THE TZAR’S SPY.
A chaos of terrible recollections bewilders me. I have the sense of
having trodden a stony highway during long years, but have now taken my
last step for the present in the blood-spotted pathway to Revolution.
The windows at the rear of the Château de Trélatête, a quaint old-world
place, near the high road from St. Germain to Paris, look out upon a
wide, well-kept lawn, flanked by dark yew hedges, and backed by the
winding Seine, on the opposite bank of which a sparsely timbered slope
leads up to a small farm. Zigzag up this slope runs a path—probably it
has so run for centuries, for at the foot of it is a ford across a small
stream—which in spring is almost invisible, but in autumn is brown and
rutty.
Two men strolled down this path one September evening not long ago.
One, a young fellow under thirty, fair-haired and pink-cheeked, was
something of a fop, while the other was a tall man, about fifty-five,
of military bearing, with a pair of keen eyes, sharply cut features,
and hair and moustache turning grey. Attired in a rather shabby velvet
coat and gaiters, he looked like a gamekeeper, but was, in fact, General
Martianoff, late Governor of Mstislavl, and now Chief of the Russian
Secret Police in Paris.
“I really can’t make you out, Gaston,” he said, as they sighted the
Château; and, shifting his gun to the other shoulder, he took occasion to
glance searchingly at his companion. “How confoundedly glum you are!”
The younger man laughed, but not very merrily, and there was a touch of
sullenness in his tone as he answered—
“How absurd! A man cannot be always grinning.”
“No; but _pâté de foie gras_ is not man’s ordinary meat,” retorted the
General imperturbably. “My dear Guéneau.”
“Well?” said the other snappishly.
“You are in a mess; that is my opinion! Now, take my advice, and make a
clean breast of the matter. You have some tie or other which weighs upon
your mind and of which we are ignorant.”
The young man turned his face to his companion, and General Martianoff,
albeit a very cool personage, was taken aback by the change which anger
or some other emotion had worked in it. Even Gaston Guéneau’s voice was
altered.
“And what if I have?” he asked hoarsely, stopping short so suddenly that
the pair confronted one another. “What if I have, m’sieur?”
The chief spy twirled his moustache thoughtfully.
“Well,” he said, outwardly unmoved, “you must break it—get rid of it.
That is all, Guéneau.”
“And if I am unable?”
“Unwilling, you mean.”
“No, cannot, cannot!” declared the younger man with vehemence.
“But you must. You hear! you must! Otherwise it will be your ruin.”
“Bah! Don’t talk like that. Come with me to the Château?”
“No!” answered the General violently. And without more, without a word of
farewell, he turned his back and strode away through the long grass to a
point half a mile higher up the river, where a wooden bridge gave access
to the station of Le Pecq, whence he returned to Paris.
I had followed the pair, and overheard their conversation.
The news that M. Lozé, the Préfect of Paris Police, had called and
had a prolonged interview with the Tzar’s spy had caused considerable
excitement in the Revolutionist settlement at La Glacière. It was
anticipated that the General and the Préfect were putting their
heads together for the purpose of getting the worst-noted of the
refugees entrapped by the Russian police. In order, therefore, to
watch Martianoff’s movements closely, I had been sent to Paris with
instructions to ascertain, if possible, who were the suspected persons
and what system of espionage was being adopted.
Was it surprising that upon this brutal agent of his Imperial Majesty,
who had wrecked the careers of my sister and myself, I kept a watchful
eye? He was a ferret in human shape, and with the dozen Russian
detectives under him, he had a keen scent for Revolutionists and
criminating circumstances. Since his resignation from the governorship of
Mstislavl he had graduated at the Bureau of Secret Police in Petersburg.
He lived in the Boulevard Haussmann, at the corner of the Avenue de
Messine, where he occupied an _entresol_ which looked out into the
courtyard, leading the life of a man with an adequate income. He only had
two saddle horses, with a groom of all-work brought by him from Russia,
and he contented himself with a hired brougham. He breakfasted in his
rooms, dined at the fashionable restaurants, showed himself in the Bois
of an afternoon, at theatrical first-nights, knew all Paris—the “_tout
Paris_” of the Boulevard—and was received in a very exclusive set. Yet he
had few intimate friends, he seldom received his habitual acquaintances
at his rooms, and often absented himself for several days without saying
where he was going.
