ZOYA
During the afternoon other members of the Council of Nemi reached the
village and arrived at the gate in the wall where Issad, clad in his
dark robes and sensible of his own importance, greeted them with all
solemnity and conducted them to the house where Tanya Korasov, Khodkine
and Rowland received them. First, Shestov, who was blonde, bald and
slightly pock-marked, with a long neck consisting mostly of tendons and
Adam's apple. Shestov spoke French with a thickness of tongue which
gave the impression of a being constantly under the influence of
liquor,--a mere impediment of the speech, for as Rowland afterward
discovered, no spirits of any kind had ever passed his lips. Then came
Liederman and Mademoiselle Colodna. Liederman was heavy, Hebraic and
noisy; Irina Colodna silent, abstracted and intense; Monsieur Barthou,
mild mannered, quiet but eager, his sandy hair cropped short, his little
red-rimmed eyes magnified many fold behind his enormous goggles. And
lastly Madame Rochal.
If internationalism was the keynote of Monsieur Khodkine's politics, the
term might in a general way be applied to the curious and striking
personality of Madame Rochal, for she reflected such an intense
cosmopolitanism that it was at first difficult to identify her with any
nation of Europe. Her name might have been French, Russian or Spanish,
and her gown might have come from Paris or Vienna. She spoke all
languages, French, German, Russian, English with equal facility, each it
seemed with a slight accent or tinge of the others, but without
preference or favor. Her eyes, set a little obliquely in her head, were
of the night, dark and unfathomable, and her hair, black with a faint
green-violet gloss, was folded back at each side over her ears like the
two wings of a raven. She was jeweled, exotic, slightly tinted, and
exhaled a faint suggestion of daintily mingled perfumes. To all
appearances she was less than thirty in years, though in her eyes lurked
the wisdom of the centuries.
All of these persons were informed by Monsieur Khodkine, the earliest
arrival, of the tragic event of the morning and of Philip Rowland's
share in it. Monsieur Khodkine pitched his drama in a low key, spoke
with great seriousness and earnestly requested the new arrivals to
consider the evidence in the light of their own understanding and showed
them the body of Ivanitch and the broken Bough, in token of the
fulfillment of the prophecy. As to his own mind, he said, that was
already made up. As a member of the Order, he would take commands from
none other than Monsieur Rowland, who was now the President of the Order
of Nemi. Rowland said nothing and stood soberly trying not to laugh,
studying this queerly assorted company who had listened to the Russian,
regarding the American with a new and rather morbid interest, appraising
him (so Rowland thought) as one examines an egg which one expects to
devour.
Whatever the others may have thought, only Liederman was outspoken. He
got up, swaying from one foot to the other, like a great brown bear, his
hairy fists clenched, his black brows beetling as he roared his opinions
in a French tinged abominably with gutterals.
"Pfui! A new priest and an American! You have a doctrine over in your
country. You should permit us to apply it here--Europe for Europeans,
Monsieur--We do not need to go so far--
"But the laws of the Order----" broke in Khodkine.
"Pouf, Grisha Khodkine. We are no longer children, believing in the
necromancy of the middle ages. I for one am no exorcist. We live in no
day of incantations, nor can we accept the idols which a past age has
set up for us. The train of coincidences is extraordinary, but let us
accept it as such and end the matter. The Council of Nemi has borne
with Kirylo Ivanitch, because as we all know he formed a proper buffer
between our conflicting aims. But Kirylo Ivanitch is dead. When our
numbers are filled, let us elect a leader, a Priest if you still choose
to call him such, who will conduct our meetings and do our bidding. As
for this Monsieur Rowland----" and he gave a grunt, "as far as I am
concerned, he may very well go upon his way."
"That is impossible," came the cold, clear voice of Madame Rochal, her
strange eyes fixed on Rowland's face. "The new Leader of the Order of
Nemi has already been selected in accordance with a Destiny which it is
not my privilege--nor yours, Herr Leiderman, to thwart."
Herr Leiderman stopped rocking and stared at the speaker, a look of
sudden perplexity at his brows.
"You! Zoya!" he roared.
"I," she returned with a quick flash of her eyes. "And why not? God
knows we need new wits to bring us harmony. Why not Monsieur
Rowland's?"
