VLADIMIR'S WELCOME.
It was winter once more, and the gay Russian capital had returned to its
round of festivities and merry-makings.
The Imperial family were in residence at the Winter Palace, and the long
_salon_ resounded nightly to the laughter and jests of the Court circle.
Not a cloud apparently marred the harmony and well-being of Petersburg.
All without was bright and brilliant; the sun shone on the dazzling
snow, the merry sleigh-bells rang out on the frosty air, and the Nevski
arcades were thronged with richly-dressed _mondaines_, who laughed and
chatted, and tossed over the costly trifles in the Circassian shop with
careless fingers. Within were ease and comfort and luxury; huge fires of
keen-scented woods, heavy draperies to shut out the shrewd air, and
respectful attendants to minister to the most wilful caprice.
But beyond and below all this brave assumption of security, there lay
hidden a terrible passionate hate. Slowly, slowly, the patient masses of
that under world had wakened to the consciousness of their wrongs, and
with the bitter knowledge of contrast came the thirst for compensation;
the burning desire to throw off the hand that had so long oppressed
them, the yoke that had galled for centuries.
"What maketh us to differ?" was the cry of thousands; and, with the
wording of the dumb misery that had held them silent so long, there
awoke also the craving for vengeance. "How long," went up the cry to
heaven, "how long, O Lord, shall the wicked oppress us?" And in the
pause that ensued between petition and answer, pleasure was stalked by
blood-red fear, and distrust kept pace with merriment.
The Countess Vera had opened the season by a grand _bal costumé_, in the
huge palace of her name. It was the maddest of all the little Countess's
mad freaks, for her guests were to come attired as beasts of the forest,
the chase, and the field. Grizzlies from the Rockies elbowed white
lambs, elephants and camelopards hob-nobbed with pussy-cats and fawns,
while tigers and wolves flirted tentatively with rabbits and red
squirrels.
The Countess, in a delightful white-cat costume, with diamond eyes and
jewelled paws, was the life and soul of the revels; flying hither and
thither, her little feet in their white fur boots treading as lightly as
her namesake, and startling more than one king of the forest by the
sharp tap of a little fur paw, and the merry smile beneath the
pussy-head that covered her giddy little brain.
It was during one of these frolicsome onslaughts that she caught sight
of Ivor Tolskoi's fresh face and yellow locks, looking ridiculously out
of keeping under the heavy disguise of a polar bear. She ran up to him
lightly, and stood before him laughing, a tiny figure set against his
feet and inches.
"Oh, my brave Ursa Major!" she exclaimed, "what a beautiful fierce
creature you are, to be sure! I am quite frightened to look at you."
Ivor glanced down at her smiling, but he failed to toss back her jesting
words with an equally quick repartee.
The little Countess laughed and shook her head, until the diamond eyes
in the pussy-cat mask danced with a thousand reflections.
"Oh, what a cross Ursa Major it is!" she cried, "and all because of
_some one_ who is not here, and who will not come." Then she came a step
nearer, and, dropping her bantering tone, said quickly: "I am sorry for
your disappointment, _mon cher_, but it is one of the prerogatives of
beauty, to be fickle. She would, and she would not, and the latter, you
see, won the day. Olga Naundorff has declined to honour my ball with her
presence. But is that a matter of such grave importance to you? Ah, I
see, it is the old story; he who has most, always craves more. You are
not satisfied with having won the Court favourite, even to the naming of
the wedding day, but you must be miserable because she is not always
present to swell your triumph! Be content, my dear boy, you _have_ won
her, and broken Vladimir Mellikoff's heart, that ought to suffice; and
after you are married, you can force her to attend any and all kinds of
festivities."
Ivor did not respond to this pleasant outlook, and Vera, with a mutinous
grimace, continued, banteringly:
"For my part, my sympathies all go out to that most unfortunate Count
Mellikoff. Only to think of what he has come to! So established as he
was in the Emperor's regard, so esteemed by the Chancellerie; such a
diplomatist and courtier, so distinguished and beyond reproach. And now,
behold, where is he? Poof! he is but a feather, blown about by each
contrary wind of prejudice. A failure, a fallen idol, a suspect. Bah, I
would rather die than be a failure! Be content, _mon cher_, be content;
you are on the crest of the wave, don't spoil your success by a fit of
the sulks."
Then she laughed again, and shook her fan of soft white feathers at him,
and fluttered off to a sedate elephant, whose thin cheeks and eagle eyes
beneath the grotesque head-gear, betrayed him to be a certain State
minister, whose word was law, whose smile power.
"Such a foolish boy I never saw," cooed the Countess Vera in the
statesman's ear, "as that Ivor Tolskoi. Not contented with ruining
Vladimir Mellikoff, and winning the lady of his affections, he mopes
because, forsooth, she is not here to illustrate his triumph. Youth is
very hard and illogical, monsieur; it takes older heads and hearts to
be merciful." And the little Countess sighed profoundly.
