THE PRINCESS TARAKANOVA

THE PRINCESS TARAKANOVA.

“The only art her guilt to cover,

To hide her shame from every eye,

To give repentance to her lover,

And wring his bosom—is to die.”

THE
PRINCESS TARAKANOVA

A Dark Chapter of Russian History

TRANSLATED FROM THE RUSSIAN
OF
G. P. DANILEVSKI
BY
IDA DE MOUCHANOFF

WITH FOUR PORTRAITS

New York
MACMILLAN & CO.
LONDON: SWAN SONNENSCHEIN & CO.

CONTENTS.

INTRODUCTION.

Gregory Petrovitch Danilevski was born at Danilovki, an estate in the government of Kharkov, on April 14th, 1829. He died last winter at St. Petersburg, on December 6th. His childhood over—it was spent partly on the estate of his grandfather, near Dontsov, partly on the estate of Petrovski—he became a student first of the Muscovite Institute for the nobility, afterwards of the University of St. Petersburg, leaving the latter, in 1850, as graduate in jurisprudence. In 1848, during his studentship, he was presented with a silver medal at the meeting of the Philological Institute for his composition on Poushkin and Kriloff.

From 1850 to 1857 he served in the ministry of public instruction, at first under Noroff, afterwards under Prince Viazimski. During this period he visited Finland and the Crimea, and worked, by commission from the Archæological Society, on the archives of the monasteries of the governments of Kharkov, Koursk, and Poltava, and, at the suggestion of the historian Oustrialoff, wrote a description of the famous battlefield of the last-named place. In 1856, at the instance of the Imperial admiral, Constantine Nicolaievitch, he was sent to the south of Russia to write a description of the Sea of Azov, the Dnieper, and the Don. In the following year he resigned his official appointment. Thereafter, for twelve years, he lived at Petrovski, his own favourite estate in Kharkov, from time to time, however, paying visits to Poland, White Russia, Volhynie, and Podolia, and sailing down the Volga, Don, and Dnieper. Made in 1859 deputy of the committee of Kharkov for improving the condition of the peasantry, he was instructed four years later, by Golovinin, the minister of public instruction, to inspect and to report on the condition of 200 national schools in the government of Kharkov. During the first three years of the establishment of the rural police courts he served by election. Despatched to St. Petersburg in 1868 as a deputy by the government of Kharkov, he had the honour of being presented to the emperor. From 1867 to 1870 he held the post of honorary justice of the peace. Finally, in 1869, on the institution of the official organ, “The Government Herald,” he was appointed senior assistant to the chief editor. This post he occupied eleven years.

His historical novels have created quite a sensation in Russia by reason of their originality, their fascination, and their truthfulness to history and to nature. Among the more celebrated of his numerous works, besides the novel of which a translation is here presented, are “Merovitch” and “Freedom.” As Danilevski has, hitherto, been unknown in England, some remarks on his writings will be of interest.

With regard to the sad history contained in this book, it is evident that the author had exceptional information on the subject of his narrative, for he is not over-careful to conceal his opinion of the strong probability of the Princess Tarakanova’s claims being legitimate as well as bonâ-fide, and of Orloff’s real character being greatly different from the popular estimate of it as expressed in the lines under the count’s portrait. It is not known how the remarkable diary which constitutes Part I. of this work came into Danilevski’s hands; but there is ground for the conjecture that it came to him, with other papers, from his grandmother. A curious fact, too, is the circumstance that Danilevski’s governess was a lady of the name of Pchelkina. However this may be, my husband, Colonel de Génie de Mouchanoff, was informed by Danilevski himself that the diary as published is almost word for word as written by Konsov, and that the details concerning the subsequent history of the captive were obtained by him from authentic official documents.

Nevertheless, Danilevski’s view is not the popular one. Schébalski and Solovieff in dealing with this subject write as follows:—

“When Russia was involved in the war with Turkey some evil-minded persons availed themselves of the opportunity to bring forward pretenders to the throne. They set rumours afloat to the effect that Elizabeth, after her secret marriage with Count Razoumovski, had a daughter, and that this child was she who was known by the name of Princess Tarakanova.

“The adventures of this Pretender form a very interesting page in Russian history, and have given rise to many novels and tales. They have now, however, lost much of their mysterious interest, thanks to the extracts printed from the procés of Princess Tarakanova, not long since published in one of our historical reviews. Still, it is an ascertained fact that the Princess spent several of the years of her youth abroad, and that she led a luxurious though retired life. Very likely the tie between this person and the Russian Empress may have been known to political intriguers, and have suggested to them the idea of using this Pretender as an instrument for raising a revolution in Russia. There is every reason to believe that Prince Radzivill, the leader of the confederation of Radomski, educated a young girl with this object in view; but whether this girl became the future Tarakanova, or some other person, is to this day, and most probably will remain eternally, unknown.

“What is really ascertained is that a young girl of very humble origin, a native of Prague or Nuremburg, endowed with the most marvellous beauty, clever and enterprising, but of extremely equivocal conduct, shone from the end of the year 1760 till the beginning of 1770 at Berlin, London, and Paris, lavishly spending on her dress and pleasures the money which she had levied on her admirers. With every new residence she changed her name. In Paris she was the “Princess Wladimirskaya,” a native of Russia, but brought up, it was said, in Persia, as mischief was feared at the hands of her enemies in Russia, where, so she alleged, she had great possessions. We are bound, indeed, to believe that her charms were extraordinary; for notwithstanding her conduct, several highly placed personages, in both France and Germany, sought her hand. One of these was actually a reigning Prince of the German Empire. In 1773, the mysterious adventuress was on the point of accepting the hand of this prince, but postponed the matter under pretence of starting for Russia to arrange her affairs, and then suddenly disappeared. In the spring of 1774 she turned up at the other side of Europe—at Venice.

“It was then that her political rôle really began. As early as 1773 she had had relations with several Poles, who had left their native land shortly after the conspiracy of Baski, and it is not unlikely that it was at this time that the programme of her future actions was arranged. The Princess Wladimirskaya was to take the name of the “Princess Tarakanova,” set sail for Constantinople on a ship which Radzivill had offered to equip, and there explain to the Sultan her pretensions to the Russian throne. It was evidently the opinion of her advisers that her appearance on the Danube at the very moment when Pougachoff was raising a rebellion on the Volga would increase the difficulties of Ekaterina’s position, and would be taken advantage of by Turkish politicians. As a matter of fact, in the summer of 1774, the Princess Tarakanova and Prince Radzivill, accompanied by a numerous suite, did set sail for Constantinople. But they stopped at Ragusa, wishing to ascertain beforehand what kind of reception they were likely to meet with at the hands of the Sultan. Unfortunately for them, great changes had taken place. The overtures of the Princess were not only declined: she was even invited to give up all thought of her visit.

“Separated from Radzivill, but not from her political rôle, the Princess went first to Naples and then to Rome. At the latter city she tried to bring to her side all the most influential cardinals, and even the Pope himself, promising that in the event of her accession to the throne she would do all in her power to establish the Catholic faith in Russia.

“During all these péripéties Count Orloff Chesmenski was, as we all know, in Italy. Of course he lost no time in writing full particulars concerning the false Tarakanova to Ekaterina, from whom he received orders to steal the Pretender, and so cut off the intrigue at the very outset. Orloff surrounded the Princess with spies, and, through his emissaries, tried to inspire her with confidence in himself. The words of the emissaries seemed very credible to the Princess. Gregory Orloff was then in disgrace, and it would be no very unlikely circumstance if his brother turned into a secret enemy of the empress, and joined in the intrigue. Orloff placed boundless credit at her disposition; and by giving himself out as a man deeply outraged by the government, persuaded the “Countess Selinski,” as the Princess then called herself, to come to a rendezvous with him at Pisa. Here he surrounded her with all possible homage. Balls and fêtes succeeded each other in swift succession. He made believe to fall in with her plans, and eventually offered her his hand. Nevertheless, he was only awaiting an opportunity to arrest her, without causing any scandal. He had not long to wait. One day the Countess Selinski expressed a wish to visit the Russian squadron, then stationed at Livorno. Orloff gave orders for preparations to be made for a magnificent reception of the countess, and arranged splendid naval manœuvres. He himself, with her suite, accompanied her on board the man-o’-war. The manœuvres began; the cannon fired; sails were unfurled; the ships sailed out into the open sea; and the unfortunate Pretender, at the end of a journey, found herself shut up in the fortress of Petersburg. Here, it is said, she languished till 1776, when she was drowned by the rushing of the waters into her prison. But this is not true. Historical documents prove that she died of the same illness from which she was suffering when she came to Russia, and which, of course, made rapid strides during her confinement in the damp dungeon.”

