KHODKINE
Was it imagination that gave him the idea that the manner of Tanya
Korasov betrayed a sudden inquietude at the mention of the name of the
newcomer? He was sure that the fingers which touched his sleeve in
warning were trembling as she glanced wide-eyed toward the door into the
garden by which Monsieur Khodkine would enter. Who was this visitor,
and what his mission, what his power, what his authority?
Stepan threw the door open and stood aside, bowing as the visitor
entered, followed by Issad and Picard. He was tall and well built, with
blonde hair brushed straight back from a broad fine brow, below which
steel-blue eyes appraised the room and its occupants. His nose was
straight and well chiseled, and his small brown mustache carefully
groomed, defined rather than concealed the straight firm line of his
rather red lips, which parted slightly as he saw the figure of Rowland
before him. His glance met the American's, hovered a second and passed
to Tanya, who had risen and stood mute and expectant.
The Russian crossed the room quickly to the girl, and taking the fingers
she extended, bowed over them and pressed them to his lips.
"Tatyana!" he said in French, with a deep and pleasant voice. "The days
have sped into weeks, the weeks into months, since I have seen you----"
"Grisha Khodkine, you are welcome!" said the girl, withdrawing her hand,
and as the Russian straightened, turned toward the American whom she
indicated with a graceful gesture. "You are to meet a--a visitor to
Nemi, Monsieur. Permit me to present Monsieur Rowlan'."
The Russian straightened and his clear and slightly surprised gaze
passed impudently over the American's ill-fitting clothing from head to
foot. Rowland had a sense that it was the garments which Monsieur
Khodkine noted, not the man within them, and had a feeling of being
still further ignored when the Russian, after the slightest inclination
of the head, which indeed had seemed a part of his cursory inspection,
turned again quickly to Tanya.
"Where is Kirylo Ivanitch?" he asked.
The girl leaned with one hand upon the table, her gaze upon the floor.
Her voice trembled a little as she replied.
"Kirylo Ivanitch is--is dead."
Khodkine started violently.
"Dead! Ivanitch----!" He turned a quick look at Stepan and at Rowland.
"When did this happen?" he questioned eagerly. "And who----?"
His look as though impelled returned to Rowland, who had picked up one
of the cigarettes of Monsieur Ivanitch from the table and was now
lighting it, very much at his ease. Rowland made no reply, and Tanya,
with a gesture of her extended fingers:
"It happened but just now,--this morning, Grisha Khodkine," she said.
"For some days Kirylo Ivanitch had been distraught with nerves, in a
kind of strange fit of uncertainty. He was frightened.... He bade us
keep watch upon the Tree and what lies below it day and night. And to
humor him we obeyed. We did not know what was to happen--something
strange, Grisha Khodkine----"
As she paused the Russian looked from one to the other in astonishment
and mystification.
"Dead!--but how? What happened?"
"This morning," the girl went on, choosing her words carefully, "he
attacked Monsieur Rowlan', in the garden, as he was leaving Nemi.
Monsieur Rowlan' defended himself, and struck--struck----" Tanya hid
her face in her hands, trembling.
"Go on----" said the Russian.
"There is little else to tell," said the girl, raising her pallid face
from her hands, "Kirylo fell--He is--dead!"
Khodkine's gaze sought the eyes of the other men in confirmation.
"It is the truth, Monsieur," muttered Picard. "We saw. It was a fair
combat. But it was written--what happened!"
Monsieur Khodkine's look passed slowly from one to the other and at last
rested on Rowland, who met his glance calmly, soberly, without
deference--but without defiance.
"He tried to kill me, Monsieur," he said quietly, "he was dangerous, and
so----" He shrugged. "What would you? He fell and his head struck a
stone----"
The Russian stared a moment.
"Then you----" He paused.
Rowland smiled a little.
"It seems, Monsieur," he said coolly, "that I am your new Priest of
Nemi."
There was a long silence during which the Russian stared at Rowland more
intently as though correcting a former and mistaken impression. At last
he took a pace forward and the eyes of the two men met.
"You--you knew?" he asked.
"Nothing," said Rowland.
"And now----?"
