FLIGHT
Startled at the strange turn of events the three spectators stood,
staring in doubt and fear at the unconscious figure. Was this collapse
the stroke of death?
Before they had time to ascertain for themselves there came an insistent
knocking at the door, as of someone attracted by the screaming.
Wilfrid walked forward and, opening the door just wide enough to
ascertain who the new-comer was, beheld Beauvais standing without.
“The very man we want,” he said, pulling the surprised doctor within and
locking the door. “The Czar requires your aid.”
Beauvais, being a wise man, spent no time in asking irrelevant questions.
Hurrying forward he knelt down, and examined the body of the fallen
emperor.
“An apoplectic stroke. Takes after his father Paul,” said Beauvais, as he
loosened the Czar’s military collar and bade Wilfrid bring him a carafe
of water.
“Is it serious?” asked Pauline.
“I think not, but one never knows.”
“How long will it be before consciousness returns?” she continued.
“I cannot say. He may recover in an hour; in two hours; five; perhaps
more. It is impossible to tell. Let me have help, Baroness.”
With Wilfrid’s aid Beauvais laid the Czar upon the ottoman, while Pauline
summoned two maids to assist the doctor’s ministrations.
This done she gently drew Wilfrid and the Empress to a small anteroom
and, with downcast eyes and humble air, knelt before the latter.
“Your Majesty——” she began.
“Majesty!” exclaimed the other. It frightened her to see Pauline
suppliant at her feet.
“Yes, for you are in truth the Czarina——”
“Is this a conspiracy to mock me, or is it really the truth? I cannot—I
_cannot_ believe it. It is so strange that I—that I should be—Ah! would
to heaven that I were not! What do I gain by the change?—Would that I
were dead!” she murmured with a look of unutterable anguish. “O Wilfrid,
Wilfrid, we are lost to each other.”
If Pauline ever felt remorse, she felt it at that moment as she
contemplated these two, with whose affections she had wantonly sported
for the sake of her own ambition.
“Yes, reproach me,” she said, observing Wilfrid’s grave eyes set upon
her. “I deserve your bitterest censure. My only excuse is that it was
done for France—for France. I have acted wickedly, yet I repented,
but—but it was too late! And I, too, have suffered—”
She swayed and would have fallen had not the Czarina held her up by the
wrists. For a few moments they continued in this attitude, till the
Czarina, pitying Pauline’s unhappy look, stooped and kissed her.
“I forgive you,” she murmured, raising the other.
“Alas! I cannot forgive myself,” murmured Pauline bitterly.
An embarrassing silence followed, broken at length by Marie.
“If I am Empress,” she said with a sad smile, addressing Wilfrid, “show
your loyalty by doing my will. Aid me to escape. When the Czar recovers
he will order your arrest and mine. I will not lose my liberty. I must
fly at once.”
Wilfrid was quite alive to the necessity for her immediate flight. Her
relation with the Czar was, in his opinion, a question to be decided at
some other time; for the present she must not remain at Runö while the
Czar’s anger and jealousy were still hot upon him.
Yet how could he give her aid when police and spies—as the Czar had
said—were everywhere on the look-out for him? Should he be recognised,
not only his own flight, but that of the Empress would be frustrated.
“Your Majesty,” said he after awhile, “the only asylum that I can think
of is the British Embassy, which we can reach by water along the Neva
and Fontanka Canal, and thus perchance elude the police. Lord St. Helens
will be honoured by your confidence. Within the Embassy you may remain
concealed till some plan be devised for your escape, or till friends
shall have effected a reconciliation between you and the Czar.”—Marie
shivered.—“Even supposing your presence at the Embassy should become
known, you cannot be removed by force, nor can the Czar enter without
leave. You will, in fact, be able to treat with him on equal terms.”
Marie caught eagerly at Wilfrid’s suggestion. To get away at once was her
one desire. Pauline, too, approved of the scheme.
“A boat shall be ready at Silver Point within ten minutes,” she said, and
gave an order to that effect.
It now occurred to Wilfrid that to accompany the Empress would give a
tongue to scandal, and confirm the Czar in his suspicions. He whispered
this much into Pauline’s ears.
“I have thought of that,” she murmured, “and the Czarina’s brother-in-law
shall go with you, to see,” she added with an air of shame, “that there
be no more love-making between you.”
“The Czarina’s brother-in-law!” said Wilfrid.
“I refer to Prince Ouvaroff,” explained Pauline, “who is now beneath my
roof.”
“Ouvaroff will be more likely to intercept than to assist her flight.”
“Because he misjudges her. But I will undeceive him. Escort the Empress
to the Silver Strand and wait there for me.”
Wilfrid, taking the Empress under his care, stepped through the French
window and set off for the appointed place, while Pauline made her way to
the entrance hall.
Here the Czar’s equerries, Princes Ouvaroff and Volkonski, were whiling
away the time over a game of chess.
Upon her entering the two arose and bowed.
“The Czar——?” began Volkonski.
