COUNT ZAMOYSKI SLEEPS
A glimmer of wan daylight in the Count's bedroom troubled him while he
undressed and he drew the curtains with angry fingers. Down there in the
dismal streets the Cossacks watched the night-birds going home to bed
and envied them alike their condition and its consequences. If Sergius
rested a moment at the window, it was to mark the presence of these men
and to take heart at it. And this is to say that few who knew him in the
social world had any notion of the life he lived apart or guessed that
authority stood to him for his shield and buckler against the unknown
enemies his labors had created. Perhaps he rarely admitted the truth
himself. Light and laughter and music were his friends in so far as they
permitted him to forget the inevitable or to deride it.
Here in this room of eloquent shadows he was a different man indeed from
the fine fellow of the opera and the barracks--a haunted secret man
looking deep into the mysteries and weary for the sun. The brilliant
scene he had but just quitted could now be regretted chiefly because he
needed the mental anaesthetic with which society alone could supply him.
Pale and gaunt and inept in his movements, few would have recognized the
Sergius Zamoyski of the dressing-room or named him for the diplomatist
whose successes had earned the warmest encomiums of harassed authority.
Herein lay a testimony to his success which his bitterest enemy would
not have denied him. None knew better than he that the day of reckoning
had come for all who opposed revolution in Russia, none had anticipated
that day with a greater personal dread.
He closed the curtains, thankful that the Cossacks stood sentinels
without, and hungering for sleep which had been denied to him so often
lately. If he had any consolation of his thoughts, it lay in the
comparative secrecy of his present mission and the fact that to-day
would accomplish its purpose. The girl Lois had not confessed Richard
Gessner's secret and she would stand presently where confession would
not help her. As for this agreeable youth, who certainly had been her
lover, he must be coerced into silence, threatened, cajoled, bought.
Sergius remembered Alban's fine gospel of life and laughed when he
recalled it. This devotion to humanity, this belief in great causes,
what was it worth when a woman laughed and her rosy lips parted for a
kiss? The world is too busy for the pedants who would stem the social
revolution, was his argument--the rich men have too much to do to hide
their common frailties that they should put on the habits of the friars.
Let this hot gospeller acquire a fortune and he would become as the
others before a month had passed. The women would see to that--for were
not two of them already about the business?
He closed his curtains and undressed with a clumsy hand upon the buttons
and many a curse at the obstinate things. The intense silence of the
morning hour depressed him and he wondered that the hotel should sleep
so soundly. His own door was both locked and bolted--he had a pistol in
his travelling-bag and would finger it with grim satisfaction at such
moments as these. Hitherto he had owed much to his very bravado, to a
habit of going in and out among the people freely, and deriding all
politics as a fool's employment. Latterly he had been wondering how far
this habit would protect him, had made shrewd guesses at the truth and
had come to the stage of question. Yesterday's work helped him to
confirm these vague suspicions. How came it that Lois Boriskoff was able
to warn this young Englishman, why had she come immediately to his hotel
and followed him to the old quarters of the city? This could only mean
that her friends had telegraphed the information from London, that every
step of the journey had been reported and that a promising plan of
action had been decided upon. Sergius dreaded this more than anything
that could have happened to him. They will ask what share I had in it,
he told himself; and he knew what the answer to that must be. Let them
but suspect a hundredth part of the truth and he might not have twenty
hours to live.
It had been a splendid life so far and a sufficient atonement for the
dreaded hours apart. There in his own room he gave battle to the
phantoms by recalling the faces of the pretty women he had cajoled and
defeated, the houses of pride he had destroyed, the triumphs he had
numbered and the recompense he had enjoyed. To be known to none save as
a careless idler, to pass as a figure of vengeance unrecognized across
the continents, to be the idol of the police in three cities, to have
men running to and fro at his command though they knew not by whose
order they were sent, here was wine of life so intoxicating that a man
might sell his very soul to possess it. Sergius did not believe that
there was any need for such a bargain as this--he had been consistently
successful hitherto in eluding even the paltriest consequences of his
employment--but the dark hours came none the less, and coming, they
whispered a word which even the bravest may shudder to hear.
He slept but fitfully, listening for any sounds from the city without
and anxious for the hotel to awaken to its daily routine. The cooler
argument of the passing hour declared it most unlikely that any plan
would be ventured until Lois Boriskoff's fate were known and Alban had
visited her this morning. If there were danger to be apprehended, the
moment of it would arrive when the girl was arrested and the story of
Alban Kennedy's misadventure made known to her friends. Sergius began to
perceive that he must not linger an hour in Warsaw when this were done.
