THE MASQUERADE
The night, long-looked for, had come, and Wilfrid, throwing a cloak over
his fancy costume, was driven off in a covered carriage to the French
Embassy, in fulfilment of a promise to escort Pauline to the masquerade.
While waiting for her in the entrance hall he was somewhat struck by
the oddity of the situation that he, the nephew of Great Britain’s
representative, should be awaiting the daughter of one who stood for
a power hostile to Great Britain, a thought quickly cut short by the
entering of Pauline, fresh from the hands of her maid.
Naturally the first thing each did was to look at the dress of the other.
Pauline showed over Wilfrid’s costume the simple delight of a schoolgirl.
And in truth he presented a majestic figure, equipped, as he was, in a
lofty silver helmet with silver wings, a corselet of silver mail, a rich
baldric, a horn, a sword, and all the accompaniments of a Norse warrior;
his look and bearing gave proof of his descent: he was the very ideal of
a Viking chief.
Pauline was moved with a thrill of pride at having for her escort one so
handsome in person and dress as Wilfrid, while he in turn felt a similar
pleasure as he viewed Pauline’s graceful and stately figure. She was
dressed to represent Night, in a dainty robe of darkest blue glittering
with stars, a silver crescent gleaming in her raven hair.
Conscious of Wilfrid’s look of admiration Pauline coloured with secret
pleasure, becoming somewhat pale again as she noticed his eyes resting
upon the figure of an Imperial crown embroidered upon her sleeve.
“A secret token by which you are to be known to some favoured one?”
Her smiling assent gave Wilfrid a momentary pang of jealousy, a feeling
strange and illogical; for, seeing that he had his own lady to meet, what
did Pauline’s doings matter to him?
“I am as you are,” said she, touching the scarf upon his left arm. “That
is not worn without a purpose?”
Offering his arm Wilfrid escorted her to the carriage, and they drove off
to the masquerade.
On the northern side of that river-arm known as the Great Nevka,
and fronting the Aptekarski Island, there now stands a long line of
Government buildings, whose site in the opening years of the nineteenth
century was occupied by the Sumaroff Palace and its beautiful gardens,
gardens ample enough to furnish a camping ground for all the Czar’s
armies.
On this particular night, a warm lovely night in July, the halls and
gardens of the palace were gay with a throng of picturesquely-clad
masqueraders, drawn from the noblest blood in the land.
Some good people had affected to be scandalised at the holding of such
a fête, with Paul but four months dead. Their criticisms vanished,
however, when it became known that Prince Sumaroff had not only obtained
Alexander’s sanction for the fête, but a promise also that the Imperial
family itself would be present.
“There is a time to mourn and a time to dance,” had been the Emperor’s
remark—so it was said—and the time for mourning might be considered as
fairly past.
On arriving at the palace Wilfrid and Pauline, both closely masked,
entered the reception room, where their cards were scrutinised by
liveried officials, after which the two were free to go whither they
would. Their steps were immediately directed to the famous ballroom,
known as the Hall of Mirrors, the glory of the Sumaroff Palace. Crystal
columns sustained the roof of this hall, a hall that seemed far more
spacious than its actual size, due to the fact that its walls consisted
of mirrors, whose multiplying reflections created the illusion of endless
vistas of twinkling lights and swaying dancers. Rare flowers glowing
from porphyry vases perfumed the air with their fragrance. Here and there
were fountains that diffused a refreshing coolness around. The tall
windows, ranged along a colonnaded wall, were left open to the night,
revealing the moonlit gardens, fair with marble terraces and statuary,
gleaming white amid the dark foliage.
Wilfrid, familiar as he was with the various capitals of Europe, had seen
nothing to rival the splendour of this ballroom, which, filled as it was
with a crowd of masqueraders, all dressed in fanciful costumes, made a
picture full of colour, brilliance, and movement.
The gigantic bronze chandelier, hanging from the middle of the ceiling
was a superb work of art, radiant as a sun, a mass of flowers and
foliage, and—what? Wilfrid turned his ear to listen more attentively:
yes, from it came the orchestral music that regulated the steps of the
dancers. The chandelier was large enough both to hold and to hide the
musicians!