Remarkable as is “The Princess Tarakanova,” it is not regarded in Russia as so fine a work as “Merovitch.” This work has attracted universal attention, for it describes one of the most interesting epochs of Russian history. The mysterious and melancholy account of the unfortunate prince-martyr, the victim of troublous times, is all the more interesting as it is founded on historical documents. Written with great entrain and truthfulness, the novel on its publication created quite a sensation. It originally appeared in 1875, under the title, “The Imperial Prisoner” but its sale was prohibited. In 1879 it was again printed, by order of the emperor.

“The whole canvas of the novel,” says Danilevski, “such as the life and infatuation of Merovitch, the customs and manners of the period, many details of the reign of Ekaterina and the attempt of Merovitch, are taken from the diary and reminiscences of my great-grandmother, and of my grandmother, who was Fräulein at the court of Peter III. Many things I took down from the lips of my uncle, the eldest son of my father’s mother,—a born Rosslavleff, who, together with Orloff, as every one knows, played so conspicuous a part in the Coup-d’État which placed Ekaterina on the throne. But in all that belongs to history, I have, of course, strictly adhered to authentic documents from the Imperial archives. I have also had access to the archives of the citadel of Schlusselburg, to the official documents of the council of Archangel, and I have visited the celebrated dungeon of the unfortunate Prince Johann Antonovitch, and the birthplace of ‘Merovitch.’”

“Merovitch” is thus a detailed account of the Coup-d’État which placed Ekaterina on the throne of Russia, and of the conspiracy and attempt to put Johann Antonovitch on the throne, which was his by right.

An officer named Merovitch penetrated into the citadel above referred to, and hoping to surprise the sentinels and throw them off their guard, read a proclamation, trusting to be able in the confusion to facilitate the escape of the unfortunate prince. But long before strict orders had been given (it is supposed by Ekaterina) that at the first attempt at escape on the part of the prince he was to be killed on the spot. This command was strictly carried out. When Merovitch entered the prince’s cell, he found only the dead body of the unfortunate martyr.

Ekaterina II. plays so important a part in the events described in these novels that some particulars of her life and character may not be out of place.

She was born in the year 1729, at Stettin. Her father, a general in the Prussian service, and the governor of this town, inherited by the death of his cousin, the Prince of Zerbst, a small principality, situated on the borders of the Elbe, between Prussia and Saxony.

Her mother came of the house of Holstein. Princess Sophie Augusta of Anhalt-Zerbst was therefore distantly related to her future husband. She came over to Russia in her fourteenth year with her mother, and was at once instructed in the Russian faith and tongue. The following year, 1745, having been baptized into the Greek faith under the name of Ekaterina Alexéevna, she was united to the heir of the Russian empire.

Her husband on his accession to the throne excited the discontent of the nation by publishing a great number of ukases, which, although in themselves most humane and wise, yet, owing to the uncivilized state of Russia, were in their nature far too premature. Above all, he outraged the national feeling by the treaty which he concluded with Prussia on April 24th, 1762, by which Russia returned to Prussia all forts, citadels, and towns taken in the last war. His Imperial Highness wished, it was said, to give to the world an example of abnegation and generosity. It was a marvellous event; but although nations like to see in their sovereigns high moral qualities, they also desire that advantages for which they have worked hard and shed their blood should not be wholly thrown away. By this one act Peter III. raised the whole nation against him.

Ekaterina, his consort, had won a great many adherents by her beauty, grace, and accomplishments, and many true friends among the nobility. Exceedingly ambitious, she had—with the view, as we may suppose, of one day ascending the throne—made herself thoroughly well acquainted with Russian legislation and European politics; and being as deeply devoted as her husband was profoundly indifferent to the Greek Church and its ceremonies and symbols, and having in this way established herself in the affections of the Russian peasantry—so superstitiously reverential to their Church,—she found it no difficult matter to supplant her less capable and unpopular partner. He, as is well known, not only ill-used her, but was unfaithful to her. Indeed, it was rumoured that the fate of the unfortunate Princess Eudoxie (who had been forced to take the veil) was awaiting her. Her successor was even named—viz., the niece of the chancellor Vorontzoff, a woman who, as all contemporary writers say, was not only ugly and deformed, but also most insignificant and illiterate. Meanwhile, Ekaterina’s conduct had been wholly irreproachable. She was then at Peterhoff, leading a most retired life, but sometimes meeting her adherents, especially the two Orloffs, and the Princess Dashkoff.

The Coup-d’État was to have taken place on June 29th, at the patronal fête of the emperor; but the arrest of Passek, captain of the regiment of Préobrajenski, together with the order given to the army to march against Denmark, brought about the crisis. Rumours had been set afloat that the empress was in danger. The guards, who were all devoted to the empress—40 officers and about 10,000 privates—noisily demanded to be sent to Oranienbaum, to the defence of their beloved empress. One of the privates rushed to Captain Passek, exclaiming that the empress was in danger, that an ukase ordering her arrest had been issued. Passek answered that it was all nonsense. The private, horrified, rushed to another officer, who on hearing the news, and learning that he had been to Passek, then on duty, arrested him and led him to Voyeïkoff. And the latter, in his turn, arrested Passek, and sent a report to Oranienbaum. Of course the arrest of Passek threw the whole regiment, as well as the conspirators in other regiments, into a panic. It was decided to send Orloff to Peterhoff to escort the empress to Petersburg.

It was six o’clock in the morning when Orloff reached Peterhoff. He knocked at the empress’s door, walked in, and very coolly said, “It is time to get up; all is ready!” “What! how?” exclaimed Ekaterina. “Passek is arrested” answered Orloff. Ekaterina asked no more questions, but, hastily dressing, took her seat inside the carriage. Orloff sat by the coachman; another officer, Bibikoff, rode at the door. They made straight for the barracks of Ismaïloff. The alarm was given. Soldiers ran out, surrounded the empress, kissing her hands, her garments, calling her their “saviour.” Two soldiers led a priest up, and all crowded to her to take the oath of allegiance. The empress was invited to take her place in the carriage again. The priest, with the cross, went on ahead. Soon they all arrived at the barracks of Simeon, followed by the two regiments. These accompanied her to the cathedral of Kazan, where the Archbishop Dimitri met her. The Te Deum was sung, and Ekaterina Alexéevna was proclaimed Empress of Russia, and Pavel Petrovitch, her son, heir to the throne, 28th June, 1762.

On leaving the cathedral the empress was driven to the Winter Palace, where she took up her residence.

Meanwhile, Peter III. was quite ignorant of these events. At the very time when Ekaterina was being proclaimed empress, he was preparing to start with a large and brilliant suite for Peterhoff, where, as had been before decided, his fête was to be celebrated. An officer, Goodovitch, who had gone on before, suddenly returned with all haste and whispered softly to Peter that the empress had left the palace long ago, and was now nowhere to be found. The emperor, in a passion, jumped out of his carriage and walked rapidly to the pavilion “Mon-Plaisir,” but found nothing save his consort’s ball-dress, ready for the fête. “Did I not tell you she was bold enough for anything?” was Peter’s first exclamation. Originally, it was the intention of Peter to assert his rights; but the representations of his friends, the small number of his followers, and the fervour shown to the new empress, all combined to shake his resolution, and the same day he signed his abdication.

Seven days later he died in the palace of Ropshoe—poisoned, as it is supposed.

Ekaterina died on November 6th, 1796, at the age of 67.