His concierge revered him, and never expressed astonishment when he saw
rather seedy-looking people climb the stairs leading to the apartments
of this rich and respectable tenant. General Martianoff made a show
of philanthropy, and, according to the hall-porter, his reputation
as a charitable gentleman exposed him to the visits of needy-looking
individuals.
I did not return to Paris by the same train as the spy, but lingered in
order to make inquiries regarding the companion he had so unceremoniously
quitted. With that object I remained at a small _estaminet_ on the road
which runs through the Bois de Vésinet to Montesson, chatting to an old
wood-cutter, and eliciting some facts regarding the Guéneau family.
The Château belonged to Count Jules Guéneau, a wealthy old gentleman,
who, according to the wood-cutter’s statement, had held important
Government offices under the Empire, but who was now on the verge of
senile imbecility, and lived in seclusion with his son Gaston. The latter
had travelled a great deal, and had quite recently settled down at the
Château, at the old Count’s request.
The sun had set, and it was growing dusk as I left the _estaminet_. I
had just emerged from the wood and turned into the high-road when I
perceived, about a hundred paces from me, a figure rapidly approaching.
I slipped behind a tree and watched its progress. It was that of a tall,
slender girl, exquisitely graceful, with rounded throat and arms, her
dark, wavy hair drawn back from her brow, a flawless complexion, and
handsome brown eyes. As she passed I recognised her as Natalya Lebedeff,
daughter of a prominent member of our Organisation, who, about four years
before, had fled from Russia and taken refuge in Paris, where he now kept
a tobacconist’s in the Rue d’Amsterdam, close to the St. Lazare terminus.
The road that she followed was bordered with oak-trees and quickset
hedges. I walked after her cautiously, for I was curious to know what had
brought her to St. Germain.
After making several turns, the road sloped gently towards a stone bridge
thrown across the small stream. Close by was a hamlet built upon the
side of a hill, and surrounded by walnut-trees, while the green waters,
bubbling over the pebbles that formed its bed, rushed onwards towards the
Seine.
Upon the bridge stood Gaston, and she moved directly towards him.
When they met she did not take the hand he offered. Withdrawing it
quickly, he said, “You are right, Natalya, I am a villain!” The words
seemed to come from his inmost heart. Then he continued, “Spurn me from
you, as I deserve. I scarcely expected that you would come from Paris to
keep the appointment. Here are the papers; do what you please with them.”
As he finished speaking she shook her head.
“I have forgiven all,” the girl said. Eagerly seizing the papers, and
folding them small, she placed them in the pocket of her dress.
She shivered slightly as they walked together. The path they entered
followed the course of the stream and led down to the river. They were
silent, absorbed in thought. One seemed filled with grief, remorse, and
expectation; the other felt her destiny weighing heavily upon her, and
thought she heard within the woods the agitated beating of a heart which
was kept in motion only by its fears.
From my hiding-place I watched them disappear in the fast-falling gloom;
then I turned and hurried to Le Pecq, where I arrived just in time to
catch a train for Paris.
An hour later, while walking down the Rue de Monceau on my way to my
unpretentious hotel in the Rue de Lisbonne, I passed General Martianoff.
He was in evening dress, and walking away from the house in which he
lived, evidently on his way to dine.
Then a thought suddenly occurred to me, and, after a moment’s hesitation,
I turned down the Avenue de Messine to the corner house on the boulevard.
Ascending the stairs unnoticed by the sleepy concierge, I knocked at the
door of the General’s apartments. Replying to my inquiry in Russian, the
man-servant, a thin, cadaverous-looking fellow, informed me that his
Excellency was out, and his return was uncertain.
“But I have to see him upon official business,” I said, at the same time
slipping a ten-franc piece into his ready palm. “Show me to his room, and
I will wait.”
Conducting me along the hall, he showed me into a large well-furnished
room, the two windows of which looked out upon the boulevard. The heavy
curtains were drawn, a large brass lamp burned brightly under a shade of
crimson silk, and the spacious saddle-bag armchairs gave the apartment an
air of cosiness. It was half library, half sitting-room, and the littered
writing-table that stood in a recess near the fireplace showed that the
ex-Governor had considerable correspondence.
It was to ascertain the nature of his communications that I had ventured
into the spy’s sanctum. When the servant had withdrawn and closed the
door, I immediately commenced my investigations. Rapidly glancing at
the open letters and memoranda, I saw they related to various persons
suspected of Nihilism, resident in Paris.