“Big as it is,” said Pauline, “the one in the Hermitage is bigger.”
The dance—it was the first of the night—had come to an end, and while
a few couples had seated themselves, the greater number were slowly
promenading around the ballroom. As they passed by in gay talk Wilfrid
scanned the shape of each fair masker, and tried to catch the sound of
her voice in the hope that he might hear the Duchess speaking; nor did he
neglect to hold his arm in such a position that his lady’s favour might
be clearly seen.
Now, during this promenading, Wilfrid’s attention was struck by a tall
gentleman—he was more than six feet high—clad in the glittering dress of
a Crusader. This individual, while going by, fixed a keen glance both
upon Pauline and Wilfrid. Through the holes of his mask a pair of steely
blue eyes seemed to flash anger; the next moment their owner had passed
by.
“Prince Ouvaroff, or my name isn’t Courtenay,” murmured Wilfrid.
“Which is Ouvaroff?” asked Pauline.
“He in the dress of a Crusader,” replied Wilfrid, indicating the receding
figure.
“Yes, that is Ouvaroff.”
She spoke with a sort of hesitancy that gave Wilfrid the impression that
while she herself did not really believe that it _was_ Ouvaroff, she was
desirous that Wilfrid should! An odd impression, certainly, but there it
was.
The music, suspended after the first dance, now started again. Eager as
Wilfrid was to begin his search for the Duchess, he nevertheless realised
that it would be unmannerly to escort Pauline to the ball without
offering to tread one measure at least with her.
“The second dance is beginning. It is a waltz. Shall we——”
Pauline’s manner was odd, not to say perplexing. She hesitated; nay,
Wilfrid fancied he could detect a look of fear in her eyes; then she gave
a grateful smile, and the next moment to the sound of sweetest melody she
was floating around in the dreamy mazes of a waltz, the very dance in
which Wilfrid had no superior.
The waltz is the most voluptuous of dances, and Pauline drank fully of
its charms. She had no need to look where she was going. Wilfrid’s touch,
strong yet tender, steered her gracefully and lightly through the moving
throng. The ballroom, the lights, the dancers—all seemed to vanish.
She and Wilfrid were the sole beings in a Paradise of their own. With
her lips parted into an unconscious smile she yielded herself to the
delicious spell of intoxication; her eyes half-closed, she rested on his
arm, swaying to and fro on a billowy sea of pleasure. Could her wish at
that moment have had its fulfilment this dance would have lasted for ever.
Wilfrid, to his shame be it said, felt little of this fascination;
his pulse beat, perhaps, two or three above the normal; no more. His
attention to Pauline was more apparent than real; his mind was dwelling
on the Duchess, and whenever any lady, golden-haired and blue-eyed,
floated past, she was sure to receive from him a scrutinising glance.
Then came a sudden surprise.
“_Baroness!_”
The word, though but faintly whispered, was nevertheless heard not
only by the person for whose ear it was intended, but also by Wilfrid.
The voice was a man’s, and it was marked, so Wilfrid thought, by an
intonation expressive of reproach at her evident pleasure in the waltz.
Wilfrid looked around, curious to discover who had been the speaker.
Among the masked forms circling about them was that very Crusader whom he
half-suspected to be Ouvaroff. Doubtless it was he who had spoken; at any
rate, the voice was not unlike that of the Prince.
He glanced at his partner, but Pauline, though conscious that Wilfrid
had heard the name, made no remark, and Wilfrid, responsive to her mood,
refrained from comment. It seemed, however, a safe conclusion to draw
that the speaker, whether Ouvaroff or not, was the man in whom Pauline
was interested, and that he had recognised her by the sign upon her
sleeve.
The name had roused Pauline from her dreamy state; she continued dancing,
but its pleasure was gone. The little hand within his own was trembling
very much. The waltz over, he led her to a seat.
“I will release you now; it is time you looked for—for _her_!” said
Pauline, indicating the scarf upon his arm. “Please, go,” she added, as
he hesitated.
There was something odd in her manner, a sort of defying and scorning of
herself, and yet withal a touch of sadness in her voice, as though, in
spite of her command, she was reluctant to part from him.