"Ah," she said, suddenly, "my heart is all in tune with the fallen
Mellikoff. I wonder, monsieur, what is to be the nature of his
punishment, and what his--destination?"
But the wary minister was not to be caught even by Vera's casuistry.
"Punishment is so entirely a relative matter," he replied. "I, for
instance, can imagine no severer sentence, no more desolate outlook than
to be shut away for ever from the light and sweetness of the Countess
Vera's presence."
"A thousand thanks," she answered quickly. "I appreciate your chivalry,
monsieur; but when one adds the mines, or a casemate in Petropavlovsk,
to the lesser evil--what then?"
"Neither are to be desired, madame," he replied, gravely, "and neither
can ever come within the experience of the Countess Vera. The mines,
and Petropavlovsk, are for those who betray, or mock at, Russia; not for
loyal subjects of his Majesty."
"Loyalty is such a very big word," sighed the Countess flippantly; and
then she flew away with a laughing gesture. But to herself she said:
"I know your destination now, my poor friend. I back a woman's wits
against a statesman's imperturbability. Alas! poor Vladimir!"
It was as the Countess Vera had said. Ivor Tolskoi had triumphed beyond
his most sanguine hopes. Olga was now his formally betrothed bride, and
the marriage day was in the immediate future.
With the arrest of Adèle Lallovich in Petersburg, came the downfall of
Mellikoff's mission, and the ruin of all his cleverly-laid schemes. He
would reach Russia only to find his disgrace had preceded him, and only
to find distrust and displeasure on every side. He too well knew the
nature of Russia's resentment, to strive to stem the current that set so
steadily against him.
It was worse than useless to expect such a thing as justice, at the
hands of the Chancellerie, or to look for condonement from the Council.
He had not only failed, but he had bungled, and in so doing had opened
the flood-gates of public opinion upon the Imperial policy. Russia never
forgave inefficiency, still less inefficiency that brought ridicule in
its wake. He knew this, and he knew also that his disgrace was imminent.
Still he clung to Patouchki, to his belief in the chief's calm equipoise
of judgment. He could endure a public expression of disgrace, if only
Patouchki absolved him from intentional failure.
And then, too, was not Olga awaiting him? He had done nothing to
alienate her love; she stood far above and beyond the lesser prejudices
of political intrigue and jealousy. He was still her lover. What
mattered anything so long as he had Olga to cling to; Olga's love and
trust for his haven of refuge? He would marry her at once, and take her
away, out of the foetid artificial air of Petersburg, out of the
network of personal envy and political stratagem, to those wide,
far-reaching estates on the Balkan frontier, and there they would be
free and untrammelled, removed from the narrow suspicions and cruel
dogmatism of the Court.
And so planning, hoping, believing, Vladimir Mellikoff turned his face
towards Petersburg. He lingered on his homeward journey, hoping against
hope at each halt to receive more pacific communications from the
Chancellerie; and thus when at last he reached the Russian capital, the
first month of the long Muscovite winter was already on the wane. He
drove to his lonely palace on the Neva, where the dark windows and
barred doors afforded but a sorry welcome.
It was a dreary home-coming, and Vladimir, as he crossed the threshold
and met the cold, damp atmosphere of long-closed and disused rooms,
shrank back shuddering. Unsuperstitious though he was, he could not
throw off the chill of apprehension which seized him, as he entered the
echoing corridor and passed on to a small drawing-room, that served as
study and office.
A fire smouldered in the stove, and the curtains were closely drawn,
giving a less cheerless aspect to the apartment. A couple of candles in
tall silver sticks were lighted on the chimney shelf, and beneath them
were arranged the numerous notes and cards of invitation that had
accumulated during his absence. Somewhat apart from these lay a small
sealed envelope, addressed in a clear, flowing hand.
Vladimir glanced over the notes and cards, holding in his hand the while
the huge ticket, covered with a Noah's Ark gallery, by which the
Countess Vera had invited her friends to her unique _bal costumé_. With
a half smile on his lips, called out by the little Countess's vagaries,
Vladimir caught sight of the note lying apart by itself, and in a moment
his heart told him who was the sender.
"It is from Olga," he murmured passionately, as he took it up and
touched it with his lips. "It is from Olga; it is my welcome home."
Then he broke the seal and drew forth the thick, creamy paper; as he did
so a slight, subtle perfume floated across the air.
It was a short letter; brief almost to cruelty. But when one deals a
death-blow, it is as well to strike swift and sure.