Presently I took up a large folded blue paper and opened it. The document
revealed how closely Russian suspects were being watched. It was the
report of a Secret Police agent who had been told off to keep observation
upon Israel Lebedeff, the father of Natalya. In order that my readers
may fully understand the manner in which the “Security Section” carries
out its system of espionage, I give the following copy of the printed
questions:—
IMPERIAL POLICE DEPARTMENT.
THE FOLLOWING QUESTIONS TO BE FILLED IN WEEKLY:—
1. What is the Christian name, paternal name, and family name
of the person under observation?
2. Where is his (or her) residence? In what district, street,
and house? What is the number of the room? How many rooms?
3. Where did you first see him, and under what circumstances?
Has he seen you?
4. How long has he resided at his present address? Whence did
he come? Give particulars of his last place of residence.
5. Does he live alone, or with some one? In the latter case
with whom? State particulars of such person.
6. Has he any servants? If so, what are their names? If not,
who looks after his room, or rooms? What things has he in
his rooms? To whom is his dirty linen sent? State name and
residence of his laundress?
7. Does he have his meals at home, or elsewhere? In the latter
case, where?
8. Does he visit any library, and if so, which one? State what
books he has borrowed in the course of the week.
9. At what o’clock does he leave his rooms, and when does he
return?
10. How does he spend his time at home?
11. Has he a wife, or children? If the latter, how many?
12. Is he paying attention to any woman? If so, who is she and
where does she live? Where do they meet?
13. Who has visited him in the course of the week? At what
times? a.m. or p.m.?
14. Has any one (male or female) spent the night in his rooms?
If so, what person or persons? Their residence?
15. Has he ever been in a state of intoxication?
16. Does he receive letters or papers from Russia?
17. What hour is best for his arrest?
All these questions were answered with a minuteness of detail that was
astounding, the document being signed by the officer of surveillance,
and countersigned by General Martianoff. Absorbed in the perusal of the
report, I did not notice the presence of the servant, who had entered
stealthily, and suddenly stood before me, causing me to start and replace
the paper hurriedly.
“Anton Prèhznev,” he said, “you had better leave before the General
returns.”
“You know me?” I gasped in bewilderment.
For answer he smiled, and gave me the sign of our Order.
“How came you in the spy’s service?” I asked. “What is your name?”
“I’m Paul Shiryàlov. The General engaged me as his servant when he
visited Petersburg last year.”
“You know the contents of the papers brought here by the spies?”
“I make copies of them all and forward them to the Petersburg Circle.”
“Has Lebedeff been warned?”
“Yes. He has sold his business, and is arranging to leave Paris for
London.”
“And what of Natalya, his daughter?”
“Hark!—the General has returned. Quick!”
He almost dragged me through a door which led into an adjoining room,
whence I passed out upon the staircase.
I hurried downstairs, and a few moments afterwards was walking along the
Rue de la Pepinière towards my hotel.
* * * * *
A loud knocking at the door of my bedroom and a voice demanding
admittance aroused me.
When I unlocked the door, Paramòn Pouzàtov, a refugee, rushed in.
“They have arrested Lebedeff!” he exclaimed breathlessly. “Last night
four _sergents de ville_ went to the house, searched, and discovered
some bombs in course of manufacture and some literature from the secret
press. He was arrested and taken to the Prefecture.”
“But he was warned in time to escape,” I said.
“Yes, but he is now in their grip.”
“Where is Natalya?”
“She went out yesterday afternoon, and has not yet returned.”
“Very well,” I said. “But we must secure his release at all hazards.”
Paramòn seated himself and chatted to me while I dressed. It puzzled me
that the Paris police should have found explosives on the tobacconist’s
premises, especially after the ample warning that Shiryàlov had given.
Several days passed. Lebedeff was detained for inquiries, and nothing had
been heard of Natalya. Although our Organisation exerted every effort to
trace the girl, no clue to her whereabouts could be discovered. She had
mysteriously disappeared, and we were seriously handicapped in our search
by the fact that it was not considered wise policy to inquire of Gaston
Guéneau, as he evidently had some secret understanding with General
Martianoff.
One morning, a fortnight after Lebedeff’s arrest, I was present at the
Correctional Court of the Seine, when he was charged with being in the
possession of explosives, contrary to the Code. Evidence was given by
several detectives, while Martianoff, disguised as an honest-looking
workman, stood at the rear of the Court watching the proceedings.
