MY FRIEND, THE PRINCESS.
The majority of Londoners are unaware that the headquarters of the most
powerful secret organisation in the world exist in their midst. The
unsuspecting persons who pass up and down a certain eminently respectable
thoroughfare in a north-west suburb, would be somewhat surprised if they
knew that in one of these houses the Executive Committee of the Russian
Revolutionists holds daily council and matures the plots which from time
to time startle Europe.
The thoroughfare, which, for obvious reasons, I shall designate as
Oakleigh Gardens, is formed of large, old-fashioned, detached houses
which stand somewhat back, with gardens in front. It is lined on each
side by fine old elms, and the residences are for the most part built
of red brick, with those square, white-framed, unornamented windows of
the Georgian era. The house in question is hidden from the quiet road
by a high wall in which is a heavy wooden door, but inside one finds a
well-kept flower garden and a roomy old house which bears an unmistakable
air of wealth and prosperity. Here exiles, whose escape from Siberia
Fortune has favoured, find an asylum.
In this house I took up my abode when I arrived in London. Smarting under
the terrible punishment to which I had been unjustly subjected, I had
long ago taken the oath, and thereby fettered myself body and soul to the
Party. I was determined to revenge myself upon the oppressors who had
starved my mother, knouted my sister, and sent my father to the mines,
although all had been perfectly innocent of any crime. Thus, from a
devil-may-care recruit I had developed into an ardent revolutionist whose
sole ambition was to assist in the struggle for freedom, and who was
prepared to go to any length in order to accomplish the object towards
which the Organisation was striving.
From an early age I had been taught English and French, being now able
to speak both languages almost as fluently as my own. This knowledge
I found of the utmost service, inasmuch as I had been selected by the
Executive to perform certain special duties of secret service. They did
not hide the fact that the work would require considerable courage and
tact, and that my life might sometimes be at stake. But I was fearlessly
enthusiastic.
After a six months’ residence in Oakleigh Gardens, during which time I
gained a knowledge of London life and made myself acquainted with the
majority of those devoted to our Cause resident in the metropolis, the
first matter was placed in my hands.
A few months previously, Ivan Grigorovitch, one of our Party, had
been chosen to convey some instructions to the Petersburg centre.
As he was well known to the Secret Police, he disguised himself as
a French commercial traveller, and with a French passport journeyed
from Marseilles to Odessa by steamer, intending to proceed thence
to Petersburg, the ordinary route from London being considered too
dangerous. His intentions, however, were frustrated, inasmuch as the
Odessa police, who had been apprised of his advent, arrested him
immediately on landing. A disaster resulted, for the papers found upon
him were compromising, the plot was discovered, and wholesale arrests
were made in Petersburg in consequence.
Twenty-three persons of both sexes were tried in secret, and, according
to the _Novosti_, the evidence given against them by Princess Kochkaryòv
caused life sentences to be passed upon each of them.
From facts that came to our knowledge, it was evident that some one who
had learned our secret had divulged it to the police, therefore the five
men forming the Nihilist Executive Committee—who must be known here as
Paul Pétroff, Alexander Grinevitch, Nicolas Tersinski, Isaac Bounakoff,
and Dmitri Irteneff—sat in council and condemned the Princess to death.
We cast dice, and it fell to me to carry out the sentence!
The cool, flippant manner in which my fellow-conspirators spoke of murder
awed me. They noticed my scruples and pointed out that the woman had, by
giving false evidence, been instrumental in the deportation of more than
twenty innocent persons, therefore she must die. As I had taken an oath
to carry out all commands of the Executive under penalty of death, I was
compelled to obey.
I had not far to search for Madame the Princess, for she was residing
temporarily in London, having taken a furnished flat at Albert Hall
Mansions, overlooking Hyde Park.