“Farewell, Baroness—for a time,” said Wilfrid, and with a bow he turned
away, leaving her seated upon a lounge.
He did not at once quit the ballroom, but, making his way to one of the
open windows that gave egress to the gardens, stood there in a somewhat
conspicuous position, his embroidered favour clearly showing, to the end
that if the Duchess should be in the ballroom, it might certify her of
his presence.
While standing there he could not help wondering what had caused Pauline
to take so strange an interest in Ouvaroff—that is, supposing the
Crusader to _be_ Ouvaroff. What was implied by his whispered word,
“Baroness!” so meaningly emphasised? Reproach that she should be found
dancing with one so dishonourable as Wilfrid? Had he seen Pauline
recently and given her _his_ version of the affair at the Silver Birch,
openly avowing that he would take vengeance upon Wilfrid? Was Pauline
going to use her influence over Ouvaroff with the object of getting him
to desist from the attempt? If so, she had chosen a strange time and a
strange place for endeavours that, however well-meant on her part, would
not be very acceptable to Wilfrid, who much preferred to punish with
a little blood-letting the presumed traducer of the fair and innocent
Duchess.
From time to time he turned his eyes in the direction of Pauline, who,
seated where he had left her, seemed intent only on watching him.
Then it suddenly struck him that, so long as he stood there, Pauline
would not be approached by Ouvaroff. Not wishing, therefore, to deprive
her of the desired interview, Wilfrid walked slowly out upon the terrace,
thinking that, if the Duchess were really in the ballroom, and had seen
the embroidered scarf, she would perhaps, after a reasonable time, follow
in his wake.
From the terrace a flight of steps descended to the palace gardens, now
in all the glory of their summer foliage. Voices and laughter from near
and far showed that many of the masqueraders preferred the purer air of
night to the atmosphere of the ballroom. And then, too, the gardens with
their shady walks, winding here and there beside silver lakes, formed an
ideal place for love-making.
As he did not appear to be followed by the Duchess, Wilfrid resolved to
make a tour of these gardens in the hope of meeting her.
Rapidly traversing this or that path, as chance directed, he came in the
course of his search upon a terrace over-hanging the Neva. A little group
was looking down upon the smooth-flowing water.
“There goes my fan!” said a fair masker, lamenting the loss of that
article, accidentally dropped by her into the river. “A hundred roubles
floating away.”
“Ask the Baroness Runö to restore it you to-morrow,” said a gentleman
beside her.
This chance mention of Pauline’s name caused Wilfrid to listen for a
moment.
“I don’t understand——” began the lady.
“Why, look you,” replied her companion, “she goes to-morrow to her summer
residence, the castle on her little island of Runö, some three miles down
the river.”
“You mean that——”
“The current of the river strikes directly upon the eastern side of Runö,
upon the shore called the Silver Strand. Things carried down by the river
are always——”
“Always?”
“Well, say usually, cast ashore upon this same strand. There’s a romantic
story that a former Prince Sumaroff, being in love with a daughter of a
former Baron Runö, used to communicate with her by putting a letter into
the cleft of a stick and throwing it into the river. An hour afterwards
the lady would be reading the message. So, perhaps, your fan——”
An interesting anecdote, but as it had nothing to do with the whereabouts
of the Duchess, Wilfrid passed on, coming finally to a lonely and quiet
spot, a spot as far as he could judge, the most remote from the palace.
Just as he was on the point of turning back, his ear was suddenly caught
by the sound of voices coming from the other side of some shrubbery
against which he was standing.
“The Neva’s waters are deep!”
It was not the oddity of the speaker’s remark so much as his voice that
attracted Wilfrid. That voice he could have sworn to out of ten thousand.
The speaker was none other than Izak, the driver, the companion of his
long wintry journey from Kowno to St. Petersburg. What was he doing in
these gardens upon a night when entrance was denied to all save persons
of rank? Perhaps he had left off his profession of driver to become one
of the many servitors of Prince Sumaroff.