When the evidence regarding the bombs was complete the Public Prosecutor
made an application. He stated that the prisoner had been identified by
police agents from Petersburg as one who was “wanted” in that city in
connection with the laying of a mine of dynamite under the Norwinski
Strasse, in order to make an attempt upon the life of the Tzar. Further
evidence was then given by an _attaché_ of the Russian Embassy and two
agents of the Secret Police, the prisoner eventually being formally
committed for extradition to Russia.
I left the court with a conviction that the escape of my compatriot was
hopeless, and that Siberian hard labour would inevitably be his sentence.
While walking along the Boulevard des Italiens, immersed in my own
thoughts, Paramòn Pouzàtov accosted me, and dragged me into a quiet café.
“Look,” he exclaimed in a low tone, producing from his pocket a soiled
and crumpled copy of that day’s _Gaulois_; “Read that!” and he pointed to
a paragraph.
The few lines were as follows:—
“Last night a bargeman, named Hovelacque, while steering his craft on
the Seine near Croissy, noticed a dark object floating in the water.
He grappled it with his boat-hook, and when he drew it on board was
horrified to find that it was the body of a well-dressed young girl.
Nothing was found upon her whereby her identity could be established, and
the body was conveyed to the Morgue.”
“Well?” I said, interrogatively, after I had read it.
“Do you think it can be Natalya Lebedeff?”
“Ah!” I ejaculated, suddenly recollecting her mysterious disappearance.
“We will go to the Morgue and ascertain.”
We at once left the Boulevard and proceeded to the house of the dead
behind Notre Dame.
It needed not a second glance at the rigid body lying upon its cold slate
slab to tell that Pouzàtov’s surmise was correct. The body was that of
the pretty Natalya. Instantly my thoughts reverted to Gaston Guéneau.
Could he be her murderer?
Half an hour afterwards I called at General Martianoff’s, when Shiryàlov
handed me secretly a sheet of paper folded small, which I quickly
transferred to my pocket. It was a detailed account of the movements of
the Chief of Secret Police during the last twenty-four hours.
At midnight the prominent members of the Circle of Paris met at a house
in La Glacière. I produced reports and papers which conclusively showed
that General Martianoff was the head of the Russian spies in the French
capital, and Shiryàlov, who also attended, made a statement. The
manner in which Lebedeff had been watched, arrested, and sent back to
Petersburg had aroused the ire and hatred of every man present, and it
was unanimously agreed that the ex-Governor of Mstislavl, being a sworn
enemy of Russian freedom, should be sentenced to death.
The president of the Tribunal then took a number of pieces of paper,
and upon one sketched roughly the death-emblem of our Order. The papers
were then folded carefully, placed in a box, and every man drew one. The
drawing was carried on in silence. The one to whose lot it fell to strike
the fatal blow made no sign, and none in that assembly were aware who had
been selected to carry out the sentence. Silence is always preserved in
such cases in order to ensure absolute secrecy, and to give the murderer
a better chance of evading the police.
That night, as Shiryàlov and I were returning to Paris together, I
noticed he appeared thoughtful and morose, and asked the reason.
“I must leave the General’s service to-morrow,” he replied. “There is an
urgent reason that I should do so.”
“Could I not apply for the situation?” I suggested, as a scheme suddenly
entered my mind.
“Yes, why not?” he said, brightening. “You could then continue watching.”
“Very well,” I replied. “Give notice to-night, and I will apply at
mid-day to-morrow. I already have a recommendation as a valet and
trustworthy servant,” I added, laughing.
“Who from?”
“A Captain of Cossacks with whom I travelled a few years ago.”
Then he smiled and once more assumed his usual gaiety.
A week afterwards I was duly installed as valet to the General, while
Shiryàlov had been engaged as messenger to the Franco-Russian Club in the
Rue Royale. My work was not particularly heavy, for the chief _mouchard_
was out for greater part of each day, which gave me opportunities for
investigating and making copies of the reports of espionage that arrived
daily from male and female secret agents.
One morning, about three weeks after the meeting of the Circle at
La Glacière, I chanced to take up a paper, and my eyes fell upon a
telegram from Petersburg, stating that Israel Lebedeff had been tried by
court-martial, found guilty of an attempt upon the life of the Emperor,
and had been sentenced to hard labour for life in Siberia.