In the stalls at the Avenue Theatre I first obtained an uninterrupted
view of her. She was seated next to me, a fair form in a black evening
dress that revealed her delicate chest and arms, with a gleaming diamond
necklet around her white throat. Her age was about twenty-four, and her
perfect oval face had a shade of sadness upon it, notwithstanding the
great languishing violet eyes, and the tender winning mouth, while her
auburn hair had been deftly coiled, and was fastened with a diamond star
that flashed and sparkled with a thousand fires. In short, I thought her
the most lovely woman I had ever seen.
And I was plotting to kill her!
I gazed into her face, entranced by her marvellous beauty. Toying with
her Watteau fan, she turned her eyes full upon me, and the faintest flush
suffused her cheek; then she made pretence of reading her programme, and
afterwards became interested in the performance. When I went out to smoke
during the _entr’acte_ I passed her, and in doing so uttered an apology
in Russian, to which she responded in the same language, with a kindly
smile.
According to information I had obtained, she was the wife of Prince
Kochkaryòv, a noble in the third degree, some twenty years her senior.
Their marriage had been fraught with much unhappiness, and after a year
they agreed to separate. Since that time the Prince had remained at
his gloomy old palace near Markovka, in Little Russia, while his wife,
accompanied by an old man-servant and her maid, had resided for brief
periods in Petersburg, Paris, and London.
Since her arrival in England it was apparent that she was fulfilling some
mission as a Russian Government agent, yet the suspicion she excited in
some quarters in no way hindered her from obtaining social influence, and
she dispensed hospitality to a very select circle. She went everywhere,
and her daily doings were chronicled in the personal columns of the
newspapers. I had been watching her for several days, and on this evening
had followed her to the theatre in order, if possible, to become
acquainted with her.
When the curtain descended and we rose to leave I turned, and said to her
politely in Russian—
“You are alone, Madame. Will you permit me to find your carriage?”
“Thanks, you are very kind,” she said in English, with a pretty
hesitating accent. “My man has buff livery.”
“And the name, Madame?”
“The Princess Kochkaryòv,” she replied, adding, “We are compatriots, are
we not, m’sieur?”
“Yes,” I replied, smiling. “It is always pleasant to meet Russians in a
foreign land,” at the same time handing her a card which gave my name as
Vladimir Mordvinoff and my address at a suite of furnished chambers I
rented in Shaftesbury Avenue.
A few moments later I handed her into her carriage, and as she thanked me
and drove away, I walked, morose and thoughtful, up Northumberland Avenue
towards my rooms.
During the week that followed we met several times. She showed herself in
no way averse to my companionship, for she told me that she was always
at home on Thursdays and would be pleased to see me. This invitation I
accepted, and thus I became a frequent visitor.
One afternoon I had called and lingered. The guests had departed.
In the fading light of the summer’s evening I was sitting with her in
her pretty drawing-room that overlooked the dusty trees. As she lolled
gracefully against the window the last ray of sunlight fell upon her, and
she looked daintily bewitching.
I admit that I loved her madly, passionately. Overwhelmed by the
contemplation of her beauty, enchanted by the magic of her voice, which
made the sweetest music out of the merest phrases, I thought of nought
but her, and was only happy when at her side. Yet when I remembered the
difference in our social position, and her marriage with the Prince, I
was almost beside myself with despair; I knew that mine was an adoration
that could only end in unhappiness.
Involuntarily my hand touched my pocket and struck something hard. I drew
it away in horror. What terrible irony of fate! The woman I loved dearer
than life was doomed to die by my hand!
She had been gazing dreamily out of the window, when suddenly with a
mischievous smile she exclaimed—
“You are very silent, m’sieur.”
I scarcely know what prompted me, but, jumping up quickly, and grasping
her tiny, bejewelled hand, I raised it to my lips and in English poured
forth a declaration of my love.
She trembled. Her breath came and went in short, quick gasps, but she did
not attempt to arrest the flood of passionate words that escaped me. Ere
I had concluded, my heart was filled with joy, for I saw my passion was
reciprocated.