The American shrugged but Picard broke in eagerly: "All the conditions
have been fulfilled, Monsieur Khodkine--all from the first to the
last----"
And while Rowland stood silent, in good-humored contempt, the Frenchman
told all that had happened, including the American's escape from
imprisonment and the breaking of the Bough. Rowland keenly watched all
the actors in this drama, the zealous sincerity of the excitable
Frenchman, the mystic absorption of Stepan, the fixed burning gaze of
Issad, sure that those who played the minor parts were committed beyond
question to a strict interpretation of the symbols of the order. Tanya,
the color coming slowly into her cheeks, answered briefly and clearly
the questions that were put to her. If there had been restraint in her
acceptance of this successor to Ivanitch, or wonder at the strange chain
of facts which linked this matter-of-fact American with the destinies of
Nemi, she spoke now with an air of definite assurance and fatalism which
went far to convince Rowland that if she were not sincere in her beliefs
she was playing a skillful part which warned him how deeply he too was
committed to his strange new office. But it was Monsieur Khodkine that
Rowland watched the closest. From an expression of consternation the
face of the Russian settled into a frowning inquiry and then as his
glance and Rowland's met, into a mask-like immobility which revealed
nothing of his own state of mind. As one by one the facts were revealed
to him, his voice became more quiet, his manner more suave, while he
nodded his head in solemn deliberation. The phrases he used were
theirs, the jargon of mysticism, and yet to Rowland, the man of the
world, this change of tone and demeanor failed to comport with the very
obvious air of modernity and materialism which Monsieur Khodkine had
brought in with him from the world outside.
"The Bough--broken," Khodkine was muttering, "an escaped prisoner of the
Germans,--a slave surely! And the combat--either one may challenge....
The Visconti.... There seems no doubt. Yes--it is strange. You say
that Monsieur Rowland did not know the tradition...?"
"Not until after Kirylo Ivanitch was dead," said Tanya calmly. "I told
him."
"It is most extraordinary," repeated Khodkine, turning to Rowland with
level brows. "An act of Destiny, striking as with the hand of God from
out of the mists of the Eternal ages. But it is a sign too definite to
be ignored--an act of Revelation and a Prophecy."
The words were spoken soberly, with an air of rapt introspection, but
Rowland missed nothing of the alert intelligence of Monsieur Khodkine's
pale blue eyes, keen and observing, which unlike Issad, the dreamer's,
fairly blazed with objectivity.
The impression that Monsieur Khodkine was playing a part, became more
definite. He acted a little too well. The talk of mysticism and destiny
fell a little too glibly from his lips to be quite in keeping with
Rowland's reading of his character, which made the Russian out to be a
politician of an advanced type, a doctrinaire perhaps, but an intriguer
with a definite and perhaps sordid purpose, who had come expecting to
find the dreamer Ivanitch, and instead had found a heretic and an
unbeliever. But under this skillful camouflage of mere words, which
though they may have meant much to Issad, Stepan and Picard, conveyed
nothing to Rowland, he hid his disappointment well, and when all
questions had been answered, he went and viewed the dead Ivanitch and
agreed as the others had done to an immediate interment of the body.
Through it all Rowland had said little, reading in the quick furtive
glances of the girl Tanya a silent petition to accede in these
arrangements, and so when the orders had been given Rowland returned
with Monsieur Khodkine to the room on the lower floor where Tanya, after
a warning glance which Rowland interpreted and answered, left the two
men to their own devices. Rowland, now fully aware that he was to deal
with a man of no ordinary ability, took a leaf from Monsieur Khodkine's
book and fairly met him at his own game.
"An American, Monsieur!" began the Russian, after they had lighted their
cigarettes. "It is indeed a far cry from the 'white lights' of Broadway
to the Priesthood of Nemi----"
"Ah, you know New York?" asked Rowland.
"I have been there. An extraordinary city--a wonderful
people--intensely practical. But you are no nation of dreamers,
Monsieur."
"Upon the contrary," replied Rowland, politely. "Were we not
dreamers--we should long since have finished disastrously our experiment
in individualism. Like you in Russia we dream, Monsieur, but unlike
you, our dreams come true."
Khodkine gazed at Rowland with a new interest. Was this smiling
American less stupid than he looked?