He could direct operations as easily from Paris or London as from this
conspicuous hotel, and with infinitely less risk to himself and his
empire. Sometimes he wondered that he had been so foolish as to enter
Russia at all. Why could he not have telegraphed to the Chief of the
Police to arrest the girl as soon as might be and to flog her into a
confession. The whip would have purchased her secret readily enough,
then the others could have been arrested also and Gessner left reassured
beyond question. Sergius blamed himself very much that he had permitted
a finer chivalry to guide his acts. "I came because this young man
persuaded me to come," he admitted, and added the thought that he had
been a fool for his pains.
This would have been about four o'clock of the morning. He slept a
little while upon it, but woke again at five and sat up in bed to mark a
step on the landing without and to ask himself who had the right to be
there at such an hour. When he had waited a little while, he came to the
conclusion that two people were approaching his door and making little
secret of their coming. Presently a knock informed him that he had
nothing whatever to fear; and upon asking the question "What do you
want?" a voice answered immediately, "From the bureau, your excellency,
with a letter." This he concluded to mean that the Chief of the Police
had some important news to convey to him and had sent his own messenger
to the hotel.
"Wait a moment and I will let you in," he replied, and asked, "I suppose
you can wait a little while?"
"It is very urgent, excellency--you had better open at once."
The Count sprang up from his bed and drew the curtains back from the
window. A warm glow of sunlight instantly suffused the cold room and
warmed it with welcome beams. Down there in the streets the Cossacks
still nodded upon patient horses as though no event of the night had
disturbed them. A drosky passed, driving an old man to the railway
station--there were porters at the doors of some of the houses and a few
wagons going down toward the river. All this Sergius perceived
instantly in one swift vision. Then he opened the door and admitted the
officer.
"There were two of you," he exclaimed, peering down the passage.
"It is true, excellency, myself and the night-porter, but he has gone to
sleep again."
"And you?"
"From the Chief, excellency, with this letter."
He held out a great square document, grotesquely sealed and carefully
folded. A small man with a pockmarked face, he wore the uniform of an
ordinary gendarme and aped that role to perfection. Saluting gravely, he
permitted the letter to pass from his hands. Then he closed the door and
leaned his back against it.
"I am to take an answer to the bureau, excellency."
The Count read a few lines of the document and looked up uneasily.
"You say that you were commanded to wake me up--for this?"
"Those are my orders."
"Zaniloff must have lost his wits--there was nothing else?"
The man took one stride forward.
"Yes," he cried in a low voice, "there was this, excellency."
* * * * *
Alban slept no better than his friend; in truth he hardly closed his
eyes until they waked him and told him of the tragedy. He had said
little to Sergius during the evening, but the perplexities of the long
day remained with him and were not to be readily silenced.
That his patron sent no reply to their urgent telegram he thought a
little strange. Mr. Gessner's silence could only mean that he had left
London suddenly, perhaps had set out to join them in Warsaw. Meanwhile
Alban perceived very clearly in what a position of danger Lois stood and
how difficult it would be to help her if others did not come to his
assistance.
Accustomed to regard all the Revolutionaries from the standpoint of the
wild creatures who talked nonsense in the East End of London, he could
not believe in old Herr Petermann's optimism or pay much attention to
the wild plan of escape he had devised. It must be absurd to think that
Lois could leave Poland disguised as a servant. Alban himself would
readily have recognized her in her disguise if he had been seeking her
at the time, and the police would very soon detect it when their minds
were set upon the purpose. In his own opinion, and this was shrewd
enough, their hope of salvation lay in Richard Gessner's frank
acceptance of the position. The banker had influence enough with the
Russian authorities to release both Lois and her father. He must do so
or accept the consequences of his obstinacy.
All this and much more was in Alban's head while he tossed restlessly
upon his strange bed and waited impatiently for the day. The oddest
fancies came to him, the most fantastic ideas. Now he would be living in
London again, a drudge at the works, the nightly companion of little
Lois, the adventurer of the streets and the slums. Then, as readily, he
would recall the most trifling incidents of his life in Richard
Gessner's house, the days of the miracles, the wonderful hours when he
had worshipped Anna Gessner and believed almost in her divinity. This
had been a false faith, surely. He knew now that he would never marry
Anna, and that must mean return to the wilderness, the bitter days of
poverty and all the old-time strife with circumstance. It would have
been easier, he thought, if those weeks of wonderland had never been.
Richard Gessner had done him no service--rich men rarely help those whom
they patronize for their own ends.
Alban thought of all this, and still being unable to sleep, he fell to
numbering the hours which stood between him and his meeting with Lois.