Soon afterwards the door bell rang, and I admitted a short, stout,
shabbily attired Frenchman, who, without addressing me, walked straight
through to the room in which the General was sitting, closing the door
after him.
The fact that he had a newspaper in his hand aroused my curiosity, and
by placing my ear at the keyhole I was enabled to catch part of the
conversation.
“Ah! So they found him guilty, eh?” I heard the General exclaim. “Well,
we shall be commended by his Majesty for our shrewdness.”
“Shrewdness!” observed the visitor, with a hollow laugh. “True, we may
call it so, but _entre nous_, I do not like the aspect affairs might
assume if all the facts were known.”
“What do you mean? One Nihilist, more or less, surely cannot matter!”
“The arrest was made at the cost of the girl Natalya’s life.”
“She committed suicide,” replied the Tzar’s agent quickly. “And what is
more, her body has been buried without identification.”
“She did not commit suicide,” said the detective calmly. “She was
murdered!”
“How are you aware of that?”
“The spies of the Secret Police are everywhere. One was present when she
was flung into the river—it was I.”
“Hush! speak lower,” urged the General. “My servant might overhear.”
Then he added: “Listen, and I will prove to you that our action was
justifiable. Gaston Guéneau, who was an _attaché_ at Petersburg, and
whose father owns the Château, was likely to be of service to Russia, and
for that reason I carefully courted his companionship. I was not long in
discovering that he entertained Nihilistic views, and that he was an old
friend of Lebedeff’s. Gaston and Natalya, although not lovers, frequently
met clandestinely in the interests of the revolutionary movement.
Natalya, by some unaccountable means, discovered that I was connected
with the Imperial Police, and on informing Gaston, prevailed upon him to
steal some papers relating to our investigations regarding her father.
He called upon me one day, and I was incautious enough to leave him here
alone for a few moments, during which time he purloined a most important
letter, one, that if ever produced, would be most damning evidence
against us, and probably cause our expulsion from France. It exposed our
little plot against Lebedeff, and explained the manner in which the bombs
were to be introduced into his house. Of course, you quite understand
that the Bureau at Petersburg was growing impatient, and we were bound to
arrest some one.”
“One Nihilist is as good as another, providing you can fasten a
conspiracy upon him, eh?” remarked the visitor with sarcasm.
“Just so,” continued Martianoff. “When I found the letter was missing, I
had strict watch kept upon both Guéneau and the girl, by which means I
discovered that he handed her the papers without reading them himself,
for she had asked him not to do so. It was clear that, when she read
them, she would place her father upon his guard, and there was also
a possibility of us being caught like rats in a trap. Hence it was
imperative, both for the success of our plans and the prestige of the
Imperial Police, that we should secure her silence. There was but one way
to do this—death! I returned to St. Germain that night——”
“I know the rest,” interrupted the spy; “I followed you, thinking you
might require assistance. You met the girl on the river bank, after she
had left Gaston, and having taken the papers from her pocket, gripped her
by the throat and threw her into the river.”
“Bah! she was only a Jewess,” said Martianoff unconcernedly. “Had she
escaped she would have probably taken the papers to one of the Socialist
Deputies, an interpellation would have been made in the Chamber, and the
letter produced. With what result? Disaster, disgrace, and public opinion
so strong against us that we should be compelled to quit France.”
“Instead of which we shall receive commendation, and perhaps decoration,
from the Tzar,” observed the Frenchman. “Ah! you were right, M’sieur le
Général. You are always right. His Majesty should, indeed, be gratified
at possessing such a diplomatic agent as yourself. The murder shall not
be mentioned again between us.”
At that moment there were sounds as of some one walking across the room,
therefore I left the door abruptly and consequently heard no more.
After the departure of the stout Frenchman I was sent to deliver a
letter in the Avenue de l’Opéra, and after an absence of half an hour
returned and continued my work in my own room.
Scarcely had I resumed when the door-bell again rang. Opening it, I was
confronted by Paul Shiryàlov, who held a letter in his hand.
“An invitation to a ball at the Franco-Russian Club; to be delivered
personally,” he whispered significantly, as he passed me and entered the
General’s room unannounced. There was nothing unusual in this, for he
frequently brought messages, therefore I returned to my work of dusting
books.