“Is taking a short sleep,” answered Pauline. “Prince Ouvaroff, may I have
a word with you?”
The Prince was only too pleased at such an honour. She drew Ouvaroff,
much to Volkonski’s surprise, from the entrance hall to the moonlight
outside and began to whisper her tidings.
“_She_ here!” muttered the Prince, confounded, “and preparing to fly.”
“She has been living in concealment here since the night of the Sumaroff
Masquerade. Now before you pronounce her guilty read this.”—She handed
him a letter.—“It is a confession written by Nadia, once maid at the Inn
of the Silver Birch.”
By the light of the harvest moon Ouvaroff rapidly ran his eye over the
document. His face wore at first an expression of surprise that finally
merged into joy.
“This establishes her innocence,” he said looking up from the paper, “at
least as regards the affair at the inn.” And then, with a look of deep
dismay, he added in a stammering voice, “And I—it was I who accused her
to Alexander——”
“Well, you can atone for that error by helping her now.”
“But—but,” exclaimed the perplexed Prince, as he handed back the letter,
“since she can now prove her innocence what need is there for flight?”
“Because the Empress has lost her memory, and—But we’ve no time to lose.
Come with me and I’ll explain matters as we go along.”
He followed Pauline, and, as they went, she put him in possession of the
chief events of the story, finishing her recital just as they reached the
Silver Strand.
Close to the shore with which it was connected by a broad plank, lay a
handsome gondola, _The Pauline_, capable of holding eight or ten persons.
Within it and resting upon their oars were four sturdy Finlanders, ready
to undertake any charge, however perilous, at the bidding of their
mistress.
Marie had no more recollection of Ouvaroff than she had of the Czar, and
gazed wonderingly at him as he knelt before her upon the sands.
“Prince Ouvaroff,” whispered Wilfrid for her enlightenment.
“Your Majesty,” said the Prince, “I—I have done you a grievous wrong, for
which I know not how to atone. If the taking of my life can afford you
any satisfaction it is yours to take.”
The Empress put forth her hand and raised the Prince.
“Aid me to escape, good Ouvaroff, and you are forgiven.”
The Prince vowed that he would do all he could to further her wish, for
he perceived that, till the recovery of her memory, it would be unjust
and cruel to force her return to the Czar. For his part, zealous to
retrieve his error, he desired nothing better than to die in her service.
“As I am of like mind with you,” said Wilfrid, addressing Ouvaroff, “what
is to prevent us from being the best of friends as once we were?”
The Prince grasped Wilfrid’s outstretched hand and thus the two, so long
estranged, were at one again.
“Are you not coming with us?” said Marie to Pauline.
The Baroness shook her head.
“Have you the courage,” continued the other, “to face the Czar’s anger
when he awakes and finds us gone?”
“I must try to repair the wrong I have done. I remain to act as
conciliator between you and the Czar.”
The Empress shook her head, kissed Pauline and, turning away, was guided
across the plank by Ouvaroff and Wilfrid. She seated herself beside the
latter in the bow of the boat, while the Prince took his place in the
stern and busied himself with the tiller. The oars dipped, and the next
moment the boat was shooting forward into deep water.
As Marie silently watched the castle fade in the distance and thought of
the happy time spent there, her eyes suffused with tears.
Wilfrid, too, was silent. He was glad of the presence of Prince Ouvaroff
and the four Finlanders; there could be no love-making so long as they
were by. A beautiful woman is a beautiful peril and she becomes doubly
perilous when in distress. Wilfrid, in spite of the claims of honour,
felt that he durst not trust himself alone with her, lest passion should
usurp the place of reason.
“_Wilfrid_,” said the Czarina softly. “How is this to end?”
“Your Majesty——” he began.
“Majesty!” she repeated reproachfully. “It was Marie once.”
“A treasonable word, for which I humbly ask your pardon.”
“Pardon, for giving me pleasure?”
There was fire in Wilfrid’s blood when she spoke like that, and he was
gladder than ever that they were not alone.
“It must be our aim to do the right,” he remarked. “There is something
higher in life than love—there is honour.”
“That means that you have ceased to love me,” she said; in her voice a
pathos that thrilled him to the heart.
“Your Majesty, I would gladly resign life itself to ensure your
happiness.”
“I know it and am grateful. But,” she faltered sorrowfully, “that feeling
is loyalty, not love.” There was a brief interval of silence, and then
she resumed:—
“The Czar loves Pauline; he will obtain a divorce and then—then—what is
to prevent us from being—happy?”
“That were to justify men’s suspicions of our relations. Your fair name
would be gone. No, your Majesty. You are an Empress and shall remain
such. The Czar will forget his fancy for Pauline when he finds that she
is set against him. He shall believe in your innocence—how, I do not at
present know, but all will come right in the end.”
Deep down in her heart Marie was fain to confess the justice of what
she felt was Wilfrid’s final decision, but—the hardness of it! Without
Wilfrid the future seemed black and joyless. What was the diadem of an
empress without Wilfrid’s love?
