THE SECRET STAIRCASE.
I HAD almost reached the foot of the Red Staircase, when some one
caught my cloak; turning, I was confronted by Peter Lykof’s servant
Michael. The man’s face was full of anxiety, and he drew close to me
before addressing me in Russian.
“You are watched,” he said in a low voice; “your life is in danger. My
master bade me warn you.”
“Where is your master?” I asked at once, marveling a little at the
rapidity with which Lykof had acquired the news.
“He will see you presently,” Michael replied, still mysteriously. “He
is not far away; but he, too, is threatened with danger.”
“I shall be glad to see him,” I said slowly, “and I thank you for the
warning. I can imagine that it may be a little difficult for me,” I
added, smiling, for I could not easily forget Viatscheslav’s look of
baffled fury, or the lowering eyes of Ramodanofsky.
“Be warned, your excellency,” the man protested nervously. “The Boyar
Vladimir Ramodanofsky never forgets an injury.”
I started. Could nothing be kept secret in Russia? How many were in my
confidence? I regarded the fellow with a feeling of anger. It seemed
to me that my affairs might as well be placarded on my back. Whether
he interpreted my expression or not I could not tell; but he drew
back, and saluting me respectfully, departed in the direction of the
Cathedral of Basil the Beatified.
I walked on, crossing the Red Place without meeting any one but an
equerry of Prince Galitsyn, who passed me with a courteous salutation;
and proceeding at a rapid gait, I went out at the Gate of the Redeemer,
and made directly for Dr. von Gaden’s house. I was extremely anxious
and disturbed. In some mysterious way, my connection with Zénaïde’s
flight was an open secret; the whole court, from the czarina and Prince
Galitsyn to the humblest gentleman-in-waiting, were acquainted with the
circumstance. I could scarcely hope, therefore, that her retreat would
remain undiscovered, in which case Von Gaden’s house would be but an
insecure asylum for her. I reflected anxiously upon the situation, and
could see only one course open; but nothing could be done without her
consent, and I felt that Sophia might not be strong enough to protect
Zénaïde at this juncture. If I had dared to ask her to marry me at that
time, I should have proposed flight to France, difficult and hazardous
as that would have been. I believed that it could be accomplished,
but I dared not approach her so abruptly; for although I hoped much,
I was not yet assured of her regard, and she was hedged in by the
training and usage that made a romantic courtship almost impossible.
Beset with these reflections, I made rapid progress, looking neither
to the right nor the left until I found myself at Von Gaden’s door. As
soon as I obtained admittance, I sent a message to Madame von Gaden,
requesting to speak with her guest, Mademoiselle Ramodanofsky, or with
Mademoiselle Eudoxie. In a few moments the physician’s wife came down
alone. Before I had time to repeat my request, she addressed me with an
unusually perturbed manner.
“I went myself with your message, M. le Vicomte,” she said anxiously,
“but I cannot obtain admittance. Your friends have bolted the only door
that communicates with the hall from their rooms, and they do not
reply to my repeated summons.”
Knowing that Mademoiselle Eudoxie was the last person in the world to
ignore her hostess, or treat her with discourtesy, I took alarm at once.
“Can anything have happened to them?” I exclaimed hastily.
“Impossible!” madame replied. “No one has disturbed us, or even
inquired for them, and they were well and composed when their breakfast
was served. There are three rooms, and they may have fallen asleep in
the one farthest from the hall. In no other way can I explain their
failure to respond to my calls.”
“If you will permit me, madame,” I said at once, “I will go with you to
the door. Mayhap I can make more noise, and rouse these fair sleepers.”
In my heart, I never thought that they were sleeping, but could see
no explanation of their silence. Madame von Gaden assented readily to
my proposal, and I followed her up the stairs. Arriving at the second
floor, she led me along a short hall to the right, and pausing before a
closed door, tapped on it lightly with her finger.
“These are the rooms, M. de Brousson,” she said, and I saw the
reflection of my own apprehension on her face. She stood aside, and I
knocked on the door, receiving no response. Then, thoroughly alarmed,
I took the hilt of my sword, and struck the panel with considerable
force. The blow echoed through the quiet house; but there was no
response from within, not the slightest movement. Madame had grown very
pale, and stood with her hand on her heart.
