THE MYSTERY OF A WOMAN
Who was M. Auguste?
This was the question that kept my mind busy after my singular
interview with the Russian Emperor.
In accordance with my rule to avoid as much as possible mentioning
the names of the humbler actors in the international drama, I have
given the notorious medium a name which conceals his true one.
He appeared to be a foreigner, and the Czar's weakness in this
direction was too well known for his patronage of the quack to excite
much attention; apparently it had occurred to no one but myself that
such a man might be capable of meddling in politics.
In his more public performances, so far as I could learn, the
revelations of the spirits were confined to more harmless topics,
such as the nature of the future state, or the prospect of an heir
being born to the Russian crown.
In my quest for further light on this remarkable personage, my
thoughts naturally turned to the Princess Y----.
I have not concealed that at our first meeting the charming
collaborator of M. Petrovitch had made a very strong impression on
me. Her subsequent conduct had made me set a guard on myself, and the
memory of the Japanese maiden whose portrait had become my cherished
"mascot," of course insured that my regard for the Princess could
never pass the bounds of platonic friendship.
But the strange scene of the day before had moved me profoundly.
Vanity is not a failing of which I am ever likely to be accused by my
worst detractor, yet it was impossible for me to shut my eyes or ears
to the confession which had been made with equal eloquence by the
looks, the blushes and even the words of the beautiful Russian.
Was ever situation more stupid in all the elements of tragedy! This
unhappy woman, spurred to all kinds of desperate deeds by the awful
fear of the knout, had been overcome by that fatal power which has
wrecked so many careers.
In the full tide of success, in the very midst of a life and death
combat with the man it was her business to outwit and defeat, she had
succumbed to love for him.
And now, to render her painful situation tenfold more painful, she
was holding the dagger at his breast as the only means of keeping it
out of the clutch of some more murderous hand.
Had I the pen of a romancer I might enlarge on this sensational
theme. But I am a man of action, whose business it is to record
facts, not to comment on them.
I sought the mansion on the Nevsky Prospect, and asked to see its
mistress.
Evidently the visit was expected. The groom of the chambers--if that
was his proper description--led me up-stairs, and into a charming
boudoir.
A fire replenished by logs of sandalwood was burning in a malachite
stove, and diffusing a dream-like fragrance through the chamber. The
walls of the room were panelled in ivory, and the curtains that hung
across the window frames were of embroidered silk and gold. Each
separate chair and toy-like table was a work of art--ebony, cinnamon,
and other rare and curious woods having been employed.
But the rarest treasure there was the mistress of all this luxury.
The inmate of the sumptuous prison, for such it truly was, lay back
on a leopard-skin couch, set in the frame of a great silver
sea-shell.
She had dressed for my coming in the quaint but gorgeous costume of
ancient Russia, the costume worn by imperial usage at high State
functions like coronations, weddings and christenings.
The high coif above her forehead flamed with jewels, and big, sleepy
pearls slid and fell over her neck and bosom.
At my entrance she gave a soft cry, and raised herself on one white
arm. I stepped forward as though I were a courtier saluting a queen,
and pressed my lips to her extended hand.
"I expected you, Andreas."
Only two women in my life have I ever allowed to call me by my
Christian name. One was the ill-starred lady who perished in the
Konak in Belgrade. The other--but of her I may not speak.
But it was not for me to stand on ceremony with the woman who had
interposed herself as a shield between me and the enemies who sought
my death.
"You knew that I should come to thank you," I said.
"I do not wish for thanks," she answered, with a look that was more
expressive than words. "I wish only that you should regard me as a
friend."
"And in what other light is it possible for me to regard you, dear
Princess?" I returned. "Only this friendship must not be all on one
side. You, too, must consent to think of me as something more than a
stranger whose life you have saved."
"Can you doubt that I have done so for a long time?"
It needed the pressure of the locket against my neck to keep me from
replying to this tenderly-spoken sentiment in a way which might have
led to consequences, for the Russian Empire as well as for the
Princess and myself, very different to those which have actually
flowed from our conjunction.
Conquering my impulses as I best could, I sought for a reply which
would not wear the appearance of a repulse.
"You misunderstand me," I said, putting on an expression of pride.
"You little know the character of Andreas V---- if you think he can
accept the humiliating position of the man who is under obligation to
a woman--an obligation which he has done nothing to discharge. Not
until I can tell myself that I have done something to place me on a
higher level in your eyes, can my thoughts concerning you be happy
ones."
A shade of disappointment passed over Sophia's face. She made a
pettish gesture.
"Does not--friendship do away with all sense of obligation?" she
complained.
"Not with me," I answered firmly. "No, Sophia, if you really care for
me--for my friendship-you must let me do what I have sworn to do
ever since I first saw you and heard some rumors of your tragic
story."
"You mean?"
"You must let me break your odious bondage. I can deliver you, if you
will only trust me, from the power of the Russian police, or any
other power, and set you free to live the life of fascination and
happiness which ought to be yours."
The Princess seemed plunged in meditation. At length she looked
up----
"You would undertake a hopeless task, my dear Andreas. Not even you
can fathom all the ramifications of the intrigues in which I find
myself an indispensable puppet. Those who control my movements will
never let go the strings by which they hold me, and least of all,
just now."