In estimating the character of this famous woman, we must not judge her actions as we should those of a private person. Indeed, in reflecting on the lives of those who have, it may be said, to answer for the welfare and prosperity of nations, we should never forget the fact that these high personages have often, sometimes against their own feelings, to sacrifice the life of one for the well-being of thousands. Nor should we fail to take into account the character of the times in which Ekaterina ascended the throne. When her reign is compared with the reigns of those who preceded her, it appears in any but an unpleasant light. Indeed, it is impossible not to admire the empress for the humanity of her laws, and for the example she set to all her court in frugality, industry, and simplicity.

The poet Derjavin wrote an ode in her honour, in which he contrasted her manner of living with that of her courtiers. She rose very early, was always occupied, devoted several hours every day to new projects, laws, etc., for different institutions, more often she went on foot than she drove. Her table was most frugal, although of course she had every luxury at her command. Cards were all the rage then, especially the most hazardous game of “Faro,” which as grand-duchess she had been made to play at court. But after she ascended the throne she never played at games of chance again. She did not care very much for masquerade balls, only taking part in them on solemn occasions.

On her accession she found all legislation, all administration of justice in most frightful chaos, but reduced everything to order. “Of darkness she made light.” Justice could no longer be bought or sold.

She was never proud: to the meanest of her subjects always easy of access. Nor was she ever offended at hearing the unvarnished truth—witness her polemic with Von Viesing. She did not resent the most bitter criticism.

By an ukase she put down a most horrible institution called Slovo-i-diélo,[1] which somewhat resembled the Star Chamber. So strict had the laws been that people could be brought to the torture for having whispered at their own tables one to another; for not having drunk the health of the reigning Sovereign; for having scratched out the Imperial name and rewritten it; for having dropped money on which was stamped the Imperial effigy. Very differently from one of her predecessors, Anna Johannovna, she did not exact that her courtiers should be sitting on baskets in rows along the rooms through which she had to pass from the chapel to her own rooms, and cackle like hens. Nor used she to slap her courtiers’ faces. She built no ice palace to marry her jester and jestress in; she allowed none of her favourites to blacken with soot the faces of the proud old aristocracy, “to make an empress laugh.” She was the first to teach her subjects self-respect. She wrote an excellent moral tale for her grandson, in which, admonishing him to shun flatterers, she told him that to be invulnerable to slander, “Do no ill, and the bitterest traducer will stand before the world a convicted liar.” She abolished torture on reading the interrogation of Volhynski, a Russian boyar, brought to torture for supposed treason, and in her testament she willed that her descendants should read that piece of conviction to stifle in them any inclination to cruelty.

She was the first to divide the Russian Empire into provinces, and to give each province self-government. She opened the first national schools, cadet-corps, and two splendid half-school, half-convent-like institutions for the education of the daughters of the nobility. She promulgated an ukase allowing landlords to work the mines of gold and silver found on their own properties, which before had been strictly forbidden; and made all the rivers and seas free of access to every one—i.e., every one might sail on them, use them for mills, etc. She tried to encourage weaving, spinning and sewing, science and commerce, and gave permission to all her subjects to travel—then an unknown liberty. It is the boast of Russians that in her reign no beggars were to be found, owing, no doubt, to her humane laws regarding the serfs. Every landlord was compelled to keep on his estate, and to provide for, every serf, whether the serf were able to work or not. It would, in fact, take too long to enumerate all the numerous acts of clemency, justice, and wisdom of this wise, prudent, and far-seeing empress. If her frailty as a woman calls for the world’s censure, no one, on reading her history, can forbear bringing to her feet the tribute she so well deserves as an empress.

In the present translation I have tried to preserve, as far as possible, the quaintness and piquancy of the original Russian, but I fear that in thus endeavouring to produce a faithful copy of the author’s work I have often sacrificed elegant and correct English. Only those who know how terse and vigorous a language the Russian is will be able to appreciate the translator’s difficulties, which are greater than those of an author of a new work, so far as the mere writing of it is concerned. Whilst it is often impossible to adhere strictly to the author’s words without producing obscurities, the use of lengthy phrases and even whole sentences to express the full sense of the original, means, on the other hand, the annihilation of the author’s style. As a rule, translators of Russian works, in their endeavour to make their renderings readable, only succeed in producing a tale in common-place English, with a foreign plot, long drawn out, devoid of colour, and wearisome to read,—barely recognisable sometimes by those who are conversant with the original.

To assist those who are not familiar with Russia and Russian history, I have explained various references in the text by means of footnotes; and to excite a more lively interest in the characters, I have included portraits. The frontispiece is a reproduction of an engraving taken from a celebrated painting which embodies the popular legend concerning the Princess Tarakanova’s last hours.[2] The portraits of Orloff and Ekaterina are reproduced from old and rare engravings. Danilevski’s likeness is from a photograph taken some years ago.

In conclusion, conscious of many faults and oversights in a translation originally not intended for publication, I have to acknowledge that I am most indebted to Mr. F. Dillon Woon, of Wallington, England, for his kind aid and criticism, and to accord him my best thanks.

IDA DE MOUCHANOFF.

Pskov.

PRINCESS TARAKANOVA.

PART I.
DIARY OF LIEUTENANT KONSOV.

“There can be no doubt she is an adventuress.”—Letter of Ekaterina II.

CHAPTER I.
TEMPEST-TOSSED.

May, 1775: Atlantic Ocean,
Frigate Northern Eagle.

A storm has been raging for already three days. We have been so tossed about that it has been impossible to write. Our frigate, the Northern Eagle, is not far from Gibraltar. We have lost our rudder, and our sails are all torn, and now the current is carrying us south-eastwards. Where shall we land? what will become of us?

It is night; the wind has fallen, and the sea is calmer. I am writing in my cabin. All that I have time to write of what I have seen and undergone, I will place in a bottle, and cast it upon the waters; and you who may chance to find it I entreat, by all that is sacred, to send it to its address. Ah! all-powerful God, grant me powers of memory; enlighten my poor soul, so torn with doubt!

I am a sailor, Pavel Konsov, an officer in the navy of our most gracious Majesty, Empress of all the Russias, Ekaterina II. Five years ago, by the mercy of God, I succeeded in distinguishing myself at the famous battle of Chesma. All the world knows of our brave companions, Lieutenant Elien and Lieutenant Klokachov, who, on the night of the twenty-sixth of June, 1770, with four fire-ships and a few Grecian boats, hastily equipped, bravely advanced upon the Turkish fleet at Chesma, and rendered valuable assistance in its destruction. I, though so insignificant, had the good fortune, under cover of the fire-ships and the dark, to throw with my own hand, from our ship, January, the first fire-ball at the enemy. It was this fire-ball which, falling into and igniting the powder magazine, caused the explosion near the ship of the Turkish admiral from which the whole fleet took fire.

Next morning, of over a hundred formidable men-of-war, some of sixty and some of ninety guns, frigates, galliots, and galères,—not one remained! On the surface of the waters were visible only wreckage and numbers of dead bodies.

Our victory was sung in odes by the celebrated poet Heraskov, and several lines were dedicated to my humble self, until then unknown to the world. This poem was in every one’s mouth. The English in the Russian service—for instance, Mackenzie and Dugdale, who served on one of the fire-ships—took to themselves the credit for the greater part of the glory won at the battle of Chesma. But they did not really much surpass our own officers and men, who all distinguished themselves by their courage and gallantry. After this event I was found worthy of receiving the rank of lieutenant, and the Count Alexis Orloff, the hero of Chesma, having honoured me by his preference, I became his aide-de-camp. My career was thus, so far, very fortunate. Life, on the whole, smiled upon me. But sometimes a fatal destiny pursues man. Suddenly fortune ceased to favour me, angry maybe, at my abrupt, albeit forced, departure from my native land.

Resting on our laurels reaped at Chesma, we led joyous lives. We received flattering invitations from the French, Spanish, Venetians, and men of other nations. All at once, upon me, the alien, there fell a new, unexpected, and very terrible temptation.

The war continued, but Count Orloff, after many noisy battles, lived in luxurious ease with the fleet. He was wont to say, “I am as happy as Enoch, who was taken up to heaven.” But these were mere words, for, since he had taken an active part in placing Ekaterina upon the throne, wild and bold ideas were ever coursing through his brain.