Peering warily through the shrubbery Wilfrid caught a glimpse of four
men, three sitting upon a rustic seat and a fourth, Izak, standing in
the attitude of addressing them. All were masked, and all clad in the
chocolate-coloured velvet and gold lace that marked the livery of Prince
Sumaroff. But something told Wilfrid that, in spite of this attire, Izak
was no lackey; the dress was assumed for that night only. The man no
longer carried himself with an obsequious and servile air. He spoke with
authority, and even with dignity, leading Wilfrid to suspect that he was
a spy of the Government, and one occupying as high a post as is bestowed
upon these agents. Desirous as Wilfrid was of finding the Duchess, there
was something in the talk of these men that fixed him to the spot.
“The Neva’s waters are deep!” repeated Izak.
“Hush, speak low,” said one of the men.
“We are safe enough here,” returned Izak. “No one will wander so far as
this from the palace. That is why I have chosen this nook for our little
meeting. Now, what would you say if I were to talk of a thousand roubles
to each?”
“That you are lying!”
“I guessed you would say so. You see what I am lifting with my hands?”
“Earth!”
“Earth it is, our common mother. I place it upon my head, and what does
that signify?”
“That you are on oath.”
“So; the most solemn oath known among us. By this, then, know that I am
speaking the truth when I say that, if we do it, a thousand roubles to
each will be our reward.”
An interval of silence followed this promise.
“How did he find out that she was here?” asked one of the men presently.
“Her mask accidentally slipped off.”
“But if it’s now on her face again how are we to recognise her?”
“By her dress. There are five hundred ladies here to-night, so I’m told,
but only one with her costume. She wears a grey domino——”
“So do many other ladies.”
“Let me finish. There _are_ many grey dominoes here—true, but look
well at them, and you will see that their material is velvet, silk, or
something equally costly, whereas hers is modest serge trimmed with
silver cord, the simplest costume of the whole ball. Her mask, too, is of
grey silk.”
“What made her venture here to-night.”
“She wishes to see the Czarina.”
“And she may be having her wish at this moment.”
“Hardly. She must wait till the supper-hour comes.”
“Why so?”
“O silly! Aren’t all the ladies masked? No one knows who’s who till the
general unmasking at supper-time.”
“And when she sees the Czarina—what then?”
“She’s bent on giving her a letter. It’s our business to see that it be
not given, and the sooner we set about our work the better.”
Thus advised, the three men rose and moved off, Izak leading the way,
bent, as his words showed, on preventing some girl or woman from giving a
letter to the Empress; but how was it possible to stop its presentation
without the employment of questionable methods?
Wilfrid by chance had evidently lighted upon some sinister plot. Ever
ready to oppose knavery, he put aside the Duchess for a time, determined
to follow the men, and to defend, at the sword’s point if necessary, the
woman against whom this plot was directed.
Now, had the men’s way lain parallel with the course of the shrubbery,
it would have been an easy matter for Wilfrid to shadow them; but it so
happened that they turned off in a line almost at right angles to this
thicket, which was too densely set to permit the passage of a human body.
Wilfrid ran, now to the right and now to the left, and when at last he
_did_ come upon a gap the men were out of sight.
With no clear idea as to the direction taken by them, Wilfrid,
nevertheless, hurried forward, but his attempt to discover them proved a
failure.
His good fortune took him again to the terrace fronting the river and
there, a few paces off, with one hand lightly resting upon the marble
balustrade, stood a graceful figure, dressed in a simple grey domino,
with silver cording. Silent and motionless she stood, as if absorbed in
the beauty of the night.
Wilfrid’s mind felt a sudden relief. Thank heaven, the knaves had failed,
so far, in their purpose; the lady, whoever she might be, was still safe,
and would continue to be so, as long as his trenchant blade swung by his
side.
At Wilfrid’s approach the lady turned her head, and, as her eyes fell
upon the blue scarf, she gave a start as of recognition.
That start raised a sudden hope in his mind, a hope confirmed as he
received through the holes of her grey mask the attentive glance of a
pair of dark blue eyes.
Wilfrid thrilled, first with pleasure, and then with amazement, as he
recognised that the lady, sought for by Izak and his confederates, was
none other than his own duchess!