Vladimir read the words through, again and again, without comprehension,
without understanding; and then, suddenly, as their meaning struck him,
one low and terrible cry burst from him; he flung himself down on his
knees, burying his face in his hands. The letter floated slowly from his
grasp and fell noiselessly upon the carpet, the distinct careful
penmanship plainly visible in the candlelight.
"Vladimir," the lines ran, "I never forgive or forget treachery or
failure. You have failed, and you are a traitor. Knowing this, you
must also realise that all is over for ever between you and
"OLGA NAUNDORFF."
That was all. No word of regret, no expression of sorrow, no hint of
personal grief and pain.
Simply he had failed: failure was a sin never to be condoned by Mdlle.
Naundorff. It was shipwreck utter and entire--shipwreck without a chance
or hope of rescue. He knew it, he realised it, as perfectly as though
Olga had stood before him in her proud beauty, and spoken the cruel
words in her sweet, cold voice.
What was death compared to this agony of loss that overwhelmed him?
What was life--oh, God! what could life be without Olga?
How long he knelt there he never knew. The hours crept on long past
midnight, the great house was silent as a tomb. Outside, the stars shone
in myriad numbers, lighting the cold, dark heavens with thousands of
fairy lamps. The snow lay dense and white, stretching miles away, in
unbroken masses along the Neva's banks.
Presently the cathedral chimes struck the quarter, and the _miserere_
bells followed with their minor chant, "Have mercy upon me, O Lord, have
mercy upon me."
As the last note died away Vladimir arose; and with the change of
attitude he became aware of a stealthy, muffled sound--a sound that came
ever nearer and nearer; and that was neither the sweeping up of the
wind, nor the jangle of bells, but a sliding, creaking noise, as of two
smooth surfaces in friction.
A low exclamation escaped him, a look of horror crept over his dark
face. For a moment he stood as if paralysed, then he moved suddenly,
with soft, quick steps, towards one of the heavily-draped windows.
The stealthy, creaking noise had ceased.
He cautiously drew back a corner of the heavy curtain and peered out.
All was still and silent; a great field of glistening snow, with the
dull swish of the Neva against its banks. Was he mistaken? Had he not
heard aright? For a moment the wild beating of his heart threatened to
overpower him, then as suddenly it grew still.
Drawn up within the shadow of the deep _porte-cochère_, standing out
black and distinct against the white background, stood a covered
droschky; the horses' flanks steaming in the chill air, the lamps
carefully shaded. A figure stood beside the vehicle, wrapped in a heavy
coat and peaked fur cap; where the folds of the coat opened a gleam of
steel was visible.
Vladimir dropped the curtain and came back to the centre of the room.
"It has come," he said in a half whisper. "It is my turn at last. I, who
have gloried in Russia's stern vengeance, am I to feel her power now?"
Then his eye caught the open letter on the carpet.
He picked it up, touching it half-tenderly.
"How little it matters to me, now!" he said. "But you, Olga, shall be
freed from all reproach, and no one shall ever know that it is through
you the heaviest disgrace of all has come upon me. That much I can still
spare you."
He looked at the signature she had written with so firm a hand--Olga
Naundorff--"Good-bye," he said again, "good-bye."
He pressed his lips to her name, then held the paper in the candle-flame
with a steady hand, and watched it burn slowly, slowly.
As the last bit fell from his fingers and fluttered down to the little
heap of ashes on the velvet mantel-shelf, the door opened without
noise, and two men stepped within the room.
Vladimir turned and faced them. The foremost spoke quietly, and without
menace or threat.
"Count Vladimir Mellikoff, you are arrested in the name of the Emperor.
Long live the Tsar."
Vladimir bowed, and a smile for one moment passed over his dark face.
"I am ready, gentlemen," he said, and turning, took up his heavy coat
and cap of sables.
In the meantime the second intruder had crossed the room, attracted by
the faint odour of burnt paper. He fingered the little pile of ashes
suspiciously. Again Vladimir smiled.
"A burnt-out passion, monsieur," he said, "a discarded love-letter. That
is all; nothing in any way interesting to the Chancellerie--or, its
agents."
Then he put on the heavy furred coat and signified his readiness to
depart.
A moment later the three dark figures were lost in the shadowy interior
of the waiting droschky, and the curious scraping noise of steel runners
upon frozen snow began again.
As one of his captors leant forward to give a last instruction to the
officer without, a gleam from the shaded lamp fell across the face
beneath the high-peaked hat; in it Vladimir recognised the boyish
contour and innocent blue eyes of Ivor Tolskoi.
The heavy equipage moved on, and as the hour of dawn struck from the
great cathedral clock, and the chimes clashed out triumphantly the
liturgical chant, "How glorious is our Lord in Zion," Vladimir Mellikoff
stood a prisoner, within a nameless casemate of the impregnable fortress
of Petropavlovsk.