"But----"
She shrugged and turned to Shestov who was speaking.
"Madame Rochal is not often wrong and her influence is not to be
despised. For Russia I can speak. A man who is willing to offer his
own blood unselfishly in sacrifice for a nation not his own, is a friend
to Freedom and to Russia."
The red-rimmed eyes of Monsieur Barthou blinked enormously behind his
goggles. "I am for the old order of things--as they have been since the
beginning----"
"And shall be everlastingly," said Khodkine sententiously. "Amen. And
you, Irina Colodna?" he asked.
"What has been, shall be," she replied in her soft Italian accent.
"Whatever happens--the order must not be broken."
"Bah!" thundered Liederman, "and jeopardize our leadership of the cause
of the world by investing this adventurer, this soldier of fortune, with
the right to----"
"Hush! Max!" cried Zoya Rochal shrilly. "You are a beast."
Liederman rocked in a moment of silence and then sank into a chair, his
fists clasped over his folded arms.
Rowland regarded him a moment and then as the gaze of the others was
turned toward him, took a pace forward, faced them, and after a glance
at Khodkine spoke quietly, and with growing assurance, while the smile
that always lurked at the corners of his lips seemed to be struggling
against his sober demeanor.
"Messieurs and Mesdames," he said politely, "I am, as this excellent and
veracious Herr Liederman has just said, both an adventurer and a soldier
of fortune. But if he chooses to turn these words against me I can only
reply that I am an adventurer in the greatest cause the world has ever
known, a soldier for the fortune of freedom which is to come. I am no
diplomat but a soldier of France which stands resolute, undaunted,
immovable upon its new frontier. I have been in the cauldron before
Verdun and thus am the only one among you who has seen Hell upon this
earth. I say to you Messieurs and Mesdames that death is nothing when
compared to the tension of nerves tightened like bow-strings. After
that I say there is no war that can be right--no Peace that can be
wrong." There was a movement of approval and Rowland grinned
comfortably and then went on--"Your cause is mine and whatever the means
by which you accomplish peace, that is mine also. I will do your
bidding if you desire it, but if, as Herr Liederman suggests, the good
of your Society is best conserved by my departure I am ready to go upon
my way----"
"Enough, Monsieur!" Zoya Rochal rose and threw out one white hand in a
wide gesture. "We need you at Nemi, Monsieur Rowlan'--Is it not so, you
others--?"
She challenged them quietly, but her eyes shot fire at the silent
Liederman, who stared up at her from under heavy brows and shrugged.
"I am out-voted," he said; "I have no more to say."
"That is well," said Khodkine. He crossed the room and clasped Rowland
by the hands, an example which all the others now followed. Tanya had
stood at one side, a silent spectator of this scene smiling slightly,
aware of her own part in this decision, but watching keenly as they came
forward. Madame Rochal was the last to greet the visitor. Their hands
met and Rowland bowed over the jeweled fingers.
"I thank you for your indulgence, Madame," he said.
"Do not let Herr Liederman disturb you," she whispered, "we are of many
minds at Nemi. But the danger lies not in what is said, Monsieur, but
what is unsaid."
"I understand. Perhaps you'll help me----"
"Perhaps. We shall see."
And with a deep look into Rowland's eyes, she passed on and joined the
others who following Margot, the old woman whom Rowland had seen in the
kitchen, went up the stairs to be shown the rooms they were to occupy.
For a moment Rowland and Tanya were alone.
"You think her beautiful?" the girl asked.
"Magnetic, startling--but beautiful--? The _beaute du Diable_ perhaps,
but Mademoiselle----"
Tanya moved her expressive fingers.
"She is the most dangerous woman in Europe."
"You alarm me," he grinned. "The only powder a soldier fears is the
_Poudre de Riz_."
She smiled.
"I'm not jesting."
"Nor I. You warn me against her?"
"If you love freedom. She is an agent of the Wilhelmstrasse."
"Ah--I see. But her nationality?"
"No one knows. What does it matter? She is an actress--a friend of
princes, in Russia, in Austria, a go-between, a shuttle-cock playing her
own game for her own ends."
"And Liederman--?"