Once, when sailing in the Adriatic with the squadron, he despatched me on a secret mission to the brave, warlike Montenegros. This was in the year 1773. The scouts made all arrangements wisely and adroitly; and at night, taking with me what I required on shore, I landed with great caution, and speedily conducted my business. But on our return voyage we were sighted and pursued by the Turkish coastguards. We succeeded in defending ourselves for a considerable time; but in the end our sailors were all killed, while I, severely wounded in the shoulder, lay unconscious at the bottom of the boat, where I was found, and whence I was removed, a prisoner, to Stamboul.

I was disguised in a national Albanian costume. Nevertheless, my captors discovered that I belonged to the Russian navy, and, at first, thinking no doubt that they would receive a good ransom for me, paid me great attention. Ah! thought I, as soon as they find out that their prisoner is no other than Lieutenant Konsov, who threw the first fire-ball which caused the explosion and destruction of their staffship at Chesma, what will my lot be then?

CHAPTER II.
MY IMPRISONMENT.

My imprisonment lasted for about two years, coming to an end in the year 1775.

At first I was kept shut up in one of the wings of a seven-towered castle, but afterwards I was chained and confined in one of the three hundred mecheti (mosques) of Stamboul. I don’t know whether at last, by some means, the Turks learned that one of their prisoners was Konsov, or whether, having lost all hopes of a ransom, they resolved to take advantage of my knowledge and abilities; but this I know, they tried to convert me to Mohammedanism.

The mosque in which I was imprisoned is situated on the shores of the Bosphorus, and through my window-grating I could watch the blue sea and the vessels sailing to and fro. The mulla who came to visit me was of Sclavonic origin; he was a Bulgarian from Gabrova. We therefore understood one another without much difficulty.[3] My visitor set to work in a roundabout way to convert me to the Turkish faith. He praised the Turkish people, their customs and morals, and extolled the power and glory of the Sultan. At first, though very indignant at all this, I kept silence, but at last I began to contradict. Thereupon, in order to gain my confidence in himself and his faith, he obtained as a first step permission for my removal to a more comfortable cell, and for my being provided with better food. Accordingly I was transferred to the ground floor of the mosque, part of which the mulla himself inhabited, and was allowed tobacco and all sorts of sweetmeats and wine. Still, notwithstanding all this, my chains were left on me. My teacher (himself a renegade), according to the law of Mohammed, could not drink wine, but he enticed and tempted me to. “Turn Islamist,” he would say, “and then how happy you will be: your chains will at once fall off you. And see how many ships there are: you may enter the Turkish service on one of them, and in time become one of our captains!”

I lay on my mat without touching any of the tempting viands, and scarcely hearing a word that my tempter said, for my mind was filled with thoughts of my native land. I murmured the names of my friends and of all dear to me, and pondered over my lost happiness. My heart was breaking, my soul was torn with uncertainty and grief. Ah! how well I remember those sad hours, filled with such sorrowful musings!

As I now recollect, my thoughts then wandered to the far-off village, my native Konsovka. I was an orphan, and already had obtained my commission. From the training college I had come straight to the house of my grandmother, whose name was Agraffena Konsova. Not far from us, in the town of Baturin, lived Rakitin, a retired brigadier, a widower, whose estates in the country adjoined ours. Leff Hieraclieovitch[4] had one daughter, Irena Lvovna. To tell all briefly, what with going to the church of Rakitin, visiting Irena at her father’s halls, and our secret meetings and walks together, we fell in love with one another. My love for Irena was passionate and unrestrained. With her dusky skin and luxurious black hair, she was charming. She was my life, my idol, to whom I offered prayers night and day. We confessed our love, and day by day became dearer to each other. Ah! those moments, those meetings, those vows!

We began to send each other love letters, full of passionate avowals of love. I was always fond of music, and Irena used to play enchantingly upon the clavichord, and would sing in a lovely voice pieces from Glück, Bach, and Handel. We met often. In this way the summer passed. Ah! dear and never-to-be-forgotten days!

Unfortunately, one of my letters fell into the hands of Irena’s father. Was Rakitin too stern with his daughter, or did he talk her over, and so persuade her to give me up, to change me for another?… I know not; it is all too painful for me even to try to remember.

It was autumn, and, as I well recollect, a praznik (holiday); we were preparing for church, when suddenly we heard a carriage drive into our yard. A footman in splendid livery came forward, and placed in my grandmother’s hands a packet which he had brought for her. My heart throbbed; my presentiments were fulfilled: Irena’s father had sent a firm and decided refusal to my suit.

“Matushka[5] Agraffena Vlassovna,—

“Your Pavel Efstafevitch[6] is worthy in every way, but he is not a fit husband for my daughter; and it is useless for him to send love letters to her. Let him not be offended; we always were and always shall be friends. My earnest hope is that your godson and grandchild may find another bride, a hundred times more suitable than my daughter.”

That letter moved me deeply. The light of heaven seemed extinguished: all that was dearest to me was lost; all my happiness ruined.

Proud, rich, and related to the Razoumovskis, Rakitin mercilessly scorned the poor suitor, who also was of noble blood; yea, of nobler blood perhaps than Rakitin’s own. His pride in his distinguished relatives, who had been favourites of the late empress, had hardened his heart. Often had I heard Irena addressed by her father as the future Fräulein (maid of honour).

“God forgive him!” I repeated, like one who had lost his senses, as I strode up and down the rooms which once I had loved so much, but which now seemed to me so lonely. The day had been very cloudy, with occasional showers of rain. I ordered my horse to be saddled, and, in my despair, rode off to the steppes. I did not draw rein until I reached the borders of the forest which surrounded the estate of Rakitin. There I wandered through the brushwood like a madman. The wind whistled through the trees and swept over the bare fields. As night came on, I fastened my horse to a tree, and, leaving the forest, made my way through the garden to the window of Irena’s room. Ah! what I felt at that moment! I remember, it seemed to me that I had only to call her, and she would throw herself into my arms, and we would go together to the end of the world. Fool that I was! I hoped to see her, to exchange thoughts with her, to pour out my heart, so full of bitter pain. “Leave your father! leave him!” I whispered, gazing in at her window. “He does not pity you; he does not love you.” But I pleaded in vain: her window was dark, and nowhere in all the silent house could I hear one word or see one sign of life. On the following night I again went through the garden, and watched the well-known window, through which Irena had often given me her hand or thrown me a letter. Would she not look out? would she not give me some message? One night, after sending her a note, to which I received no answer, I even determined to kill myself before her window, and took my pistol in my hand.

“But no,” I decided. “Why such a sacrifice? Perhaps Irena has already bartered me for a richer suitor. Wait a little; I may find out who the happy rival is.” Afterwards, but too late, I learned that Rakitin, after writing his refusal of me, had carried his daughter off to a distant property owned by one of his relations, somewhere on the Oka, and was keeping her there in strict confinement.

CHAPTER III.
IMPORTANT NEWS.

My grandmother was not less struck by this than I. One day, about a week later, calling me to her, she said: “You have guessed who your rival is? One distantly related to the Rakitins; a prince and Kammerherr (gentleman of the chamber). I have found out, Pavelinka, that they sent for him on purpose, and that he was visiting them all the time you were looking for her, and that it was he who helped them to carry her off without leaving any trace. Forget her, mon ange, forget Irena; for no doubt she resembles her father in his pride. Console yourself. God will send you a better wife.”

I felt angry and petulant. “My grandmother is right,” I said; and there and then I determined to strive to forget everything. If Irena had had any heart, she would have found some opportunity of writing me a line and sending it. I remember especially how one night I found amongst some papers a hymn from “Iphigenia,” one of Glück’s operas not yet produced in Russia, which I had obtained with great difficulty from an amateur musician for Irena, but which I had been unable to give to her. With tears in my eyes I burnt it. After long days of sorrowful despair, I decided to leave my birthplace. The parting with my grandmother was very touching, for we both felt that we should never meet again.

Agraffena Vlassovna, during her retreat in a neighbouring convent, took cold, and after a short illness, died. I was left alone in the world, like a forgotten blade of grass in a field.