A moment later, however, I heard a low exclamation of surprise, followed
by a peculiar noise as if some heavy article had fallen upon the floor,
and I saw Shiryàlov, with pale, affrighted face, hurrying out.
I rushed into Martianoff’s room to ascertain what had happened, but at
first saw nothing unusual. On the opposite side of the writing-table,
however, a horrifying sight met my gaze.
Lying upon the rug before the fireplace was the General. Blood was upon
his hands, and a brief examination showed that he had been shot in the
breast with a revolver. He was still breathing, and as I lifted his head
upon my arm he gasped the one word in Russian, “Revenge!”
The respiration immediately became fainter, and in a few seconds he died.
The chief spy had been assassinated. His papers were in disorder, and
the fact that a bureau had been broken open showed that the murderer had
searched for something he particularly desired.
I quickly summoned medical aid, and was afterwards closely examined by
the _juge d’instruction_, but as I kept Shiryàlov’s identity a secret,
and could throw no light upon the mysterious crime, I was set at liberty.
The tragedy created a great sensation throughout Paris, especially when
it became known that General Martianoff, who was popular in society and
supposed to be a retired officer possessed of ample means, was in reality
Chief of the French Section of Secret Police. The funeral took place at
Père Lachaise a week afterwards, but neither the _mouchards_ of M. Goron
nor the spies of the Tzar discovered the murderer.
Information by some means, however, reached the police that Shiryàlov had
not returned to the club in the Rue Royale. He was at once suspected,
especially when it was discovered that immediately after the murder
he had left for Brussels. But the far-reaching influence of Nihilism
had already been set in motion, and although the police of Europe were
watching for the fugitive, yet they were baffled at every turn. He
moved from place to place with an alacrity almost incredible. Secret
information we received showed that after leaving Paris he fled to Namur,
thence to Brussels, Antwerp, London, Palermo, Malta, and Gibraltar.
While at the latter place he became despondent, and a fiasco nearly
resulted. So rapidly had he travelled that the money collected for him
in Geneva and London did not reach him, consequently he found himself at
the “Rock” penniless and starving. In this condition he was walking the
streets and had determined to give himself up to the English authorities,
when a delegate from the Paris Circle found him, and supplied him with
funds, by which he was enabled to sail for America.
For several months nothing further was heard of him, although a member of
the La Glacière colony, who was connected with the Havas Press Agency,
from time to time circulated reports as to the movements of the fugitive,
in order to place the police on false scents.
One morning, however, the papers published what appeared to be an
authentic account of Shiryàlov’s suicide, which had taken place in a
remote village in Texas. The pistol with which he had shot himself bore
the name of a well-known Paris politician, who was known to have aided
the criminal in his flight. Photographs that were afterwards forwarded
to France were those of Shiryàlov. Moreover, some of the lists of
Revolutionists resident in the French capital, which were abstracted
from the spy’s bureau, were found upon the body, together with a written
confession of the crime.
No doubt was therefore entertained by the police as to the suicide’s
identity, and the search for the assassin was consequently relinquished.
* * * * *
One winter’s afternoon several months afterwards, I was sitting at home,
in London, when I received an unexpected visit from Mascha.
“Congratulate me, Anton,” she said gaily, after we had exchanged warm
greetings. “I have married!”
“Married!” I ejaculated.
“Yes, our wedding took place in Paris yesterday. Although you know my
husband by sight, you have never spoken to him.”
“What’s his name?”
“Gaston Guéneau.”
“The son of Count Jules Guéneau?” I asked, surprised.
“Yes,” she replied, laughing. “I knew him when he was an _attaché_ at the
French Embassy at Petersburg, and although after poor Ivan’s death we
became engaged, we resolved to keep the matter a secret. He joined our
Circle, but his revolutionary tendency was discovered by the police, and
he was recalled to France. In one of his letters he told me that he had
become friendly with a General Martianoff. Knowing that our enemy, the
ex-Governor of Mstislavl, was in the service of the ‘Third Section,’ I
suspected that he was being drawn into the cleverly-woven web. Therefore
I proceeded to Paris in order to keep watch upon the spy, and warn
Gaston against him. I had no idea that you were engaged in the same
matter, or that you had discovered who murdered Natalya Lebedeff until
one day, quite recently, when they were talking of it at a meeting at La
Glacière.”
“But you were aware that Shiryàlov had killed the General?”
“Ah! there, even you are mistaken,” she said, with a smile. “Paul was
innocent.”