"Is it not obvious? Her servitor."
"But why should she have chosen to accept me without question as the new
President of the Order?"
Tanya was silent a moment, and then:
"Because, if I may make so bold as to say so," she said, "your guileless
appearance marks a line of least resistance best suited to her methods
of attack. Kirylo Ivanitch was immune. She thinks to find you less
difficult. In other words," she finished dryly, "she means to use you,
Monsieur."
"I shall be guileless, Mademoiselle, as long as I can learn something,
but not too guileless to be ungrateful to you." She shrugged and
laughed as he glanced toward the stairway whence came the sound of
voices.
Rowland laughed quietly. "I'm pledged to you, to Khodkine and to Madame
Rochal. Messieurs Shestov and Barthou are perhaps on my side. Before
the hour passes I shall swear allegiance to Signorina Colodna and Herr
Liederman," he grinned, "the society of Nemi at least shall be cohesive
and I shall be the amalgam."
"This is no joke."
"Nevertheless I shall not cry over it----"
He caught her hand and pressed it in his strong fingers. "Will you let
me solve these problems in my own way? If I seem to be guileless, humor
me for my simplicity but do not distrust me, Mademoiselle--for of all
these who are at Nemi it is you only who shall be my guide."
"You swear it?" she whispered.
"Upon my honor."
Her face flamed suddenly and her glance fell.
Then he kissed her hand and released her just as Khodkine entered from
the garden where what had once been Kirylo Ivanitch had, without
ceremony, been put below the ground. But the lines at Monsieur
Khodkine's brows were not born of this gruesome informality for it
seemed that Nemi turned without question from old gods to new, but of
another matter which for some hours had obviously given him inquietude.
"If Monsieur Rowland will permit," he said gravely turning to Tanya,
"Mademoiselle Korasov is best informed to speak of the affairs of Kirylo
Ivanitch and of the business pending in the Council----"
"Shall I leave you, Monsieur?" asked Rowland.
"Why? You are one of us--our leader----"
Rowland chose to read something satirical in his ceremonious bow.
"Well," said the American good-humoredly, "what's the order of
business?"
"The reports from the various central committees which these Councilors
represent, appropriations of money to carry on the propaganda and the
plans for Russia. But first it is necessary to see into the condition
of the affairs of Monsieur Ivanitch. The vault must be opened."
"The vault?" echoed Rowland.
Khodkine nodded and glanced at Tanya.
"The Priest of Nemi is sole custodian of the documents and funds of the
order. Only Ivanitch knew the secret of the doors to the vault----"
Here he turned suddenly to the girl--"Unless perhaps _you_, Tatyana----"
"What should I know, Grisha Khodkine?" she said coolly. "I have merely
obeyed orders. Kirylo Ivanitch entrusted me with no such weighty
responsibility as this."
"And yet it is strange, that no record should be left----"
"Kirylo Ivanitch died without speaking."
"But you Tatyana were closest in his confidence. He must have given
some sign, left some paper----"
"Search for it then, his room, his desk, his clothing----"
"I have done so. There is nothing."
Rowland found another cigarette which he lighted with the greatest
cheerfulness.
"An _impasse_," he smiled, "what are you going to do about it?"
Khodkine shrugged.
"That is a grave question, Monsieur Rowland."
"Dynamite," suggested the American. Khodkine paced the floor slowly for
a moment, and then to the girl.
"Go, Tatyana, if you please, and make a thorough search. Perhaps you
may succeed where I have failed."
Tanya turned toward the door and then paused. "And the others, what
shall you say to them?" she asked.
"Tell them the truth," said Khodkine.
The Russian waited until Tanya had gone and then coming close to the new
President of Nemi, spoke rapidly and in whispers.
"You and I are allied for a common purpose. The vault is outside in the
garden, deep under the Tree, we must find a way into it, you comprehend,
without the knowledge of these others."
"Yes, but how?"
"That we shall devise. I will find a way." At the sound of voices he
glanced toward the door. "Meanwhile," he whispered, "say nothing."
Rowland nodded and they drew apart as Madame Rochal and Shestov entered
the room.
"Ah, Machiavelli," she said, coming forward with a smile--"already
wrapping your tendrils around the Tree of Nemi."