Vainly striving to overcome her emotion, she exclaimed excitedly—
“I—I was unprepared—I did not think you loved me, Vladimir. Do you doubt
I care for you? Have you not seen it? _Mon Dieu!_ my married life has
been only a grim and dismal tragedy. I loved no man until I met you!”
“Do you really think sometimes of me, Princess?” I asked, scarcely
believing the truth.
“To you I am Irene,” she said in pretty broken English. “All my life has
been wasted hitherto. You have asked me; I have give you answer. I love
only you. Some day you will know me better. Now, you know me only for the
mad passion I bear for you. But yourself shall make satisfy of my past,
my truth, my honour, and—and I shall get—what you call—divorce from the
Prince, and we two will marry—eh? Of you I ask not one single question.
You are my lover, the only man for whom I have affection, and—and in
return I am your serf.”
She buried her flushed face upon my shoulder and sobbed.
Taking her in my arms, I swore to her everlasting constancy. All my heart
was in the declaration. In the glamour of that hour we were reckless and
egotistical as most lovers, heedless of the shadow that was growing up
behind the sunshine of our happy vows of undying affection. When she
grew calm, she looked up searchingly into my eyes and said: “You cannot
understand me. You do not know the bitterness of my life.”
“No, Irene. Tell me about yourself,” I said.
Hesitatingly she seated herself in a wicker chair, and motioned me to a
seat at her side.
“No, no,” I said, laughing. “At your feet, Princess; always at your
feet,” and, casting myself upon a low footstool, I took her hand in mine.
“My life has been wasted,” she said mournfully. “My mother was French;
my father an Imperial Councillor of Russia. My earlier life was passed
at Moscow, and afterwards at the Court at Petersburg. I was forced by
my father to marry the Prince, who, as you are well aware, is rich and
powerful. But, _ma foi!_ from the first he treated me cruelly. Within six
months of our marriage he commenced to ill-use me brutally; indeed, I
bear upon my body the scars of his violence. The world was _débonnaire_
while I was _triste_ and downcast, for I found he had a _liaison_ with a
French _danseuse_. I bore his insults and blows until I was in fear of my
life; then I came here.”
“How could he be so cruel?” I cried in indignation.
“Ah, I have not told all, Vladimir,” she said with a sorrowful sigh.
“The Prince plotted with his friend, Stepán Nekhlindoff, in order to
obtain a divorce, but I thwarted their vile scheme. Nekhlindoff tried to
compromise me, but I repelled his advances, for although I have so far
abandoned my marriage vow as to love you while I am still wedded, I have
done nothing by which my husband can obtain the freedom he seeks. Since I
left Markovka I have wandered about, to Paris, Vienna, Brussels, with no
protection against the dishonourable conspiracy. I grew tired of life—I—”
“You have a friend in me,” I interrupted.
“Ah, yes, my love,” she exclaimed, stroking my hair tenderly, and bending
to kiss me. “Though I have been in the midst of luxury and gaiety, my
life has been very dark and dreary. But happiness has now returned.”
“It gives me joy to hear you speak like this, Irene,” I said. “Nothing
will, I hope, occur to part us, or cause our love to be less stronger
than it is at this moment.”
“What can?” she asked quickly, raising her eyebrows. “We trust one
another. I have money enough for both. What more?”
The horrible thought that the knife in my pocket must sooner or later be
plunged into her heart flashed across my mind, causing me to shudder.
“No,” I replied with a feigned, hollow laugh, “I—it is only a foolish
fancy on my part. My joy seems almost too perfect to be lasting.”
“I am yours; you are mine,” she said passionately. “We shall marry and
live together always as happy as we are to-day.”
Twilight had faded, and it had grown almost dark. I had risen and was
standing beside her chair, bending and kissing her soft cheek, when
suddenly the door opened and the maid entered to light the lamps.