Having left Konsovka, I wandered for some time about Moscow, where I made the acquaintance of Count Orloff. Thence I went to Petersburg, and tried to get some information concerning the Rakitins, who were still living on the Oka. Always hoping to get news of my faithless Irena, I made many inquiries; but no one could tell me what I wanted to know. My furlough was not yet ended; I was free. But what was left in the world for me? What could I do? What could I undertake? Meanwhile, from the south, from over the water, came news that was on every one’s lips. It was the beginning of the Turkish war. A happy idea flashed through my mind. I applied to the Board of Admiralty, and begged to be transferred to the squadron then sailing in Grecian waters. Count Feodor Orloff helped me very much by giving me a letter of introduction to Count Alexis, who was at that time admiral of the fleet in the Mediterranean Sea. How I came there and what I went through, it would be useless to relate. Always repeating the name that once was so dear to me, I threw myself into every danger. I courted death at Spezzia, at Navarino, and at Chesma. “Irisha! Irisha![7] what have you done with me! O my God! put an end to my life!” I cried. But death did not come. Instead of being killed, I was taken prisoner soon after the glorious battle of Chesma, and left in dreary captivity in Stamboul!

The mulla who visited me became more and more friendly, but also more and more persistent. We met every day, and had long conversations together. Sometimes he made me very angry, even mad, I might say; but at other times he amused me. Then sometimes I would entice him, for company’s sake, to defy the command of the prophet, which, perhaps, a minute before he had been teaching me with much fervour, by taking a glass of wine with me; and would pour the wine out for him myself. My teacher could do nothing, of course, but try to please me, and so very heartily began to partake of the wines of Kioska, and others which he used to bring me. Our meetings continued. We talked sometimes of the Orient, of Russia, and many other things.

One evening—it must have been about the middle of the year 1774—at the time when the Muezzin[8] from the high tower began the call to evening prayer, my teacher, with an air of great mystery, and not without showing some wicked pleasure, asked me whether I knew that there had appeared in Italy a very powerful aspirant to the Russian crown, a dangerous rival to the then reigning Empress Ekaterina. I was very much astonished at the news, and for some time was unable to speak. The mulla again related his story, and on my asking who the impostor was he answered, “A secret daughter of the late Empress Elizabeth Petrowna.” “That is all nonsense and stupid gossip of your bazaars!”—The mulla was much offended; his eyes sparkled with passion. “No, not gossip,” he exclaimed, as he took from under his robe a crumpled piece of one of the newspapers of Utrecht. “You had best be thinking of what awaits your native land.”

My heart, which was beating so loyally for the great empress then ruling over us, suddenly sank. I read the newspaper, and became convinced that the mulla was right. In Paris first, then in Germany, and afterwards in Venice, a person had appeared calling herself “Elizabeth, Princess of all the Russias.” At the time of writing, this adventuress was preparing to go to the Sultan, to ask him to aid her with an army then encamped on the banks of the Danube in enforcing her claims. The mulla remained with me a little longer, and then went out, casting a side glance at me as he left the room. The news which I had just heard troubled me very much. “How so?” thought I. “Is it not enough that fate sent us the horrible insurrection of Pougachoff?” of which I heard in my prison, “and then the Turks? Are we now to be troubled with this pretender? The former burnt and desolated the whole Po-Volga;[9] this one wants to disturb the whole of the south.” I was quite beside myself, and strode from corner to corner of my cell. In my anger, I went up to my window, seized hold of the grating, and shook it with all my might. I was ready to tear it with my teeth. “Oh! for wings! for wings!” I cried to God. I would have flown to the fleet, told them everything, and warned Orloff, who was so devoted to the empress.… My prayers were answered in a most marvellous manner. Never shall I forget it, though I live for a century.

Devising a hundred plans for escape, my first idea was to prepare some kind of key to loosen my chains. On an earthenware pot I succeeded in sharpening part of an old nail (upon which I used to hang my clothes, and which I had taken from the wall), and, after much painstaking, fashioned it into a key. It is impossible to describe my joy when, for the first night, I took off my chains and went to bed without them. Next morning I again fettered myself, and carefully hid the key in a crevice in the wall. My plan was this:—after having very quickly loosened my chains, I would kill the renegade mulla with them, and run away from the prison without being seen. But where? Thus I planned; but God, who holds our hearts in His hand, delivered me from this sin. The mulla continued to visit me and to drink the wine, which through his intercession had been provided for me in abundance. At last my chance came. Having chosen an evening, I decided upon telling the mulla that, convinced by his wise teaching, I had resolved to embrace the Mohammedan faith. He was transported with delight, and in his joy partook so heartily of the wine as to become intoxicated and begin to doze. I kept refilling his glass. “No,” he repeated continually, “I cannot. I shall miss the prayers; I shall be denounced.” But I again filled the glass, and he, blinking at me knowingly, again emptied it, threw himself on the floor, and beginning to hum a Bulgarian song, was soon fast asleep. We were both about the same height; my beard, which during my imprisonment had grown very long, only differed from his by being of a slightly lighter colour.

“Oh! good God! is it possible,” thought I, with a thrill of joy, “that this is liberty at last?”

Drawing the enormous white turban over my eyes, I devoutly bowed my head, and with silent footsteps and the rosary in my hand, as if repeating a prayer, I slowly left the prison, and crossed the courtyard. The sentinels at the porches and the gates of the mosque were walking silently backwards and forwards with their muskets; but as they did not recognise me I escaped detention. For some time the noise of the street confused me; I quite lost my senses. But I quickly recovered myself, and hastening my steps, soon reached the sea-shore. I signalled to one of the boatmen, took my place in the first little boat that approached me, and, bowing still lower, motioned to the boatman to row me to one of the nearest ships. It was a foreign one, as I had already remarked from my windows. I saw now that it was a French schooner, quite ready to sail, as I could tell by her flag.

CHAPTER IV.
I SEE THE PRINCESS.

A dark, handsome, spirited Frenchman, the commanding officer of the schooner, soon showed me that he was a worthy subject of the nation to which he belonged. Seeing in me a Russian sailor, he looked at me, was silent a moment, and then whispered, “Are you Konsov?”

“What makes you think so?” I asked, not without some trepidation.

“Oh! how glad I should be if it were so!” he answered, “for we all pity brave Konsov very much, and constantly ask after him. I should be very happy to be of any service to him.”

There was nothing to be done; and I concluded it was better to reveal myself. The captain was overjoyed; he conducted me to his own cabin, and at once promised to pay the boatman; whom, however, for safety’s sake, he first ordered to be hoisted on deck with the boat. The sails were then unfurled, and the anchor weighed. It was night when the schooner set sail, and by morning we had left Stamboul far behind us. The mulla must have slept soundly and long, for we were not pursued. My boatman, who was sent back from one of the villages we passed, having received all that had been promised him, and the mulla’s clothes in which I had escaped into the bargain, was only too glad to hold his tongue. The French officers gave me proper clothing, and generously furnished me with a sum of money, to which all had subscribed. They politely offered to put me on board the first Russian vessel we should meet in the Italian seas.

Meanwhile, I heard from the captain that the mysterious Russian Princess was no longer in Venice, but was now at Ragusa, past which town we should have to sail. I asked to be put on shore, but the French officers did all they could to dissuade me, pointing out the risk I should run in being again so near the Turks. This counsel had no effect on me; I insisted on landing.

After having thanked my generous preservers (who even refused to take my signature for their loan), I soon set foot on the shores of the republic of Ragusa, where I obtained information concerning the lady who so deeply interested me.

This mysterious Princess had already conquered the hearts of half the inhabitants of the town. Much talk was going on. I found a great many Poles and persons of different nationalities at the hotel I had chosen, who formed part of the Princess’s retinue. All these personages fought shy of me at first, and showed great distrust, but on learning who I was, and that, in my joy at my miraculous preservation, I wished to go immediately on board the squadron of Count Orloff, they ceased to fear me, and without reserve began to tell me all about the Princess. They even offered to procure me an audience, if I wished it. “But who is she? and where has she lived until now?” I asked some of her followers.