He was sure that she would be ready for him however early his visit
might be--and he said that he would ring for his coffee at seven o'clock
and try to go down to the river at eight. If there were no message from
Mr. Gessner before he left, he thought it would be wise to counsel
patience for this day at least. In plain truth he was less concerned
about the diplomatic side of the affair than the personal. An
overmastering desire for Lois' companionship, the wish to hear her
voice, to speak to her, to talk as they had talked in the dark days of
long ago, prevailed above the calm reckoning of yesterday. His
resolution to defeat Count Sergius at his own game seemed less heroic
than it had done twelve hours ago. Alban had conceit enough not to fear
the Count. That incurable faith in British citizenship still upheld him.
Seven had been the hour named by his intention--it was a little after
six o'clock when he heard a knock upon his bedroom door and started up
wondering who called him at such an hour.
"Who is there, what do you want?" he cried, with the bedclothes still
about his shoulders. No one answered this, but the knock was repeated, a
decisive knock as of one who meant to win admittance.
"All right, I will come in a minute," was now his answer; to which he
added the question--"Is that you, Count? Do you know it's only just six
o'clock?"
He opened the door and found himself face to face with the hotel valet,
an amiable young Frenchman by the name of Malette.
"Monsieur," said the man, "will you please come at once? There has been
an accident--his excellency is very ill."
"An accident to the Count? Is it serious, Malette?"
"It is very serious, monsieur. They say that he will not live. The
doctors are with him--I thought that you would wish to know
immediately."
Alban turned without a word and began to put on his clothes. His hands
were quite cold and he trembled as though stricken by an ague. When he
had found a dressing-gown, he huddled it on anyhow and followed Malette
down the corridor.
"When did this happen, Malette?"
"I do not know, monsieur. One of the servants chanced to pass his
excellency's door and saw something which frightened him. He called the
concierge and they waked the Herr Director. Afterwards they sent for the
police."
"Do they think that the Count was assassinated, then?"
"Ah, that is to find out. The officers will help us to say. Will you go
in at once, monsieur, or shall I tell the Herr Director?"
Alban said that he would go at once. The young fear to look upon the
face of death and he was no braver than others of his age. A terrible
sense of dread overtook him while he stood before the door and heard the
hushed whispers of those about it. Here a giant police officer had
already taken up his post as sentinel and he cast a searching glance
upon all who approached. There were two or three privileged servants
standing apart and discussing the affair; but a stain upon a crimson
carpet was more eloquent of the truth than any word. Alban came near to
swooning as he stepped over it and entered the room without word or
knock.
They had laid the Count upon the bed and dragged it to the window to
husband the light. Two doctors, hastily summoned from a neighboring
hospital, worked like heroes in their shirt sleeves--a nurse in a gray
dress stood behind them holding sponge and bandages. At the first
glance, the untrained onlooker would have said that Sergius Zamoyski was
certainly dead. The intense pallor of his face, the set eyes, the
stiffened limbs, spoke of the rigor mortis and the finality of tragedy.
None the less, the surgeons went to work as though all might yet be
saved. Uttering their orders in the calm and measured tones of those
whom no scene of death could unnerve, they were unconscious of all else
but the task before them and its immediate achievement. When they had
need of anything, they spoke to the Herr Director of the hotel who
passed on his commands in a sharp decisive tone to a porter who stood
at his heels. Near by him stood the Chief of the Police, Zaniloff, a
short burly man who wore a dark green uniform and held his sheathed
sword lightly in his left hand. These latter looked up when the door
opened, but the doctors took no notice whatever. There was an
overpowering odor of anaesthetics in the room although the windows had
been thrown wide open.
"Is the Count dead?" Alban asked them in a low voice. He had taken a few
steps toward the bed and there halted irresolute. "What is it, what has
happened, sir?" he continued, turning to Zaniloff. That worthy merely
shrugged his shoulders.
"The Count has been assassinated--we believe by a woman. The doctors
will tell us by and by."
Alban shuddered at the words and took another step toward the bed.
He felt giddy and faint. The words he had just heard were ringing
in his ears as a sound of rushing waters. "Has Lois done this
thing?"--incredible! And yet the man implied as much.
"I cannot stay here," he exclaimed presently, "I must go to my room, if
you please."
He turned and reeled from the place, ashamed of his weakness, yet unable
to control it. Outside upon the landing, he discovered that Zaniloff was
at his elbow and had something to say to him. Speaking sharply and
autocratically in the Russian tongue, that worthy realized almost
immediately that he had failed to make himself understood and so called
the Herr Director to his aid.
"They will require your attendance at the bureau," the Director said
with an obsequious bow toward Alban--"you must dress at once, sir, and
accompany this gentleman."
Alban said that he would do so. He was miserably cold and ill and
trembling still. Knowing nothing of the truth, he believed that they
were taking him to Lois Boriskoff and that she was already in custody.