“Pardon, Madame,” exclaimed the girl, starting back, “I thought you had
gone out.”
“No, Nina, I shall not go out to-night,” said her mistress. “Tell cook
that M’sieur Mordvinoff will remain and dine.”
When the maid had lit the lamps and departed, I returned to where the
Princess sat, and noticed how her face had changed. Instead of the cold,
haughty expression usual to her, her flushed countenance beamed with
tender, womanly love, an expression that was supremely fascinating. As I
stood admiring her, a morbid fancy crept over me. Why should I not take
her life now she was in the zenith of her happiness? It would be better
so, I argued; better than allowing her passion to develop and overwhelm
me.
I was too well aware that the violation of my oath would mean death to
me as well as to her, and as I stood behind her chair I placed my hand
upon the hilt of the knife in my pocket and half drew it from its sheath.
But I could not bring myself to commit the crime. Drawing a long breath,
I pushed the keen blade into its leather case with a firm determination
to overcome my thoughts, and again seating myself upon the stool at her
feet, continued talking of our plans for the future.
A fortnight later I was summoned before a council meeting of the
Executive.
“We understand,” exclaimed Pétroff, the President of the Council, “that
you hesitate to carry out the sentence of death upon the Princess
Kochkaryòv. Why?”
I glanced round at the pale, determined faces of the five desperate
revolutionists who were sitting at a table in the well-furnished
dining-room in Oakleigh Gardens.
“I—I want time,” I stammered.
“Time! You have already had three months. We are well aware that you
admire her; but she must not escape. Remember the oath you took upon this
knife,” and he pointed to a long bright dagger that lay unsheathed on the
table before him. “The Executive have decided that the traitress must
die. If she escapes, you will pay the penalty. We trust in you.”
In a frenzy of mad despair I walked the London streets one day a week
later, seeking some means by which to avert the death of the woman I
loved. The decree of the Executive was irrevocable. Their terrible
far-reaching vengeance is known throughout the world, and it is their
proud boast that of those whom they have condemned to death, not one has
ever escaped.
After wandering aimlessly for many hours, my footsteps led me
involuntarily to Albert Hall Mansions.
It was late in the evening, somewhere about ten o’clock, when the old
servant Ivan admitted me. As I entered the drawing-room she did not
at first observe my presence, and I stood for a few moments watching
her. She wore a dainty evening gown of cream relieved by amber ribbons,
and was reclining in an armchair, reading a novel. The mellow light of
the shaded lamp fell upon her fair head pillowed on the satin cushion,
and her whole attitude was one of peace and repose. Between her dainty
fingers she held a cigarette.
Suddenly my movement startled her.
“Ah! Vladimir! _Quel plaisir!_” she cried, tossing aside her book and
rising to bid me welcome. “All day I have expected you.”
After kissing her upturned face I sank into a chair without a word.
“What ails you?” she asked, starting up in alarm, noticing my pale
countenance and mud-bespattered clothes. “You—you are ill. Tell me.”
“It’s nothing,” I assured her, striving to smile. “A slight faintness,
that’s all.”
Accepting the explanation, she re-seated herself and we commenced to
chat. Of what we said I have no recollection. I know that when she lifted
my hand to her lips I drew it away as if I had been stung. She was
caressing the hand that was so soon to take her life! The thought was
horrifying, and she was at a loss to understand the meaning of my action.
“You are not well to-night, Vladimir,” she said half-reproachfully.
“No, no, Irene,” I replied, “I’m well enough in health. It is the
knowledge of our love that troubles me.”
“Of our love?”
I cast her hand aside, and jumping to my feet, paced the room in
desperation. She clutched my arm, entreating me to tell her the cause of
my agitation. Suddenly I stopped before her.
“Princess,” I whispered hoarsely, grasping her slim, white wrist, “hear
me! I am base, ignoble: I have deceived you!”
“What! You love me not—you——”
“I love you better than life. I would do anything to save you, yet, by a
devilish conspiracy of circumstances I am compelled to kill you!”
