothing but what was true.
“The Empress Mary,” he explained, “was very desirous that I should repeat
the feat done by me at Paris. There, though my paint-brush failed in
upsetting a government, it might succeed here in upsetting a ministry;
and, you see, it has done so.”
“But how came you to hit off the likenesses so well, for I am told the
faces are perfect portraits?”
“That’s easily explained. You know that for the space of a fortnight
Paul’s body lay in state in St. George’s Hall. Twice a day the Court
and the ministers heard mass beside the bier. By favour of the Empress
I was provided with a coign of vantage where, unobserved, I could take
surreptitious sketches of the ministers, to be reproduced on canvas. When
the picture was finished, I placed, by preconcerted arrangement, a blue
lamp in my attic window, and that same night the picture was fetched
away by two men. Now you know the whole story,” he said in conclusion.
“My patroness, the Empress, I have never seen; and, as for her fair
intermediary, I have seen her but once only, namely on that strange night
in the Michaelhof.”
“But,” objected Pauline, “if you attended the masses held in St. George’s
Hall, you must have seen the Empress Mary every day.”
“Doubtless, and the young Czarina as well, and the Imperial Duchesses.
But I don’t call it seeing a woman when her face is covered with a
mourning veil.”
In truth, Wilfrid, from his secret place of espial, had breathed anything
but a blessing upon the heavy veils worn by the Court ladies on the
occasion in question, since the wearing of them prevented him from
identifying the mysterious Duchess who, he doubted not, formed one of the
group.
“And Ouvaroff, you say, is Paul’s son?” remarked Pauline. “A natural
son, of course? It was long suspected—the likeness between the two was
so remarkable—but Ouvaroff himself appears to have been almost the last
to learn it, and that at a dreadful moment. Poor Ouvaroff! No wonder he
looked so ghastly and wild next morning! Do you know he has not been
seen since that day?”
“A pity that, for there was a matter I would fain discuss with him,” said
Wilfrid, thinking of the night at the Silver Birch.
“No one knows where he is. Some say that in penitence he has turned
monk.” And then, coming back to the subject of the picture again, she
continued, “And you didn’t fear to set your name to the picture?”
“Fear! Do you take me for Alexander?”
Pauline thought it prudent to ignore this reflection upon her hero. She
could not help inwardly acknowledging that while Alexander had walked in
darkness, assenting to a course of deceit in the matter of his father’s
death, Wilfrid, though well aware that grim fortresses and Siberian mines
awaited those who should give umbrage to ministers, had not shrunk from
proclaiming the truth in the light of day.
“Three months’ toil!” she said, her eyes round with wonder. “Did you do
all this without hope of reward? from a mere abstract love of justice?”
“No—o! not exactly. I am to receive a sort of—of _douceur_,” said
Wilfrid. “Very much _douce_,” he added, with a smile. “It’s nature?
Your pardon, Baroness. You shall know, but not yet. After it has been
received.”
Pauline thought Wilfrid was becoming very mysterious all at once. It was
hard for her to put a curb upon her curiosity. After a short pause she
murmured with a glad light in her eyes:—
“Well, thanks to you, Benningsen and Pahlen have had to go.”
“True,” grumbled Wilfrid, “but it’s rather mortifying to find that one
result of my work is to confirm in office the very man whose confusion
both you and I desire to see. Count Baranoff, having had no part in
Paul’s murder, is not included in the list of disgraced ministers, and
still retains his post.”
“But not for long,” replied Pauline. “His power is on the wane. His
counsels are already being ignored by the Czar.”
“In what way?”
“As regards the war with England. What! you do not know? Ah! I am
forgetting. The story is not in the newspapers, since our editors must
publish only what is pleasing. Of course, living at an Embassy, I often
learn matters unknown to the outside public. Well, here’s a secret for
you. Our Russian admiral, knowing himself to be no match for the hero of
the Nile, has declined an engagement, and is coming fast to Cronstadt.