“She is the daughter of your late Empress Elizabeth, by a secret marriage with Count Razoumovski,” was the answer. “In her childhood she was carried to the frontiers of Persia, and has since, under different assumed names, lived at Kiel, Berlin, London, and many other places. In Paris she was Dame D’Azov, and in Germany and here in Ragusa she bears the title of the Countess of Pinneberg. German princes and others have wooed her, the French Court assigned her apartments at their consul’s, and were quite ready to give her aid and protection.”

All this troubled me greatly. “Kiel! Berlin!” thought I. “Kiel is in Holstein. It played a most important part in the history of Anna and Elizabeth, the daughters of Peter the Great. Is it possible that in Petersburg no importance is attached to all this? What will be done when all is known about this aspirant to the throne?”

The Poles then offered to take me to be presented to the Countess of Pinneberg. I dressed myself, trimmed my moustache and beard properly, and powdered, perfumed, and curled my hair. I met with every attention at the house of the Countess. The Hofmarshall, Baron Korf, led me into the reception room. I looked about me, and noticed that the walls were tapestried with blue silk brocade, and that the furniture was upholstered in pink satin. All at once I heard steps and a gay voice.

The Princess Elizabeth entered the room, surrounded by a brilliant retinue. I learned afterwards who these were. Her very devoted friend, the celebrated Prince Radzivill, in a blue velvet kaftan[10] literally blazing with diamonds; near him his sister, the beautiful Countess of Moravia, and the Princess Sangoushko. After these came Count Pototski, in a beautiful red kountouska,[11] all embroidered with gold. The count was then at the head of the Polish confederation, our enemy. Next came the proud and rich Starosta Pinski, Count Prgezdetski, and near him stood the influential young confederate, the famous duellist, Charnomski, with several of Radzivill’s officers. Pototski and Prgezdetski wore ribbons and stars. I noticed that the Princess was dressed in an amazon of yellow silk, with gold embroidery, and that it was covered with black gauze; that she wore a small white hat with black ostrich feathers, and a pink mantle trimmed with blonde, and that at her belt were a pair of very small pistolettes of magnificent workmanship. She held a riding-whip in her hand, for she was just going to start for a ride on horseback. The proud Polish magnates addressed the Princess as “Altesse,” and when she sat down, remained standing; and in answering her questions bowed so low that they almost seemed to be kneeling.

I must confess that the Princess greatly impressed me. I saw before me a beauty of the first order, between twenty-three and twenty-four years of age, taller than the generality of people, graceful, slender, with lovely auburn hair, a very fair skin, beautiful pink cheeks, and a few freckles, which rather suited her style of beauty. Her eyes were hazel, very large and open; one of them rather squinted, and thus gave her an arch and playful look. But, what was far more important, as a child, and later on as a youth, I had often looked upon the portraits of the late Empress Elizabeth; and now on examining the Princess closely I was struck by the likeness to them.

The Princess noticed my confusion with evident pleasure. Saying a few gracious words to me in French, she gave me her hand to kiss, and having received me with all the ceremony etiquette exacted, with a look dismissed her retinue, and motioned me to a chair. We were alone.

CHAPTER V.
MY INTERVIEW WITH THE PRINCESS.

After having exchanged a few phrases—we spoke French, but I noticed that the Princess let fall many Italian exclamations—we both fell into a most awkward silence.

“You are a Russian officer—a sailor?” asked the Princess.

“Just so—Your—Serene Highness,” I answered, hesitating a little, not knowing how to address her.

“I know that you have highly distinguished yourself. Your name made a noise in the world after Chesma,” she continued; “and to crown all, you have suffered a long imprisonment.”

I was greatly agitated, and remained silent; she also paused. At last she began again, and even though so many years have elapsed, I seem to hear that low, charming contralto voice of hers,—

“Listen,”—said she. “I am a Russian princess, the daughter of your once beloved empress. It is true, is it not, that my mother, the daughter of Peter the Great, was much loved? I, both by blood and by her testament, am her only heiress.”

“Yes. But you know,” I at last ventured to say, “that there now reigns the no less beloved Empress Ekaterina the Great.”

“I know, I know,” interrupted the Princess, “how all powerful and idolized by her people the present empress is; and it is not for me—poor, weak, and abandoned by all, torn from the Imperial house, and from the land of my birth—to try to dispute the throne with her. I am the most devoted of her slaves.”

“Then what are you seeking? what are you expecting?” I asked with astonishment.

“Protection, and that my rights may be respected.”

“Excuse me,” I returned; “but you must first prove your birth and your rights.”

“I have the proofs here,” the Princess replied; and, hastily rising, she opened the drawer of a Buhl side-table, with silver incrustations. “Here is the testament of my grandfather, Peter I., and this one is my mother’s, Elizabeth’s.”

The Princess tendered me a French version of the papers mentioned. I looked them over hastily.

“But these are only copies,” said I; “mere translations.”

“Oh, yes; but make your mind easy: the originals are in safe hands.… How would it be possible to carry such important documents about with me; the risk would be too great,” answered the Princess, turning her head a little from me. Then she moved to the other side of the room, where, in heavy gilt frames, hung two oil paintings: one a remarkably good copy of the portrait of the late Empress Elizabeth Petrowna, with a small crown upon her head; the other that of the Princess now standing before me.

“Do you see the likeness?” she said, looking at me.

“Well, yes, there is a likeness. I noticed it as soon as I came in,” I answered. “Allow me to ask how long ago that portrait was taken?”

“This very year, at Venice.… The celebrated Piacetti painted my intended bridegroom’s portrait, the Prince Radzivill’s, and begged to be allowed to paint mine at the same time.”

“Mysterious coincidence!” I exclaimed, with uncontrollable agitation; “we see things past all imagining. The dead rise out of their graves. There beyond the Volga the Emperor Peter III., buried in the face of all the nation;[12] here, unexpected, undivined, the daughter of the Empress Elizabeth.”

“Do not, if you please, confound me with Pougachoff,” answered the Princess, slightly reddening; “although he gives himself out as the Emperor, coins his money with the legend Redivivus et Ultor (the risen Avenger), still, as yet, he is only my lord-lieutenant in that part of the country.”

“How so?” I answered, quite astonished. “Then you also confess that he is an impostor?”

“Do not ask who he is,” mysteriously answered the Princess; “afterwards you shall learn all; the time has not yet come. He has already conquered many towns—Kasan, Orenburg, Saratov—and all the shores of the Volga. I know nothing of his past. Let God be his judge; but I—I am really and truly the daughter of the Empress Elizabeth, and cousin to the Emperor Peter III.”

“But who was your father?” I ventured to ask.

“Is it possible that you do not guess?” she answered, slightly frowning. “Alexis Razoumovski, who was married secretly to my mother. My childhood I passed travelling from one place to another; but it is quite indistinct even to me. I remember a retired little village in the South of Russia, from which I was carried off. They would, if they could, have effaced from my mind every remembrance of the past; and to that end they lavished money upon me and took me about from place to place. Count Shouvaloff, apparently, was acquainted with the circumstances. Not long ago, when travelling in Europe, he expressed the wish to see me, and we met secretly.”

“What! you saw the Count Shouvaloff? Where?” I exclaimed, amazed, as I recollected that not a few people looked upon him as her father.

“I met him at the waters of Spa.… Friends warned me of that celebrated Russian traveller, but I could not refuse him. I found him to be an elderly person, rather stout, and bearing traces of no common beauty. His dress was most costly. He came to me under an assumed name, and when speaking with me sorrowfully fixed his eyes upon me and attentively examined my features. I could see he was very agitated. I learned afterwards that he was my late mother’s favourite, Ivan Shouvaloff. I really cannot tell why he looked so moved. It is not for me, of course,—as you may well understand,—to say. That secret my mother took to her grave, with many others.”

The Princess was silent; I also.

“Whose protection, whose help, do you seek?” I at last ventured to ask, troubled with so many impressions.

CHAPTER VI.
THE PRINCESS ASKS ME TO ASSIST HER.

The Princess locked the paper in a casket, put it away, took up a fan, and again sitting down, began looking out of the window.

“Are you willing to help me?” she asked very seriously, instead of answering my question.