“Kill me!” she gasped in Russian. “God! You are an imbecile—mad!”
Her face blanched; she tottered and almost fell.
“Yes, I was mad,” I said bitterly. “Mad to love you when I knew that I
must kill you. I am a Nihilist!”
“A Nihilist!”
“Yes. By your evidence some members of our Organisation have been sent to
Siberia, and the sentence the Executive has passed upon you is death.”
“Ah!” she cried wildly. “My God! It is the statement in the _Novosti_!
Listen, Vladimir!” Pausing to gain breath, she shuddered at the sight
of the long knife that I had drawn and held in my hand. “It was a vile
lie concocted by my husband in order that the Nihilist vengeance should
fall upon me. When Stepán Nekhlindoff’s plot failed he resorted to
this scheme, and got some journalist he knew to insert the libellous
statement, well knowing that I should not escape death.”
“Is the allegation untrue, then?” I asked, amazed.
“Yes. I swear it is. At the time of the trial I was at Odessa with the
Archduchess Paul, and was perfectly ignorant of everything until I saw
the paragraph. I wrote contradicting it, but they did not publish my
letter. It was the Prince who desired that the Organisation should remove
me and leave him free.”
“I accept your explanation, Princess,” I said. “Yet how am I to save you?
By my oath I am bound to obey the mandate of our Circle and encompass
your death.”
“I am innocent, Vladimir. Am I compelled to die?” she asked, glancing
apprehensively at the knife that flashed so ominously in the lamplight.
“Can I not have time—time to prepare for death?”
“How long?”
“Three days, or more. I—I shall not try to escape. I swear.”
“Very well,” I replied in a low voice. “It is agreed. Three days.” And
bidding her a strained, sorrowful farewell, I left her.
At eight o’clock on the evening of the third day the door of the flat was
flung open by Ivan in response to my summons.
“Is the Princess at home?” I asked of the grave-faced old man.
“Alas, m’sieur,” he replied in a grief-stricken voice, “Madame is dead.”
“Dead!” I gasped. “When did she die?”
“She—she has been murdered!” he exclaimed in an awed tone. “I discovered
her body two hours ago. The doctor and police are now in her room.”
I rushed along the hall to the apartment in which I heard low voices. It
was a large, well-furnished bedchamber dimly illuminated by two candles.
Upon a couch near the window lay the body of the Princess wrapped in a
white Cashmere shawl, the breast of which was only slightly stained with
blood.
Heedless of the doctor and two police inspectors who were conversing
together, I went over to the body and gazed upon it.
What I saw amazed me. I staggered, yet by presence of mind managed to
conceal my agitation.
The fair, handsome face of the Princess had been slashed with the knife
in the form of a cross, and the mutilation gave it a terribly ghastly
appearance.
Something bright in the hands of one of the police officers attracted my
attention. He was examining it by the light of the candles as I peered
over his shoulder.
It was a dagger which, in an instant, I recognised as mine!
I felt in my pocket. The sheath was there but the weapon had gone! I was
aghast in horror and amazement. I had been forestalled, and the Princess
had been murdered with the knife stolen from me!
The officer, after questioning me, took my assumed name and address,
explaining that I should be required at the inquest.
In reply to my inquiries, Ivan told me that the Princess, intending to
leave for Paris on the morrow, had sent on Nina, her maid, in advance to
secure her rooms. At five o’clock, while in the dining-room, he heard the
outer door slam, and concluded that his mistress had gone out. Two hours
later he entered the bedroom and discovered the crime.
The Executive sat on the following evening and I attended to make
my report. It was a mere formality, for the papers were full of the
mysterious crime.
“Princess Kochkaryòv is removed,” I said, briefly, when interrogated by
Pétroff.
“Thanks to the assistance of Dmitri,” he added grimly.
“Irteneff!” I repeated, glancing at the dark, middle-aged man indicated,
who sat with his elbows leaning upon the table.
