The apartments to which I was shown were as luxurious in their way as
the room in which I had been received, and as everything had obviously
been ready in advance, I had a shrewd suspicion that Helga and Boreski
had quite counted upon my remaining in the house.
It was a queer position in all truth; and dismissing the man who had
been told to attend upon me, I lit a cigar and sat down to think it out.
One thing was quite plain. Old Kalkov had been fooled as to the
objective of all the business. The marriage of Boreski with the Duchess
Stephanie was a mere cover for the other scheme, and a very clever
cover too, seeing that it had looked so amazingly like the sole end in
view.
That was Helga’s wit; and to a point it had succeeded. But where her
plan had fallen to pieces was in believing that the Emperor would be
so mad as to come and see her in his own august person. The thing was
so monstrously absurd that I was surprised such sharp wits as hers had
believed it possible and had not suspected some imposture.
That I had not been instantly detected for a fraud was indeed not the
least curious feature: and I could only conclude that having once
persuaded themselves to believe the thing possible, they were just in
the frame of mind which helped the self-deception.
Probably my idea of playing at being myself had helped the deception,
because it was naturally a part I could keep up consistently. I had
been myself with occasional lapses into the Imperial imposture. And
that was all there was to it. What would happen when the deception was
discovered I could not even attempt to anticipate.
The evening had effected a great change in myself. The axis of
everything had shifted. Helga’s personality and plans had taken
Boreski’s place; and whereas I had been anxious to wipe out my old
obligation to the Emperor and had had a languid, very languid,
willingness to checkmate Boreski, my feelings now were keenly enlisted
in Helga’s behalf. Provided I could arrange the affair of the
compromising papers, I was ready to throw myself heart and soul into
her cause.
I had already thrown my heart, indeed. She was the most glorious woman
I had ever met; and as I sat back dreaming under the spell of her grace
and beauty and courage, I felt I would have given all I had in the
world to gain her confidence and help her to win her end, whatever that
might be.
Then I fell to wondering what could be the strange secret that had led
to her betrothal to that fat, squalid, unctuous cad, Paul Drexel? What
hold could he have over her and over Boreski? What could possibly have
linked them together in that incongruous partnership?
“How I hate that man!”
Her words rang in my ears as the sight of her gloriously contemptuous
indignation haunted my eyes. What could make a woman of Helga’s courage
and man of Boreski’s daring--for daring he certainly had--so afraid of
a paltry common scoundrel as to drive them to play at this betrothal?
Thank Heaven it was only playing. She would never stoop to become the
wife of a brute whom she admitted she hated. Her heart was free if I
could but touch it; she was to be won if only I--and there I sighed,
recognizing the tremendous difficulties, and, like a wise man, tossed
the end of my cigar away and got into bed, hoping that the night’s rest
would enable me to pick out the master thread of the strangely tangled
skein.
I was up betimes and found my head clear on one point.
There must be no more Emperor business, let the result be what it
would. I would tell Helga the truth, even if the heavens fell; and I
went down with this purpose strong in me.
Then I would tell her of my friendship with the Czar and offer my
services as a direct intermediary to bring about an interview between
them.
She was in the garden among her flowers, and in her simple morning
costume, with the fresh colour in her cheeks, she looked even lovelier
than on the previous night.
She welcomed me with a smile and held out some flowers.
“I am an early riser, you see. I love my garden. I have been out here
more than an hour. You have slept?” she added, glancing at my face
which was no doubt serious enough, for I rather dreaded what I had to
say.
“Never better in my life,” I answered. “But I wish to speak to you.”
“And does that prospect make you so serious? I ought to apologize
for exhaling such terrors.” She laughed gaily and bent over a flower
bush, and then glanced up half-coquettishly. “Let us wait a while. Be
merciful, and do not spoil my morning.”
“What I have to say cannot wait, mademoiselle.”
“I make a very bad listener when I am bending from flower to flower, M.
American. Unless it is that you are going.”
“That will depend on how you take my news.”
“Then you are not going at once,” she said quickly. “Are not these
lovely?” and she held up a bunch of flowers for me to admire, and
looked laughingly at me over them.
“They are as lovely as----” I paused, looking into her eyes.
“Well?” she challenged.
“The hue of those blossoms rivals even that of your eyes.”
“Is that an--an American form of compliment? I do not care for
compliments.”
“My compliment was for the flower, mademoiselle.”
“Very pretty--but too Western to be Russian monsieur. But come, we will
go in. I am always hungry in the mornings. Will you mind breakfasting
with me alone? M. Boreski is coming afterwards.”
“I shall be delighted.”
“What, to see him?” This with a gay little laugh.
“No, to breakfast with you alone.”
“Well, it will be practically alone. Madame Korvata, excellent guardian
and good soul that she is, has reached the age which thinks more of
what is on the table than of those who are at it.”
“But I wish to speak to you alone.”
“And keep me without my breakfast, monsieur! And is that--American,
too? I am far--far too hungry to talk seriously or even to listen.
Come;” and she led the way into the house, laughing as she went.