"Individualism! Yes. You are even slaves to liberty, which has made
you the mere creatures of your own desires."
"You are a monarchist, Monsieur Khodkine?" asked Rowland, with an
innocent gaze.
"May the good God forbid!" cried Khodkine abruptly. "I am a Russian, of
the heart of Russia which throbs with the pulse-beats of humanity. The
Czar has fallen, but the era of absolutism in Russia is not yet over."
Rowland shifted his knees and fixed a cool look of inquiry upon
Khodkine.
"I am only a soldier, Monsieur," he said. "For a year I have been in a
prison camp. As you must see, I am vastly ignorant of what is going on
in the world."
"Then you must know that my country has changed in nothing but a name.
Instead of monarchy we have oligarchy--a band of men bent upon usurping
the rights of the people. The people of Russia are drunk with freedom
and accept the new order of things because they think it is what they
have long fought for. But the men now in power in the Provisional
Government are not to be trusted--capitalists, bureaucrats, the enemies
of----"
"You are a Socialist Democrat, then, Monsieur?" put in Rowland.
"A friend of Russia's freedom--call me by whatever name you please."
Khodkine shrugged and blew a cloud of smoke.
"You mean that there are still those in power who are in sympathy with
Germany?" asked Rowland.
Khodkine rose and walked the length of the room while Rowland watched
him keenly.
"What else? Is it not clear to you?"
"I am perhaps dull, Monsieur," said Rowland, vacuously. "Rasputin is
dead. The Czarina has gone. In them you will admit the fountain heads
of German intrigue have been destroyed."
"Diverted, let us say, Monsieur--upon the surface. But the evil stream
still flows--secretly, below the ground, to appear in high places where
least expected."
Rowland rose and threw his cigarette into the hearth.
"I have no doubt that what you say is true, Monsieur Khodkine. I am not
wise. If I am to be of service here"--Rowland paused significantly,
until he found Khodkine's gaze--"if I am to be of service here, I must
trust myself into the hands of those who have a deeper insight into the
politics of Europe than myself. I have promised Mademoiselle Korasov to
stay at Nemi and do what I can. I would like to help." He paused again
and then, with an air of frankness: "Perhaps, Monsieur Khodkine, I could
do no better than to entrust myself into your hands."
Khodkine turned half toward him, his fine white teeth showing in a smile
and then thrust forth a hand in confirmation.
"Can it be that you will trust me?"
"Implicitly."
Khodkine's pale eyes glowed with purpose.
"Ah, that is good, Monsieur Rowlan'. It seems that the hand which
guides the destiny of Nemi is still unerring." And then more quietly,
"You know what power is yours to command?"
"Mademoiselle Korasov has told me something,--but with skillful
advisers--
"All will be well, Monsieur. But you will have many advisers. They are
coming here today, but you must select the wheat from the chaff. I
shall tell you whom to trust. Russia must be born again. You shall
help her in the pains of birth--save her from the malevolent hands which
threaten to throttle her in the very act of being."
"It is a great destiny you plan, Monsieur. The society of Nemi may be
powerful, but I can hardly believe that such a powerful autocracy as
Germany----"
"Tst--Monsieur! You have heard some of the rumblings in the Reichstag.
Liebknecht the elder blazed the way. His son has followed----"
"Oh, yes, Liebknecht. I've heard----"
"Only the military might of Germany holds the nation intact, but even in
its might it trembles. Nemi is strong in Germany. In many regiments
the socialists have revolted and in the navy--mutiny. Those men realize
that there is a force let loose into the world, before which the selfish
aims of the rulers of the countries of the earth are as chaff in the
wind. Not one nation shall rule, or several, but all--Monsieur. All!
Internationalism--! Do you know what that means?"
And as Rowland remained silent, as though in deep thought, Khodkine
threw his long arms out in a wide gesture.
"You shall see. The time comes soon----"
"And you will help me, Monsieur?" Rowland asked urbanely.
"With all my heart and intelligence."