Khodkine laughed uneasily.
"My tendrils perhaps do not grow so far or cling so tightly as yours may
do, Madame."
Zoya Rochal glanced at Rowland who caught her look.
"For the wild rose, Madame," said the new Priest quietly, "the oak
always bears a life-long friendship."
"Ah, Monsieur, who has taught you to make pretty speeches? But be sure
that I am no poison vine," she said with a shrug.
"It is only the dead oak tree that the poison-vine loves. I, Madame, am
very much alive."
She flashed a quick smile at him, at once a challenge and a reproach,
while Khodkine looked on gravely.
"Only an escaping slave shall break the golden Bough," muttered the
literal Shestov soberly.
Zoya Rochal laughed. "You, Grisha Khodkine?" she said significantly.
Khodkine started.
"Or you, Madame," he replied quickly.
"A slave?" she said. "I have escaped from one servitude into another.
But to have political opinions in Russia is fortunately no longer a
crime."
Rowland looked from one to the other and laughed.
"Monsieur Shestov has rendered me a service," he said with a grin. "I
didn't know of this menace. If you, Madame Rochal, desire my life you
shall take it at once." He picked up the dagger of Kirylo Ivanitch
which had been brought into the house and put upon the table, and thrust
the handle toward her. But she shuddered prettily and turned away. "As
for you, Monsieur Khodkine," he said coolly, "from this moment I must be
upon my guard."
But the Russian saw no humor in this pleasantry.
"Enough of this nonsense, Monsieur. Let us go in to dinner."
And yet this controversy which had been heard by the others who had
followed Zoya Rochal into the room, in spite of its apparent triviality,
had done something to clear the atmosphere. Rowland's perfect good
humor and air of guilelessness which seemed to see nothing but good
humor and guilelessness in all those about him, had the effect of
providing a common meeting ground of good-fellowship for those of
different camps. And whatever the diversity of their opinions, the
darkness of their thoughts and purposes, the dinner table gave no sign
of the deeper undercurrents of their various allegiances.
And when they all rose from the table at the conclusion of the meal
Rowland and Madame Rochal went to smoke their cigarettes.
"I can't make you out, Monsieur Rowland," she said when they were seated
on a bench at the end of the garden. "At times you seem very much like
an overgrown boy," she began, "and then--something makes me think that
you are not so ingenuous as you look."
"I have traveled the world over, Madame," said Rowland with a laugh,
"but I've never managed to learn anything, except that women are very
beautiful and that men are born to be slaves."
She laid her fingers along his coat sleeve.
"Don't you know, foolish boy," she muttered with sudden earnestness,
"that you have happened upon the very edge of an Inferno?"
"No, you surprise me. It has seemed very much like a sort of pleasant
game to me." He laughed. "I kill, quite by accident, the chap that
runs your shebang and you all come along and pat me on the back. It's
great, I tell you. You haven't been in a German prison pen, Madame.
The conversation is hardly worth mentioning, the food is unmentionable
and now for the first time in a year I find myself set down in a milieu
of beautiful women and clever men with real food to eat and real
conversation to listen to, and you, Madame, wish to spoil my evening by
speaking of Infernos. It's really not considerate of you."
He lolled lower in his seat and smoked luxuriously, gazing at her
through half-closed eyes.
The fingers on his arm tightened.
"I tell you, Monsieur, that you are in great danger, here at this
moment. Don't you understand?"
"I understand what you say," he said smiling at her lazily.
"It's the truth--" she repeated. "Danger--of--death--sudden--at any
time."
"I am so contented, Madame. I can imagine no moment more agreeable in
which to die."
"You anger me. Have you no eyes to see what is going on about you?"
Rowland straightened and glanced carelessly over his shoulder.
"And what is going on about me?" he asked.
"You have become--in a moment--the most important single figure in
Europe. You do not believe me. It is true. Around you, here at Nemi,
seethes a struggle of nations gasping for breath and you sit and look
into my eyes and dream."
"You must blame that upon your eyes," he whispered.
She shrugged, moved impatiently and then after looking cautiously around
them into the shrubbery, turned toward him again.