I knew not what to answer.

“Are you willing to give me, should I need it, every help in your power?”

“But what sort of help?”

“Well now, you see, should the Empress Ekaterina be willing to act conscientiously and without strife peacefully to divide the empire with me,”—the Princess uttered this very slowly and distinctly,—“I am ready to agree to anything in reason. I will give up to her the north, with Petersburg, all the Baltic provinces, and all the province of Moscow. I shall retain for myself the Caucasus—practically all the south—oh! I love the south—and part of the west. Oh! be quite sure I shall respect a peaceful division. I shall be quite satisfied with the arrangement. I shall people my dominions; I shall arrange all in my own Fatherland. You will see I am a masteritsa.[13] First of all, of course, I shall arrange matters in Oukraine and Poland. Of course you are from Oukraine?” she asked me suddenly, fixing her eyes on me; “and I passed my childhood there. In case Ekaterina should not agree,” continued she, frowning, “of course, nothing remains for me but to try the force of arms. I intend going to Constantinople, to the Sultan. He expects me. I shall lead his army on to the Balkans, and on the borders of the Danube shall meet the army of Ekaterina. Then I will have my revenge. I shall find enough people willing to help me; all the discontented—for instance, the commodore of the fleet,—Orloff! Eh! what do you say to that?”

“Orloff!” I repeated in amazement.

“Of course; he himself. You are astonished, eh?” answered the Princess, fanning herself and looking me boldly in the face. “Yes; what do you say to that?”

“Excuse me, Your Grace, but I cannot help speaking out my earnest conviction that all this is but a child’s dream. On what do you found your hopes of such—excuse me the expression—such treason from the count?”

“Treason!”—cried out the Princess, suddenly reddening; “but, of course, you must be excused. You were so long a prisoner, there is a great deal for you to learn”; and she contemptuously smiled, nervously playing with her fan. “The power and the influence of the Orloffs have greatly fallen; their sworn and hidden foes, the Pânins,[14] are now in the ascendency. The empress’s favourite, Gregory Orloff, allow me to tell you, has been already replaced by another; he, in his anger, broke off the negotiations begun with the Sultan, and flew from the banks of the Danube to Petersburg. But he was not received at court, but exiled to Revel. Ah! you are astonished. Well, learn still further. Your chief, Count Alexis Orloff, his feelings as a brother insulted, no longer hides his opinions: he is ripe for revenge; and there is no doubt, of course, that he can be very useful to me. You see, what news! I have already sent a letter to the Count Alexis, and a short manifesto.”

“A manifesto! but what about?”

“If Orloff decides on taking my part, I advise him then to proclaim my manifesto to the fleet, take me on board, and stand up for my rights.”

“But that is impossible. Excuse me,” I tried to answer; “your actions are bold, but you have not reflected enough.”

“Why do you think so?” asked the Princess, astonished. “The malcontents are seeking revenge, the forgotten recompense for their well-known services. To Orloff alone—and that every one knows—to him alone Ekaterina owes her throne.”

The Princess rose, walked up and down the room, and at last threw the window open. She was nearly stifled. She began again explaining her plan in its smallest details: how she hoped, with the aid of the fleet, to invade Russia. She would listen to none of my arguments. It seemed as if nothing could convince her. It was plainly visible that this capricious, spoiled, self-willed woman, whose feelings burst forth like lava hidden under ashes, thought she could measure her strength with the most desperate of men.

“You doubt; you are astonished,” she exclaimed, with a nervous tremor. “You ask why I believe in the success of my enterprise? Is it possible that you do not know?… Already many of your countrymen side with me; I am in correspondence with numbers of them.… But you—are the first Russian, the first really worthy man, that I see throwing in your lot with me.… I shall never forget the fact; it is specially dear to me.… Believe me, I shall rise victorious out of every difficulty; the darkness will clear away.… Is it possible that you do not know that Russia is torn asunder by her battles, the pressgang for the recruits, the fires, the plagues? Is it possible you do not know that the country is worn out with her taxations, that on the borders of the Volga there rages a terrible, bloody insurrection? Your army is badly clothed, and still worse fed; … all are discontented, all grumble.… You are not going to tell me that you, a lieutenant in the Russian navy, know nothing of all this? Yes, all the nation will hail me with delight; the army will meet with joy a Russian-born princess, Elizabeth II., just as they once met Ekaterina.”

I was indignant at her childish and blind confidence in herself.

“Well, let it be so. Do you speak Russian?” I decided on asking her.

The Princess blushed. “I do not speak it. I have, of course, forgotten it, unfortunately,” she answered, coughing. “In my infancy, when but three years old, I was taken from Oukraine to Siberia, where they nearly poisoned me; from there into Persia, where I was placed with an old woman in Ispahan, who took me to live in Bagdad, where a certain M. Fournier taught me French.… So it would have been rather strange if I did remember my own language.”

I still continued sitting, my eyes fixed on the ground. I could not raise them to her face.

“And Dimitri Tzarevitch,[15] whom all Moscow met so joyfully, did he speak Russian?” asked the Princess contemptuously. “Besides, what can languages prove? Children learn and unlearn everything so easily.”

“Dimitri spoke with a ‘Little Russian’ accent,” answered I. “And then, after all, he was but—a pretender!”

“Gran Dio!” she exclaimed; and again coughing, the Princess laughed. “And you’re not ashamed of repeating those idle tales? Listen to me, and remember my words.”…

The Princess threw herself back in her chair. Bright spots appeared in her cheeks.

“Dimitri was the real tzarevitch.” She said this in a voice of conviction. “Yes, the real tzarevitch. He was saved from the hands of the assassin Godounoff by the cleverness of those around him, almost by a miracle, just as I was saved from the poison they gave me in Siberia. Ah! you did not know that? Yes, think about it all a little more. Oh! Signor Konsov, tell your tales to some one else, but not to me, who have studied in a strange land the genealogy of our house. The Shah of Persia offered his hand and his throne to me, but I refused him; he is the eternal enemy of Russia.… I shall be acknowledged. Do you hear? They must acknowledge me,” said the Princess, with great dignity.

Striking her knee with her fan, and beginning again to cough, she continued,—

“I believe in the star of my destiny, and therefore I choose you as my ambassador to Count Orloff. I do not exact a speedy answer. Think over it, weigh well my words, and then give me your decision. You, again I repeat, are the first Russian in an honourable military position whom I have met abroad. You also have suffered, and also escaped from prison by a miracle. Who knows? perhaps Heaven saved you, like many others, and sent you to me.”

Having said this, the Princess rose, and, with a most majestic salute, signified that the audience was concluded.

CHAPTER VII.
I CONVEY A LETTER.

“What does it all mean? Who is she? What is she? A pretender, or a Russian grand duchess?” thought I, as, full of contending thoughts, I left the room of the Princess, and with faltering steps passed between the persons of her suite, who saluted me right and left with the greatest respect.

At the perron[16] I noticed several carriage-horses, adorned with velvet and feathers. On entering the hotel I heard the clattering of horses’ hoofs. Going to the window, I saw the Princess, surrounded by her courtiers, riding fearlessly on a beautiful white horse. The cavalcade flew by on the road to Ragusa.

For several days I could not get rid of the most agitating ideas. I hardly left my room, walking backwards and forwards, then lying down, then writing letters, only, however, to tear them up again, and constantly thinking, “How could I, remembering the oath of allegiance which I had taken on entering the service? What ought I to do regarding the proposition of this mysterious Princess?”

One day her secretary, Charnomski, came to pay me a visit. He was a smart, elegantly-dressed man of about forty. He had once been very rich, had been a duellist and a Lovelace, had lost all his fortune at cards and in the affairs of the Confederation. He had not lost his fine manners, but was very conceited and insinuating, and—so rumour said—was serving the Princess because he was deeply in love with her. The conversation turned on the Princess. He was eloquent on the subject of her generosity, her fearlessness, and, having assured me on oath that all she had said of her past life was true, again renewed, in her name, an entreaty that I would side with her.

“But whose daughter is she? who was her father?” I asked, rather drily. “You only speak in her favour, but there must be proofs. Everything is so very doubtful.”…

Charnomski reddened, and was silent several minutes.