’Tis the old story; leaky ships, cracked cannon, and an unpaid crew,
sullen to the verge of mutiny. The result of this flight is to place all
the towns on the Finland Gulf at the mercy of the English guns. Nay, the
very gate of the city, Cronstadt itself, is liable to bombardment. Hence,
let Baranoff protest as he may, the Czar is bent on making peace. So
magnificently sure were your Government that victory would crown their
arms, that along with their fleet they sent an envoy with plenipotentiary
power to arrange the terms of a treaty. That envoy will arrive at St.
Petersburg in the course of a few days. Should peace be established, and
there is little doubt that it will be, the envoy remains here in the
character of British Ambassador.”
“Who is this envoy?”
“Lord St. Helens. What! you know him?” asked Pauline, observing Wilfrid’s
peculiar smile.
“My uncle.”
“Your uncle?” she repeated, incredulously.
“My mother’s brother. Baroness, you are indeed the bearer of good news.”
The uncle in question was one who held, among other views, that the only
business worthy of an English peer is the study of diplomacy; and hence
he had often growled at his nephew’s taste for painting and swordsmanship.
It would be pleasant now to show the old gentleman that his nephew’s
swordsmanship had defeated the policy of Baranoff at Berlin, while a
painting had largely contributed to the downfall of a Russian Ministry.
And both these events within the space of six months! Could the most
accomplished diplomatist have done more in the time?
“With the coming peace,” said Pauline, “the first half of my work is
accomplished: Czar and Consul fight side by side no more. I call it my
work, because it _is_ mine. If you have wrecked the Czar’s Ministry,
I have had the chief hand in shaping his war-policy. How? Ah! that is
my secret,” she continued, with a peculiar smile. “The second and more
difficult part of my task now remains—namely, to set the Czar in arms
against Napoleon.”
Wilfrid longed to give her a severe lecture, but refrained, convinced
of its uselessness. It was clear from her words that she was still
pursuing her course of working in secret against her father’s policy, an
undaughterly action on her part, and one with which Wilfrid could not
sympathise.
“But a truce to politics!” exclaimed Pauline. “Have you received your
ticket yet from Prince Sumaroff?”
“I have yet to learn who that grandee is.”
“Here’s ignorance, forsooth, from a three months’ resident in St.
Petersburg! Why, Prince Sumaroff’s palace and gardens by the Nevka are
one of the sights of St. Petersburg. A fortnight from to-day he gives a
fancy dress ball, to which you are certain to be invited, by reason of
your rank.”
“How so?”
“The Prince’s aim is to gather to the ball every titled personage in St.
Petersburg, whether native or foreign, ranking from baron upwards. ‘I am
perhaps prejudiced,’ he is credited with saying, ‘but for me, mankind
begins with the rank of baron.’ So, you see, the ball is to consist of
the _crême de la crême_ of Society. To add to its splendour, Alexander
himself and the young Czarina have consented to be present.”
“And the Court ladies?”
Pauline replied in the affirmative, wondering at the quickness with which
Wilfrid put the question. Then divining the cause, she added with a smile—
“So, possibly, you may meet your fair _incognita_ there.”
This was the hope that had just entered Wilfrid’s mind. Since the Duchess
was one of the Court ladies, what more likely than that she would be
present at this fête in company with the Czarina? What woman, especially
a Russian woman, can resist the attraction of a dance? Now that the
Pahlen Ministry had fallen, it would be a matter of honour with her to
redeem her word by bestowing upon him the promised kiss; and since every
guest must be masked, such disguise would enable him to approach the
Duchess without attracting attention or creating suspicion.
To this fête, then, it behoved him to go, and next day he received a
ticket of invitation.
At nightfall there came something still more agreeable, in the shape of a
visit from the blind Alexis Voronetz, who brought with him a pretty blue
scarf embroidered with silver.
“Wear this at the masquerade.”
And without any more words he withdrew, ignoring Wilfrid’s request for
an explanation, though, in truth, one was scarcely required. From whom
did this favour come, if not from the Duchess? It was a proof that she
intended to be present at the approaching fête, and was desirous of
fixing some token upon Wilfrid to enable her to distinguish him from
among the crowd of masked dancers.
Thirteen days yet before he would meet her! How was he to live through
them all?