"I pray you to listen to me, Monsieur," she said eagerly. "I like you,
Philippe Rowlan'. From the first in there, when I saw you, I knew that
I should like you. I don't know why." She shrugged expressively. "You
are different. But you are also very foolish and I would not like to
see you come to harm."
"And who would harm me?" he said coolly. "Perhaps I am foolish, but you
must blame that upon my sense of humor. I blunder into the midst of a
pretty little opera-bouffe worthy of the best traditions of Offenbach,
with chaps in cowls and cassocks pottering about a saddish-looking tree
and muttering about escaping slaves. And you ask me to be afraid.
Perhaps when I get through being amused there will be time for that.
For the present, Madame, will you bear with me and tell me something
about yourself?"
She threw out an arm with a dramatic gesture which showed something of
her training. "Ah, I have no patience with you, Philippe Rowlan'," she
said, "you are impossible. Think of what I shall tell you, for it is
very important. Under the mound below the tree is the treasure-vault of
Nemi. It is built of steel, like a bank, and no one may enter it
without the secret numbers which open the lock. Those numbers were
known only by Kirylo Ivanitch and he is dead."
"That's unfortunate," said Rowland as she paused. "But you can't blame
me."
"Do you know what is in that vault, Philippe Rowlan'?" she asked.
"I can't imagine. A pig with a ring in the end of his nose?" he smiled.
"You still disbelieve? Well, I will tell you. The funds of the Order
at this time can amount to little less than twenty-five millions of
francs. They are there for you or for anyone with imagination to divert
into the proper channels."
Rowland's eyes in spite of himself had become a little larger.
"I'm no burglar, Madame. I've done almost everything--but safe cracking
is a little out of my line."
"And yet it is upon you that the responsibility for this money devolves.
If it is stolen you will be held accountable."
"Stolen! Who will steal it?"
She shrugged. "Who wouldn't--in a righteous cause?" She caught his arm
again to emphasize the importance of her words. "To help the cause of
Free Institutions in Europe? You! I! Anyone with a cause like that
near his heart."
Rowland flicked his cigarette into the bushes. "I am very dense. There
seem to be more causes than one at Nemi, more axes than one to grind.
Let me be direct," he said coolly. "Yours--Madame Rochal. What is it?"
he asked.
She glanced at him swiftly.
"You do not know?"
"Obviously, or I should not be asking."
She paused a moment, looking away from him. And then as though coming
to a resolution she turned and spoke in a low tone. "These others
believe that I am acting for the Social Democrats of Germany, like Max
Liederman, but that is not the case."
"Ah--what then?"
"I am trusting you, Monsieur----"
"By the witchery in your eyes, I swear----"
She paused a moment as though to be sure of her effect. And then in a
whisper--
"I am a secret agent of the Provisional Government of Russia."
Rowland sat silent a second and then laid his hand over hers while his
lips broke into a boyish smile.
"I knew it, Madame. I was sure of it," he whispered softly. "Our cause
is the same. You and I together--what can we not do for Russia and for
Freedom."
He was so ingenuous, so boyish, so handsome. His very youth refreshed
her. She sighed and then laughed softly as she raised the back of her
hand toward his lips.
"There," she murmured, "you may kiss my hand."
But Rowland only glanced at the hand and before Madame Rochal knew what
he was about had caught her in his arms and kissed her full upon the
lips.
"Monsieur!" she stammered and drew away from him hurriedly. Rowland
followed her glance and turned to find Tanya Korasov standing before
them. Rowland sprang to his feet and stood, his head bowed, looking
indeed rather crestfallen.
"Mademoiselle----" he began.
But she cut him short with a gesture, speaking rapidly and he saw that
she was very pale and suffering under some suppressed agitation.
"Monsieur, you are to come to the house at once. In the name of
Freedom--Grisha Khodkine demands it!"
"I will go at once."
Tanya had already turned and fled down the path. Rowland had taken only
a few paces when Zoya Rochal rushed alongside of him and seized his arm.
"Be watchful, Philippe Rowlan'!" she whispered tensely, "for it is he
whom you have most to fear."
He laughed softly as he caught her fingers to his lips.
"Thanks, Madame," he said gaily. "No one shall kill me at Nemi but you.
That I promise." And left her standing in the darkness.