Under the vigorous strokes of the four oarsmen _The Pauline_ moved
onwards at a fair pace, Ouvaroff keeping to mid-stream, the better to
escape notice from the shore.
Heavy with thought the Empress took little heed of external things, but
was roused from her reverie by a sudden whisper from Wilfrid.
“The Sumaroff Palace.”
With some show of interest she turned her eyes towards the broad extent
of gardens stretching backwards from the river and gazed at the long
marble terrace from which, according to what had been told her, she
must have been flung on that dreadful night exactly four weeks ago. For
the hundredth time she thought how strange it was that her mind should
preserve no memory of that event.
With his eye still upon the terrace Wilfrid observed a tall figure
standing at the head of a short flight of steps leading down to the
water. He had an impression that it was none other than Prince Sumaroff,
a personal friend, and a very great one, too, of the Czar. He had just
taken leave of a gentleman, wrapped in a long cloak, who had entered a
small boat that was now being vigorously pulled by two men, not in a
transverse, but in an oblique line, that would bring them within a few
minutes across the bows of _The Pauline_.
As the gondola drew near, the two rowers in the other boat, without any
apparent reason, suddenly changed their course. With a warning yell
Ouvaroff swung the rudder round as far as it would go. All too late! A
snapping of oars and a grinding crash of woodwork, cries of men and a
woman’s scream—and the next moment both boats turned completely over,
their occupants being precipitated into the Neva, not, however, before
Ouvaroff had recognised the cloaked figure in the other boat.
It was Count Baranoff.
Wilfrid, seated in the bow of _The Pauline_ talking with Marie, had not
noticed the proximity of the other boat till roused by Ouvaroff’s shout.
Turning his head and seeing the danger, he made a sudden clutch at Marie,
but at that very moment came the shock of collision; her form eluded his
fingers, and he went down into the water without her.
Being an excellent swimmer he rose at once to the surface and looked
about for her. The two boats, keel uppermost, were a few yards away,
moving off upon the fast-flowing current. Two of the Finlanders were
clinging to _The Pauline_; the two others were struggling desperately in
the water; so, too, was one of the rowers in Baranoff’s boat. The five,
unable apparently to swim, were uttering piteous cries.
These five were all that Wilfrid could see. There should be four more.
Then, near by, arose the dripping head of Prince Ouvaroff. Like Wilfrid,
a swimmer, it was no trouble for him to keep afloat.
“The Czarina!” he gasped, treading water and staring around.
“I’m looking for her. She hasn’t risen yet.”
Seeing that Marie, though tied hand and foot, had yet contrived to drift
safely all the way to Runö, Wilfrid did not feel any alarm for a few
seconds, but as the moments passed without sign of her, his easy feeling
vanished.
Was she held a struggling captive, under one of the upturned boats?
Hardly, he thought; so good a swimmer as she could surely extricate
herself from such a position, unless she had been struck and rendered
senseless.
Filled with this fear he was about to dash off after the two boats when a
cry from Ouvaroff stopped him.
Looking where the Prince looked he saw a face, ghastly in the moonlight,
the face of Arcadius Baranoff.
“Save me,” he gurgled, his mouth full of water. “I cannot swim; I’m
drowning!”
“The Count must take his chance,” thought Wilfrid, and he was on the
point of turning away when he caught a gleam as of floating gold locks
beneath the hands of Baranoff. It was a sight that filled Wilfrid’s heart
with horror and sent a cry of vengeance to his tongue.
The coward Count was clinging to the struggling Empress! Unable to swim,
he was seeking to gain a foothold in the water by resting his hands upon
the head and shoulders of the Czarina, indifferent as to _her_ fate,
provided _he_ might be rescued. But for this grip Marie could easily have
made her way to the shore.
She slipped from his grasp and rose above the surface, fighting
desperately for breath. A moment only was her white face visible;
Baranoff had caught her again by the shoulders and the two immediately
sank.
“The coward! He’ll drown her!” cried Wilfrid.
A few strokes brought him to the place of their disappearance. Fearing
that she might rise no more Wilfrid swam downwards without coming upon
either of them. Unable to hold his breath longer he rose to the surface
and saw Baranoff, a few feet away, drifting with the current, still
clinging to the Czarina.
“I’m drowning! I’m drowning!” he screamed in a paroxysm of terror.
In another moment Wilfrid and Ouvaroff were by his side.
“Let go your hold, or I’ll kill you!” said the furious Prince, and,
clutching the Count by the back of his collar, he forced his head under
the water, a diversion that caused Baranoff to relax his grasp, while at
the same time Wilfrid seized the unconscious Czarina and holding her head
above the surface, struck out immediately for the shore.
Prince Sumaroff, who had witnessed the catastrophe without being able to
render any aid, descended the steps as Wilfrid drew near with his burden.
“I trust the lady lives,” he said preparing to assist her from the water.
“If not, Russia will mourn its Empress,” replied Wilfrid, revealing the
Czarina’s face to the gaze of the petrified Prince.