“Yes,” the man said, laughing, “I knew how difficult it is to assassinate
the woman one loves, so I assisted you.”
At the inquest I identified the body, and Ivan related his brief story.
Twice the inquiry was adjourned, and subsequently a verdict was returned
that the Princess had been murdered by “some person or persons unknown.”
The Prince was communicated with by telegraph, but he took no notice, and
at the funeral Ivan and myself were the only mourners.
The police could discover no clue to the assassin, and thus another was
added to London’s long list of unfathomable mysteries.
One day, about six weeks after the funeral, I received a hurried note
from Ivan, asking me to meet him at half-past seven that evening under
the railway bridge adjoining the Charing Cross Station of the Underground
Railway.
Thinking that he might have something of importance to tell me, I kept
the appointment. The road which runs under the bridge is not too well
lit, and the spot is rather quiet about that hour.
Big Ben had just boomed the half-hour, when I felt a slight pressure on
my arm, and heard my Christian name uttered.
Turning quickly, I confronted a female figure enveloped in a travelling
cloak, and wearing a soft felt hat and a veil through which the features
were recognisable in the lamplight.
It was the Princess Kochkaryòv!
“Irene!” I cried, “is it really you?”
“Yes. I am no apparition,” she replied, with a laugh. “But I must not be
seen. Let us walk this way.”
In a few moments we were strolling under the trees on the Embankment.
“It was quite simple,” she said, in reply to my eager questions. “I
always was a little inventative. You remember that on the night you told
me of my doom you found me alone reading? Well, that night Nina was ill,
and I had been attending her. I did not call a doctor, as I had no idea
that she suffered from a weak heart. She died, poor girl, shortly before
five o’clock on the afternoon you had promised to return. Then a thought
occurred to me that, as her hair was the same colour as my own, I might
pass off her body as mine. I took Ivan into my confidence, telling him of
the attempt which would be made upon my life——”
“You did not mention my name?” I asked anxiously.
“Of course not. After I had dressed the body in one of my own wraps, we
carried it to my room and placed it upon the couch. Nina was about my
build, therefore I attired myself in her clothes, and taking the most
valuable of my jewels, left at once for Paris. Meanwhile Ivan remained.
From what he has told me it appears that he watched and saw a middle-aged
man enter the flat by means of a latch-key. After searching several rooms
he went into my bedroom. There the man saw a female form which he thought
was myself, and stabbed it to the heart. All this occurred within half an
hour of Nina’s death.”
“And it was the mutilation of the face that prevented me from discovering
that it was Nina,” I remarked.
“Exactly. Yet no crime has been committed, and I have escaped.”
“Wonderful!” I exclaimed, astounded at the curious combination of
circumstances.
“The Prince thinks me dead; therefore I am a free woman,” she said,
as we walked up Villiers Street. “I am no longer Princess, but Madame
Valakhina. I still love you, Vladimir, but I can see it is useless, for
if we met often the Nihilists would discover how they have been tricked.
I must therefore leave you. To-night I go to Brussels and afterwards to
Yvoir, on the Meuse, where I have taken a villa. Ivan is there already.
When you can safely leave London, come to me.”
We had ascended the steps and entered the Charing Cross terminus. The
hands of the great clock pointed to twenty-five minutes past eight.
“See,” she added, “I must go to the carriage. The train leaves at
eight-thirty.”
We walked along the platform, and she entered an empty first-class
compartment, in which a porter had already arranged her wraps.
When the man had taken his tip and departed, I said—
“Farewell, Irene.” My heart was too full to say more.
“No, no, Vladimir. Not farewell,” she sobbed, her large violet eyes wet
with tears. “_Au revoir._ We shall meet again—some day.”
And, as the Continental train moved slowly out of the station, she kissed
her tiny hand to me, again murmuring—
“_Au revoir!_ I owe my life to you.”