Thus at breakfast nothing could be said. Madame Korvata, a small woman
well into the fifties, with large eyes and ample appetite, looked at
me sharply when I was presented to her, said that she had met some
pleasant Americans in her day and some very unpleasant ones, and then
seemed to forget all about me in the more absorbing and profitable
study of breakfast.
Helga appeared desirous of impressing even on the servants that I was
an American, for she talked chiefly of my country, and seemed to take a
delight in putting intricate and searching questions. That I answered
them so easily caused her constant astonishment and some amusement.
“How well you know your country, monsieur,” she said with a glance and
a lift of the brows.
“It should not be surprising,” said I.
“And yet it is--very. You appear to know it as well as--as Europe or
even Russia.”
“I explained last night that my father was a diplomatist, and I had
advantages as a boy.”
“And how deftly you turn things. You might have been trained in a Court
and picked up the facility there.”
The shooting of these little shafts amused her intensely, and the meal
was punctuated with her laughter and sallies.
When it was over she led me to the garden, and then excused herself.
“I manage all my matters myself. I shall not be long, and then shall be
at your service.”
“I must see you as soon as possible,” I said as she went off and Madame
Korvata came out of the house smoking her cigarette. I lit a cigar, and
the old lady waited and then said abruptly:
“I like your face, monsieur. You are like our Emperor. But how did you
come to know Helga?”
The question was very simple, but yet embarrassing; and when I
hesitated how to reply, she saw it and smiled.
“Don’t answer unless you like. I hate bothersome questions myself, and
never press them. I always pretend never to hear them, indeed. A deaf
ear saves a lot of trouble. You think Helga pretty?”
“Mademoiselle is far more than pretty; she is beautiful.”
The old lady smiled at my enthusiasm, and took a couple of puffs at
her cigarette while she looked at me.
“Ah, they all say that, monsieur.”
“All, madame?”
“And good, too,” she continued, pretending not to hear my question.
“Good, too. A big kind heart--and such a brain. Ah, she would be
a great woman if she had her rights. She would make a noble wife,
monsieur, a noble wife; but--she will never marry--that is until she
has them.”
“You are very fond of her?”
“Everybody is. She is more than a daughter to me. Without her I should
be--do you know the fate of destitute old women in Russia? God help
them, for the Government don’t. Helga does God’s part for me.”
“And you think she will never marry, madame?”
She glanced up with another of her slow, shrewd smiles.
“Get her her rights, and then----” She paused. “She is affianced, but I
know what I think.” She shook her head gravely. “But no one can do it.
So they come and go--and always go at last, not to return.”
I could not encourage her to talk about Helga’s matters, and I smoked
in silence, thinking over what had dropped from her; and when Helga
returned, Madame Korvata went into the house.
“She has the sweetest nature,” said Helga; “but I suppose she has been
warning you. She always does.”
“Warning me?”
“She has one regret--that I do not marry. She thinks that marriage is
the only proper climax for a woman’s life, and that whenever any one
comes here, they come with that idea; and she always warns them that I
shall never marry.”
“She suggested you might be influenced by material reasons.”
“I? How do you mean?”
“That if any man succeeded in getting you your rights, you would look
upon him with very different eyes.”
Her face changed on the instant from amused astonishment to thoughtful
and intense earnestness.
“You speak of what you do not know, monsieur, and will not hear. There
is nothing that could be demanded of me, no sacrifice however complete
or ruinous, no danger however deadly, I would not face for that. That
is my real life--all else is a mere setting and pretence.”
“Can I speak to you now--without interruption?”
“Would you prefer to be here or in the house?”
“It is all one to me if you will listen seriously.”
“Then let us speak here; it is my favourite walk.” And we turned into
the broad path circling a fountain and surrounded by flower beds
abundantly filled and carefully tended. “Now, monsieur.”
“In the night I thought over all the strange situation, and this
morning came to a decision.”
“There must be of course a decision one way or the other,” she put in
when I paused.
“You will understand that before I came here I had no idea I was to
meet you. I expected to have to deal only with M. Boreski.”
“That was part of my intention. In that I misled you, I know.”
“It is nothing compared to the deception I have practised upon you; and
I can only plead the excuse that I should not have done it under any
inducements had I known of you. Please believe that.”
“Deception? How do you mean?”
“I am not the Emperor, mademoiselle; I am only what I have asked you to
regard me--a plain American citizen, Harper C. Denver.”
If she was astonished at my confession or angry at it, she gave no sign
of either feeling.
“That is a very serious confession,” she said, speaking very slowly.
“Very serious. _When_ did you decide to make it?”
“This morning, realizing the present _impasse_.”
“It is very ingenious, at any rate.” Her tone was sarcastic now. “It
did not occur to you to speak of such a--such a trifle last night.”
There was still no anger in the glance she gave me.
“Frankly, I was too overwhelmed for the time by the possible
consequences. But this morning I saw that the truth was at once the
simplest and best way out.”
“The necessity for the--truth was a little late in emphasizing itself,
don’t you think?”
“It seems so to you, no doubt; but I was on the horns of a very awkward
dilemma.”
“And Prince Kalkov?”
“Of course he knows it. I came at his instigation.”