“Is there any other way of approaching these apartments?” I asked
abruptly.
She started violently, as if with a sudden recollection.
“The secret staircase!” she exclaimed at once, staring at me in blank
amazement.
“_Ma foi!_” I cried, pushed beyond all patience. “Explain yourself,
madame. This is a serious matter.”
“Alas!” she replied with equal excitement. “Do I not know it? But it is
impossible that any one should find the secret staircase from without,
and surely they would not go away themselves without informing us.”
“Either show me the staircase, madame,” I said, “or permit me to force
the door.”
“Force it by all means, monsieur,” she replied hastily; “it is the
shortest way. I wish that Dr. von Gaden had not gone out.”
I was too thoroughly alarmed to hesitate a moment longer, and forced
the lock as quickly as I could with the tools that madame had at hand.
When it gave way, we entered the anteroom, and crossing it, pushed
on into the bedrooms beyond. They were silent and deserted; there
were signs of recent occupation, but there was no one in either room.
Madame ran ahead of me, and passing into the farther apartment, went
to a curtained alcove, and pushing aside the hangings, uttered an
exclamation. Following her, I saw that she had uncovered a secret door,
a panel in the wall, and it was partially thrust aside. Without a word,
she ran for a light and preceded me through the narrow aperture, down a
crooked flight of stairs, evidently contrived to facilitate the escape
of the occupants of these rooms. As we went, she held the light low
down, that we might see the stairs, and I was forced to feel my way
cautiously, for they were irregular, and extremely steep. Half-way down
madame stopped and pointed, and seeing an object lying at her feet, I
stooped and picked up a veil, which I recognized at once as the one
worn by Zénaïde on the previous evening. This increased my alarm, and
we moved on more cautiously. At the foot of the stairs was a door which
was unlatched, and here madame stood aside, shielding her light from
the draught, while I opened the door and found myself in a subterranean
vault. A gust of air from the other side guided me to a half-opened
trap-door, which I lifted, and looked out into the lane behind Von
Gaden’s house. We had reached the end of our explorations, and it was
not difficult to draw conclusions. I looked out; but there was no sign
of any one, and on either side were the gray walls of the house and
court. Madame von Gaden stood by the cellar door, shielding her light;
neither of us had uttered a word, but each comprehended the other’s
thought. I felt that madame suspected that her mysterious guests had
departed of their own free will, while I knew that it could not be so,
unless there had been some deception used. In any case, no time could
be lost. I closed the trap, and madame, comprehending my conclusion,
turned and led the way up the stairs, this time stopping to search each
step with her light, but without result. Zénaïde’s veil, which was in
my hand, was the only proof that she had descended the secret stairs.
At the top I closed the panel, and madame, setting down the light,
looked about with a kind of nervous apprehension; it was evident that
she was terribly agitated and alarmed. If I had had any just cause to
doubt her loyalty or her husband’s, it would have been removed by her
manifest trepidation. I looked anxiously about the rooms, but there
were absolutely no signs of violence; it seemed as if Mademoiselle
Eudoxie and Zénaïde might have been quietly sitting there but a moment
since.
“Have you heard any sounds to alarm you?” I asked, thoroughly at sea.
She shook her head. “Not a sound,” she replied earnestly; “and it seems
impossible that any one has discovered that staircase. No one has known
of it but the doctor and myself, and the man who built it is dead. He
was a faithful German, and returned to his own country and died there
more than two years ago.”
“Yet it is evident that some one found the stairs,” I retorted a trifle
sharply, for I was sorely tried.
“Not from without,” she protested; “the fastenings were too secure.”
I had noticed this, and it had increased my perplexity. I went now to
the windows and looked out; two of them were on the main street, two
on the lane, but it was impossible for any one to scale that solid
wall and obtain entrance there. I saw that madame’s solution was the
most feasible, but nevertheless promptly rejected it; it was impossible
that these two women should secretly flee from the protection of the
good doctor; at such a time, besides, nothing could result from the
flight but certain disaster. Zénaïde’s quick mind would have rejected
such a plan as wholly impracticable, and mademoiselle was far too
timid to have either proposed or sanctioned it. I was at my wits’ end,
and madame was far too obstinate in her opinion to suggest any other
solution of the problem, although she assisted me readily enough in
making a thorough search of the rooms for any sign or token which
might explain the motive or the cause of the strange disappearance.