The first four, measured by Wilfrid’s feelings, seemed more like four
months: on the fifth, however, came a welcome diversion in the arrival of
Lord St. Helens, the British plenipotentiary, sent to consider the peace
proposals of the Czar.
There was assigned to him and his suite a stately mansion on the Nevski
Prospekt, at the point where it is crossed by the Fontanka Canal.
Wilfrid lost no time in calling upon the old gentleman, who was delighted
to see his nephew, and proud likewise of his late achievements in the
political arena.
“Ah! my boy,” said he, “since you can do great things in an unofficial
capacity, what would you do as a diplomatist?”
“Much less,” replied Wilfrid drily.
Lord St. Helens had frequent interviews with Count Panine, the new
chancellor of the Empire, and from each interview he returned more
hopeful. He condescended now and again to favour Wilfrid, under the seal
of secrecy, with the course taken by the negotiations.
“Peace is agreed to,” he remarked, upon the seventh day after his
arrival. “Nelson will be disappointed at having to take his ships home
again. The Russians think so much of Cronstadt that naturally our admiral
is burning to show that their much-vaunted fortress is not impregnable.
Its capture would be the crowning-piece of his life.”
But a man in love has no sense of historic perspective. Living in a
pleasant day-dream Wilfrid paid little attention to his uncle’s political
remarks. A single golden hair from the head of the Duchess had more
interest for him than the departure of the British fleet from Revel. It
was often in his mind to tell his uncle the story of the Duchess, but
yet somehow he forbore. Supposing, in spite of the diplomatic caution
upon which he prided himself, Lord St. Helens should, through some
inadvertence, let fall a remark concerning her in the presence of any of
the Czar’s ministers, she might receive from Court circles a supervision
not at all agreeable to her. Her going to the masquerade, for example,
might be stopped.
“Two days more,” he thought, “and from her own lips I shall hear her name
and story. I shall know then whether the case warrants the taking of my
uncle into confidence.”
On the morning of the day fixed for the masquerade Wilfrid, calling upon
his uncle, found the latter looking so grave that he thought at first the
peace-proposals must have fallen through. He soon found that the envoy’s
gravity was due to a very different cause.
“Is your swordsmanship as good as ever?”
“I shall be happy to meet the man that questions it,” replied Wilfrid.
“You are likely to do so. Have you seen Prince Ouvaroff since you came to
St. Petersburg?”
“Once, and that for a moment only, on the morning of Alexander’s
accession. The Prince has not been seen since that day. Taken to a
monastic life, some say.”
“Nothing of the sort. He has been living quietly at his country seat in
company with two or three of the best fencing-masters in Europe. During
the past three months he has spent the greater part of every day in
nothing but sword-practice. Yesterday he returned to St. Petersburg.”
“With what object?”
“To kill you.”
Wilfrid’s smile implied that the Prince was welcome to try.
“He evidently imagines he has some grievance against you. I don’t ask for
confidences, but I suppose some woman is the cause of it all?”
“It’s probable. He thinks that—but no matter what he thinks,” muttered
Wilfrid, with a dark frown, as he recalled the night at the Silver
Birch. If Ouvaroff could believe _that_ of the Duchess, there would be a
pleasure in slaying him.
“Well,” continued Lord St. Helens, “Ouvaroff now considers himself
sufficiently skilled in his art, and it’s his intention to be present at
this masquerade with the object of forcing a quarrel upon you.”
“You seem pretty well versed in his movements.”
“I have learned all this from a friendly minister, whose name I am not
at liberty to disclose. He was not aware that you are my nephew, and
referred to you as that eccentric Englishman, Lord Courtenay. He seems to
have a kindly feeling towards you, for he suggested to me that to avoid a
possible scandal, it might be as well if I were to exert my influence in
persuading you to leave St. Petersburg secretly.”
“’Twas very kind of him! And your answer?”
“Can you not guess it?—‘Our house does not breed cowards, Monsieur le
Comte. It is not our fashion to run away from any man. My nephew has no
quarrel with Ouvaroff, but if Ouvaroff be bent upon forcing a quarrel
with him, he’ll find he has the devil to deal with.’”
“Precisely my sentiments,” commented Wilfrid.