“And so you are really an American, and were in Russia as a boy, with
your father a diplomatist; and you have been in Germany and France, and
speak the languages without any of that horrible English accent; and
you understand Russian; and you came here from the Palace; and were
driven to the Palace the other evening, having been received with a
guard of honour; and you are the living image of our Emperor. Do you
know the Emperor, M. American?”
She said it all with such unmistakably good-humoured disbelief that
when she had recourse to the term she had freely used the previous
night, I could not refrain from smiling.
“The Emperor has done me the honour to make me his friend.”
“You are very fortunate, M.--let me see, what is the name--M. Harper
C. Denver,” she replied with a gay laugh. “You are also an excellent
actor, having picked up many little gestures of the Emperor himself. It
is really a most wonderful coincidence.”
“The reception at the railway station was planned by Prince Kalkov,
who knew of my coming and had heard from His Majesty of the strange
resemblance between us.”
“Really, Prince Kalkov is more subtle than I thought him. Well then, M.
American, what do you propose to do?”
She stopped and looked me full in the face with a smiling challenge. It
was plain as the Statue of Liberty that she didn’t believe a word of my
explanation.
“I wish to discuss the situation with you frankly. I wish you to
believe that what I now say is absolutely true; and further, if you
will accept them, to place my services for what they are worth entirely
at your disposal. I would do anything to serve you and to atone in some
way for this deception of mine.”
“You ask me what is impossible,” she answered readily.
“You decline my assistance?”
“No; I cannot believe your explanation--your confession, as you termed
it. I cannot; oh, I cannot;” and she laughed and shook her head.
“I can only repeat it is the truth,” I said seriously.
“I will be very frank with you and show you how it strikes me. You act
it now quite as cleverly as you acted the Emperor last night. You will
recall your little slips into the Imperial character; your manner in
dealing with M. Boreski, and again with M. Drexel. Well, you find that
to go away from here would compel me to deal with the compromising
papers--and in that I was and am entirely in earnest; nothing can
move me--and then you think by admitting this deception you can gain
indirectly what you naturally want and cannot get directly--that is,
time. I speak very bluntly, I fear, but this is so much to me that I
must do so. And I tell you this second move has failed as signally as
your first last night. I ask you to retract your--confession, monsieur.”
“We seem to be getting deeper into the maze. What I have told you this
morning is the truth, mademoiselle.”
“I will put a test to you. Will you hear my story?”
“Yes, if you will pass me your word that you believe what I have said
this morning. I could not hear you last night, because I could not
accept your confidence in my false character of Emperor.”
“You agree and then put an impossible condition. You have an intimate
knowledge of the ways of the Russian Court and diplomacy. I ask again
then, what do you propose to do?”
“My intention was to go to the Emperor and gain for you the audience
you wish. I think I could do that.”
“And meanwhile the papers?”
“I hoped you would hold your hand at least until I had tried.”
“If the Emperor would not hear me in this house, what chance would
there be of his doing so elsewhere?”
“But I am not the Emperor, mademoiselle.”
“To me you are, monsieur, and will continue to be; so that if you leave
here, I shall assuredly do what I said.”
“Here we are at the _impasse_ again, then.”
“It is you who cause it,” she retorted.
“I can see no other way out of it than that I have suggested;” and as
she made no reply, we walked round and round the fountain in silence.
The silence was broken by the sound of a galloping horse, and presently
a man, top-booted and travel-stained, hurried from the house towards us.
“From M. Boreski, mademoiselle,” he said in Russian, handing her a
letter.
She tore it open, and a newspaper cutting dropped from it, which I
picked up and held out to her.
She read the letter quickly, started, paled slightly, and then glanced
at me, her expression a mixture of excitement and amusement.
“Will you read what you have there? It is from a paper just issued.”
I read it, and could not refrain from a smile on my part. It was very
short and ran as follows:--
“Slight indisposition of the Emperor.--We regret to learn at the
moment of going to press that His Majesty is suffering from a
slight chill, and, acting under medical advice, will remain in his
room to-day. We have the highest authority for saying that the
indisposition is very slight indeed, and at most will keep him
indoors for a couple of days. This announcement is necessary to allay
any anxiety on the part of the public owing to his inability to
review the troops in person to-day, as had been arranged. There is no
doubt, however, that he will entirely have recovered by the time of
the Crown Prince of Sweden’s visit three days hence.”
Helga was waiting for my eyes as I finished, and when she saw my smile,
answered with a lift of the brows.
“A singular coincidence, M. American?”
“More probably cause and effect. Prince Kalkov has told His Majesty,
and this is for your further mystification, and to prevent the
deception being discovered through the Emperor’s presence at the review
to-day.”
“Yes, I think with you there is cause and effect,” she answered. “Do
you still keep to your--confession?”
“It is the truth, mademoiselle.”
“I am afraid that you will find it as difficult to persuade others as
to persuade me. And in that lies the danger.”
Her face clouded, and she tapped the letter.
“Danger?”
“This is from M. Boreski, and concerns you closely. You must read it
for yourself. It is a further complication.”
A further complication it was in all seriousness, as a glance at the
letter showed me.
It threatened indeed just a devil of a mess.