Remembering that Ramodanofsky and Viatscheslav were at the palace when
I arrived there, and that I had left them there when I departed, I
questioned madame about the hour at which breakfast had been served
to her guests, and found that they had eaten it while I was at the
Kremlin; therefore their departure had not only been recent, but had
not been accomplished by Ramodanofsky or Naryshkin, in person at least.
This, while it was perplexing, was also reassuring. I should have been
glad of Von Gaden’s presence and counsel; but he had not yet returned,
and I could think of no better assistant than Pierrot.
I went to my own quarters in a state of great perturbation; my anxiety
was of the liveliest, and in addition, I saw that my position was
becoming hourly more difficult. I cared for nothing at this time,
however, except for Zénaïde’s safety. On my way to my house, I hit upon
a plan for obtaining information, and as soon as I reached there, took
Pierrot into my confidence, and together we considered the advisability
of carrying out my scheme. Pierrot, doubtless suspecting how matters
stood, showed even more than his usual devotion to my interests. The
fellow was faithful, and when fully aroused, clever enough to be an
able assistant. I congratulated myself again and again on my own
sagacity in having had him instructed in Russian, for his knowledge of
the language was invaluable to me now; it made possible the successful
execution of my scheme. He disguised himself as a messenger from
Naryshkin, so as to gain admittance into the Ramodanofsky house; for it
was necessary for me to be assured that Zénaïde and her companion were
not incarcerated there; moreover, it was probable that, in any case,
he could pick up valuable information among the serfs. There was very
little risk that he would be recognized, and I could rely implicitly
on his skill in extricating himself from any ordinary difficulty. But,
hopeful as I was of this adventure, it was barren of results. Pierrot
obtained admission to the house without trouble, and managed to make a
thorough investigation, easily satisfying himself that neither Zénaïde
nor mademoiselle was there; and further, he was sure that the servants
had no knowledge of their fate, unless it were the man Polotsky, who
seemed to enjoy a position of confidence, and was too thoroughly
disliked and distrusted by his fellow-servants to share his secrets
with them. Pierrot was plainly disappointed by the unfruitfulness of
his mission, and I was in a state of desperation. I thought of a dozen
expedients, but rejected them all as impossible; on every hand I was
confronted by a blank wall. Although I was convinced that Zénaïde had
been spirited away by some one against her will, there was no proof
that she had not left Von Gaden’s house voluntarily, regretting her
confidence in me. Clearly, I had no right to pursue her in her flight,
and no authority upon which to base an appeal to the Czarevna Sophia,
who seemed my only resource.
In the midst of these reflections, Pierrot announced the arrival of two
visitors, and hoping for tidings of some sort, I went at once to see
them. They were Dr. von Gaden and Peter Lykof. I was surprised to see
the latter, but remembering the warning in the Kremlin, greeted him
with cordiality; I intended to excuse myself to him, however, and speak
alone to the Jew about the disappearance of Zénaïde, but Von Gaden
forestalled me by speaking plainly before Lykof, which astonished and
annoyed me.
“Have you any news of Mademoiselle Ramodanofsky?” he asked hastily. “Is
there any sign of them, or of their probable fate?”
I looked at Lykof, and the doctor, seeing my glance, smiled.
“Speak without reserve,” he said at once; “we are all friends.”
But Lykof came forward.
“M. le Vicomte is right,” he said, with a dignity of manner that made
his tall figure suddenly imposing. He stood in the center of the room,
the light full on his scarred cheek and broad brow and keen eyes,--a
man of iron.
“I owe you, at least, the truth, M. de Brousson,” he said slowly; “no
one has a better right to inquire into the fate of Zénaïde than I, for
I am her father, Feodor Sergheievitch Ramodanofsky.”