“How can that be?” I asked. “I was present when he entered the room, and
when he left the house after the assassination.”
“Exactly. But although he sought the spy intending to carry out the
sentence of death that had been passed, he did not commit the deed.
It was through me that the tyrant of Mstislavl was killed. On the
night previous to the tragedy I was with Paramòn Pouzàtov who, as you
know, was one of my admirers. I related to him the story of my life at
Mstislavl, and the brutal treatment you and I had received at the hands
of Martianoff. My description of his brutality, coupled with the vile
conspiracy against Lebedeff, so incensed him that he swore he would
remove the Tzar’s chief spy with his own hand. I did not regard his
words seriously, but on the following morning, while I was waiting in
the Boulevard in order to follow Martianoff when he emerged from his
house, he approached me. He was wild-looking and haggard-eyed. ‘I have
killed him!’ he whispered, at the same time handing me some papers. Then
he hurried along the Boulevard and was quickly lost to view. The next I
heard was that Shiryàlov was suspected.”
“But Paul fled to America.”
“True. But only in order to baffle the police. He has not committed
suicide, for I have here a letter which he wrote from New York to my
husband only a week ago.”
I took the note and read it. There was no doubt it was from him, for I
recognised the handwriting.
Subsequent inquiries I made fully confirmed Mascha’s solution of the
mystery. It had fallen to Paul Shiryàlov’s lot to encompass the death of
General Martianoff, but prompted by vengeance Pouzàtov—one of the most
desperate of the Terrorists—had entered the room and assassinated the
Chief of Secret Police while I was absent delivering the letter in the
Avenue de l’Opéra.
After Shiryàlov had made good his escape, and Pouzàtov considered himself
secure, he pressed Mascha to marry him. But she refused, and kept her
promise to Gaston.
Count Guéneau having died, she now lives happily at the Château with her
husband. Both are still enthusiastic and sanguine as to the ultimate
success of the struggle for freedom, and being possessed of an ample
fortune, contribute generously to the Revolutionary Fund.
The Terrorists are now pausing. They believe that the ravages caused by
recent famines in Russia can never be repaired. The vast Empire of the
Tzar has now no alternative but to resign herself and gradually sink to
the position of a decaying power like Turkey, or to throw open her gates
to European progress, that goes hand in hand with freedom. At present
there is no corner in the Russian Empire where the _moujik_ is not
moaning. In the fields and along the highways, in prisons and dungeons,
at the mines in shackles of iron, by the side of hayricks and empty
barns, under the waggons and on the steppes, the air is everywhere filled
with groaning—groaning in hovels, cursing even the sunlight, groaning
before the palaces of justice, and buffeted at the entrance of garish
mansions, groaning alike in town and village, the wretched _moujik_ is
even ready to rise and strike a desperate blow for liberty. Sounds of woe
float over the mighty Russian rivers from Archangel to the Caspian. They
call it a song, the chant of the _bourlaki_ (workmen) dragging the boats
along, but alas! it is the sorrowful dirge of an endless agony.
Until the new era dawns—as it certainly must ere long—the Great White
Terror will continue its deadly combat with the cruel and despotic
Autocracy; its Damoclean force becoming even stronger and more
irresistible, until it brings another disaster upon the House of the
Romanoffs that will startle the world. Then a time will follow like that
under Ivan the Terrible. When the day will come no man knows; but none
the less sooner or later—and perhaps the time is not far distant—the
people will shake their limbs, and Russia will tremble to her very
foundations. The people who vainly awaited liberation at the hands of
their rulers will then free themselves. They will demand an eye for an
eye, a tooth for a tooth. The sins of the past will be visited on the
guilty with all the horrors to which the oppressed in time past have been
subjected by them. Then the Polish revolution will be mere child’s play
in comparison with the great drama on the day of vengeance, and that such
a day will surely come is inevitable.
The Russian people will judge who insulted them, who mistrusted them, who
enslaved them, who spilt their blood. They will act in the manner of the
French nation, and amid the ruins of wrecked palaces and the _débris_ of
a fallen dynasty, the condemned torturers will cry for mercy. The burning
scene at Moscow will be repeated on a larger scale, not for the purpose
of killing French soldiery, but of serving as a beacon fire to proclaim
to Russians the Day of Redemption.
UNWIN BROTHERS, THE GRESHAM PRESS, WOKING AND LONDON.