Khodkine smiled and the two men clasped hands. Monsieur Khodkine's
hands were very white and as smooth as a woman's, but there was strength
in the sinew beneath. Internationalism! A fine word! which might mean
anything.... If this man were Rowland's enemy, at least he should not
start with any advantage. The new Leader of Nemi was learning, still
moving in the dark, for the names of those who had come into power in
Russia, Lvoff, Rodzianko--and the others had seemed to stand for all
that was best in the interests of free government. And so he had led
Monsieur Khodkine out, that he might inspect, in profile, as it were,
the motives which underlay his politics. As yet nothing definite--only
a suspicion. As to the sincerity of his beliefs in the ritual of Nemi,
Rowland was soon enlightened.
"You are a practical man, Monsieur Rowland," Khodkine went on easily.
"You are no doubt mystified by the curious sequence of events which have
brought you here to Nemi, as titular head of this great and secret
order. But I too am a practical man, and I will be frank with you. I
care nothing for symbols. Whatever the society of Nemi is in the minds
of its legion of followers, to me it is merely a means to a great
end--the safety and peace of all Europe. The fulfillment of the
promises of the legend is extraordinary--almost incredible, but neither
you nor I as men of the world can believe that it comes from any
supernatural agency. Kirylo Ivanitch was immolated upon the altar of
his own fears, a sacrifice to his own superstition. He killed the
Priest who preceded him. For years his Nemesis, a true Nemesis, my
friend, has pursued him. But you, Monsieur, must permit no such doubts
to poison your usefulness."
"Why should I," laughed Rowland. "A man attacks me, stabs me with a
knife. If he is killed, is it my fault? My conscience is clear."
"Good. Then we understand each other." He broke off with a shrug.
"As to the ritual of Nemi. There is a strength in mysticism, a fact
which the vile Rasputin was not long in finding out. A little
ceremonial does no harm and you, Monsieur, must play your part with
skill and some caution."
"By all means," said Rowland, with a laugh. "Until the new priest of
Nemi shall find me out. Then at least I assure you that I shall not
stand on ceremony."
"Ah, as to that, you may reassure yourself," said Khodkine, easily. "A
Miracle such as this may sometime happen by chance, but not twice in one
generation."
"At least," Rowland concluded cheerfully, "you may be sure that I am not
afraid."
"Perhaps it is well that we have a soldier at Nemi," said Khodkine with
a smile. And then after a pause--"Tell me, Monsieur. Did Mademoiselle
Korasov commit to your keeping any documents--any papers?"
"None," lied Rowland coolly. "As you know, this affair has happened so
recently----"
"There were no papers found upon the body of Monsieur Ivanitch?"
"If they have not been removed by Issad or Stepan, they should be upon
his body now."
"Ah! I will inquire." And getting up quickly, Monsieur Khodkine made
his way out of the room in the direction of the adjoining apartment.
Tanya, a warning finger to her lips, joined Rowland immediately. It
seemed that she must have been near the door, waiting for the chance to
speak with him alone.
"You were careful?" she asked.
"As careful as a person may be who walks on a floor carpeted with
egg-shells," said Rowland with a smile.
"He asked if I had told you anything, given you anything?"
Rowland nodded.
"He has gone to search the body," he said.
"For the paper I gave you," whispered Tanya. "I found it in the
pocket-book of Kirylo Ivanitch. I took it--there in the garden as I
knelt beside him. You have committed it to memory?"
"Yes. _Droite_ 72 _Gauche_ 23 _Droite_ 7----"
"Sh--! You can remember it?"
"Yes."
"Then destroy it quickly."
Rowland struck a match, lighted the scrap of paper and threw it into the
hearth. She went toward the door, stood in a tense moment of listening
and then quickly returned.
"Do not trust him, Monsieur, and be upon your guard against him always.
For the present nothing more. I shall contrive to meet you tonight."
She walked to the chair which Monsieur Khodkine had left and motioned
Rowland to another, and then raising her voice, spoke easily in a
conversational tone of the members of the Council who were to join them
later in the day. A few moments later Monsieur Khodkine, his brows
troubled in thought, came into the room.
"You found nothing?" asked Tanya.
"His watch, the talisman, some keys, a little money. Nothing else."
"What was it you were looking for, Monsieur?" enquired Rowland.
Khodkine glanced at Tanya and shrugged.
"A memorandum--it does not matter."