I was distressed to see that the Princess was disposed to evade my
appeal for confidence. I answered with a slightly wounded air:
"I may know more than you think, more even than you know yourself on
certain points. But of course you are not willing to confide in me
fully----"
"There can be no perfect trust without perfect"--The Princess, who
spoke this sentence in Russian, concluded it with a word which may
mean either friendship or love according to circumstances. As she
pronounced it, it seemed like love.
"There can be no perfect love without perfect trust," I responded
quickly, striving to assume the manner of an exacting lover.
And then, a happy thought striking me, I added in an aggrieved voice,
"Do you think it is nothing to me that you should be associated with
other men in the most secret enterprises, holding private conferences
with them, receiving them in your house, perhaps visiting them in
theirs; that you should appear to be on intimate terms with the
Grand Duke Staniolanus, with M. Petrovitch, with a man like this M.
Auguste----"
At the sound of this last name, to which I had artfully led up,
Sophia sprang into a sitting posture and gave me a look of anger and
fear.
"Who told you anything about M. Auguste?" she demanded in hoarse
tones. "What has he to do with me?"
"Nay, it is not you who ought to ask me that," I returned. "You may
be a believer in his conjuring tricks, for aught I know. He may be
more to you than a comrade, or even a prophet--more to you than I."
"Who told you that he was my comrade, as you call it?" the Princess
insisted, refusing to be diverted from her point.
"No one," I said quite truthfully. "I should be glad to know that he
was only that. But it is natural for me to feel some jealousy of all
your friends."
The Princess appeared relieved by this admission. But this relief
confirmed all my suspicions. I now felt certain that the medium was
an important figure in the plot which I was trying to defeat. I saw,
moreover, that however genuine my beautiful friend might be in her
love for me and her desire to save my life, she had no intention of
betraying the secrets of her fellow conspirators.
Her character presented an enigma almost impossible to solve. Perhaps
it is not the part of a wise man ever to try to understand a woman.
Her motives must always be mysterious, even to herself. It is
sufficient if one can learn to forecast her actions, and even that is
seldom possible.
"Then you refuse my help?" I asked reproachfully.
"You cannot help me," was the answer. "At least, that is, unless you
possess some power I have no idea of at present."
It was an ingenious turning of the tables. Instead of my questioning
the Princess, she was questioning me, in effect.
I made what was perhaps a rash admission.
"I am not wholly powerless, at all events. There are few sovereigns
in Europe whom I have not obliged at some time or other. Even the
German Emperor, though I have more than once crossed his path in
public matters, is my personal friend. In spite of his occasional
political errors, he is a stainless gentleman in private life, and I
am sure he would hear with horror of your position and the means by
which you had been forced into it."
Sophia looked at me with an expression of innocent bewilderment which
I could scarcely believe to be real.
"The German Emperor! But what has he to do with me?"
"He is said to have some influence with the Czar," I said drily.
My companion bit her lip.
"Oh, the Czar!" Her tone was scathing in its mixture of pity and
indifference. "Every one has some influence with the Czar. But is
there any one with whom Nicholas has influence?"
It was the severest thing I had ever heard said of the man whom an
ironical fate has made master of the Old World.
Suddenly the manner of the Princess underwent a sudden change.
She rose to her feet and gave me a penetrating glance, a glance which
revealed for the first time something of that commanding personality
which had made this slight, exquisite creature for years one of the
most able and successful of secret negotiators, and a person to be
reckoned with by every foreign minister.
"You do not trust me, Andreas V----. It is natural. You do not love
me. It is possible that it is my fault. But I have sworn to save your
life, and I will do it in your own despite. In order that I may
succeed, I will forget that I am a woman, and I will forget that you
regard me as a criminal. Come here! I will show you into my oratory,
into which not even my confidential maid is ever allowed to
penetrate. Perhaps what you will see there may convince you that I
am neither a traitor nor a Delilah."
With the proud step of an empress, she led the way into the adjoining
room, which was a bedroom sumptuously enriched with everything that
could allure the senses. The very curtains of the bed seemed to
breathe out languorous odors, the walls were hung with ravishing
groups of figures that might have come from a Pompeiian temple, the
dressing-table was rich with gold and gems.
Without pausing for an instant the mistress of the chamber walked
straight across it to a narrow door let into the farther wall, and
secured by a tiny lock like that of a safe.
Drawing a small key from her bosom, the Princess inserted it in the
lock, leaving me to follow in a state of the most intense
expectation.
The apartment in which I found myself was a narrow, white-washed cell
like a prison, lit only by the flames of two tall wax candles which
stood on a table, or rather an altar, at the far end.
Besides the altar, the sole object in the room was a wooden step in
front of it. Over the altar, in accordance with the rule of the Greek
Church, there hung a sacred picture. And below, between the two
candlesticks, there rested two objects, the sight of which fairly
took away my breath.
One was a photograph frame containing a portrait of myself--how
obtained I shall never know. The portrait was framed with
immortelles, the emblems of death, and the artist had given my face
the ghastly pallor and rigidity of the face of a corpse.
The other object on the altar was a small whip of knotted leather
thongs.
Without uttering a word, without even turning her head to see if I
had followed, the Princess Y---- knelt down on the step, stripped
her shoulders with a singular determined gesture, and then, taking
the knout in one hand, began to scourge the bare flesh.