It seemed to me at that time that this Princess’s Ganymede curled and pomatumed in the last fashion, with his diamond ear-rings, was rouged.

“Good heavens! what doubts! Her father—do you not know it yourself?—was the Count Alexis Razoumovski,” said this wily diplomatist, regaining his composure. “But if you desire it, sir lieutenant, I can give you all the details. You see, the Empress Elizabeth, after her secret marriage with the count, had several children——”

“Oh! all that’s nonsense; no one really knows anything about it,” I answered.

“Of course it was a rather delicate affair, and was kept a great secret,” continued Charnomski. “You are right, how should every one know? But I relate all this because I have it from a true source. What became of the other children, and whether any are still living, … is not known.

“The Princess Elizabeth, when a child of two years old, was brought to the relations of Razoumovski, the Cossacks Daragan, to their property in Oukraine, Daraganovka, which the neighbours, countrymen of the new parvenus, styled, in their own fashion, “Tarakanovka.” The Dowager Empress Elizabeth, and after her all the court, in fun called the child the Princess Tmoutarakanova.[17] At first she was not neglected. She was often inquired after. Everything that she needed was always sent to her. But afterwards, especially during her travels, she was lost sight of, and finally quite forgotten.”

The word “Tarakanovka” made me shudder in spite of myself. It sounded to me like a voice of the past. It reminded me of my far-off childhood, of our own little manor, Konsovka, and my late grandmother, Agraffena Vlassovna, who had known much of the past and present court; of the wonderful luck which had fallen to the lot of the shepherd of Lemechevski, who unexpectedly had become, instead of the singer, Aloshki Razouma,[18] a count, and the privately married husband of the empress; of the accession to the throne of the new empress; of the attempt of Merovitch, and of many other events. Through him my grandfather, Irakli Konsov, who was a neighbour of the Razoumovskis in the village Lemesha, was loaded with favours, rose in his service, and died in a very high position.

I remembered another very hazy circumstance. I went once with my grandmother to a name’s-sake day party given by some relations. Our road lay across a village near Baturin, the residence of the Hetman[19] Kiryl Razoumovski. It was a lovely and calm summer’s evening, and we were talking together, grandmother and I. From the open carriage, on both sides of the road, in the twilight we could see the weeping willows, and, scattered here and there between them, the white cottages and windmills, and above the willows and the cottages the church steeple. My grandmother, musing quietly, crossed herself, and then thoughtfully, gently, as if to herself, all at once pronounced the word “Tarakanchic.”[20]

“What did you say, grandmother?” I asked.

“Tarakanchic.”

“What is that?”

“Well, I will tell you, mon ange,” she answered. “Here, a long time ago, in this same village, lived a mysterious person—a lovely, graceful, and fair child, as fair as a lily; but she did not stay long, and where she disappeared to no one knows.”

“But who was it?” asked I.

“Red Riding Hood,” answered my grandmother, lowering her voice. “I suppose, as in the fairy tale, the cruel wolves have eaten poor Tmoutarakanovka.”[21]

My grandmother after this spoke no more, and I, believing the wolves had really eaten the child, forbore to ask any more questions.

But now I clearly remembered that lovely green and willowy Tarakanovka and the mysterious tale of my grandmother. That century was rich in fairy-like lore, and one might be pardoned for believing in all sorts of miracles.

“Well, have you decided, sir?” broke in Charnomski, seeing that, lost in thought, I was silent.

“Explain to me just what the Princess expects of me.”

“Only one thing, sir lieutenant, only one thing,” answered the wily envoy, getting up and bowing. “To take this letter of the Princess to Count Orloff; that is the only thing she asks of you.… Tell the count how and where you met the Russian Grand Duchess Elizabeth, and with what impatience she awaits his answer to her first letter and manifesto. On the result of your mission depends her further course of action and her departure for the Sultan’s court.”

Charnomski took from his breast pocket a letter, and handed it to me.

“That is her only request,” he repeated, bowing again, and insinuatingly looking me in the face, with a half-look of entreaty in his large grey eyes.

After having thought it all over, I felt that I ought not to refuse, and I took the letter. My duty as an officer demanded that I should let the count know everything. He must decide what should be done; that would be his affair.

“Very well,” answered I. “I do not know who your Princess is, but I undertake to deliver her letter in safety.”

Having waited some time, I found an opportunity of sailing to my destination. I presented myself once more to the Princess, made my adieux, and left Ragusa. The very same day the Prince Radzivill gave, in honour of the Princess, his fairy-like and long-renowned fête. For a long time in Europe the newspapers could talk of nothing else. The extravagant and generous prince, madly in love with the Princess, had already been lavishing his wealth upon her, like an Indian nabob; but this time he surpassed himself. The fête lasted a long time; the most precious wines flowed like water. There was music, cannon were fired in the gardens, and a beautiful display of fireworks of more than 1,000 rockets astonished all the town. At the end of the feast, the knightly lover suddenly announced that the dances would continue till the morning, and that at dawn all the revellers, to refresh themselves, should see a real winter, and should drive home, not in carriages, but in sleighs. On the morrow, when the guests came out on the perron, the neighbouring streets were really quite white, and to all appearance covered with snow. During the night busy workers had spread a thick layer of salt over everything, and the joyous, noisy crowd of masques, amidst repeated salutes of cannon and the shouts of the newly-awakened citizens, were really driven home to the musical sound of the sleigh bells.

I took my departure for Italy, puzzling my brain with various questions. “Was this Princess really the daughter of the Empress Elizabeth? Did she believe in the truth of what she said herself, or did she spread these rumours on purpose?” As far as I could remember the expression of her face, there appeared from time to time, especially in her eyes, something it seemed to me almost impossible to catch—a look of indecision, mingled with a gleam of hope.

In taking with me her letter and the particulars I had learnt, I was prompted by feelings of duty, as an officer of Her Majesty Ekaterina, but I was half won over by pity for the Princess as a lovely and helpless woman.

CHAPTER VIII.
I DELIVER A LETTER.

I landed at Ancona. From there I started for Bologna, which I had heard the commander had chosen for his headquarters. The Count Alexis Orloff, although the hero of Chesma, hated the sea from the bottom of his heart, and having given over the command of the squadron to his vice-admiral, the first flag-officer, Vice-Admiral Samuel Greig, he spent most of his time on land.

To those beneath him he was ever amiable and good. He was very fond of simple jokes, and surrounded as he was by almost Imperial luxury, was always attentive and easy of access. The life of the count at Moscow, before the campaign in the Greek waters, which had covered his name with glory, had remained graven on my mind. The Orloffs were no strangers to our family. My late father in days gone by had been their companion-in-arms, and I, in going backwards and forwards from the naval schools to my birthplace, used very often to spend long holidays in their Muscovite house. The Count Alexis especially was a favourite of bright Moscow; the gigantic and splendid figure of Count Alexana, as all Moscow called him, full of robust health, his fine Grecian eyes, his gay and careless manners, his enormous wealth, all tended to attract to his hospitable halls all that Moscow could boast of as regards aristocracy, nobility, and also almost all other classes.

The house of the Count Alexis, as I well remember it now, stood not far from the gates of Moscow, and not far from the “Crimean Ford,” and very near to his property in the environs of Moscow, the village Niaskouchnavo (the “not gloomy” village).

The Muscovites could admire in the house of the count the splendid gobelin tapestries on the walls; the marvellous, graceful Dutch-tile stoves on gilt pedestals; the magnificent collection of old arms and armour. His town garden was ornamented with ponds, lakes, arbours, cascades, a menagerie, and an aviary. At the princely gates, in one of the windows of the lodge-keeper’s cottage, hung a golden cage with a parrot in it, who would scream at the idlers, “Long live our little Mother Empress!” At the fabulous feasts of the Count Alexis, very often under the costly lemon and orange trees, brought from his hothouses, tables would be spread, at which more than 300 people would sit down. A true Russian at heart, the count used to like giving his guests the pleasure of looking on at boxings, wrestlings, minstrelsies, himself often not disdaining to take part in them. With his hand he could bend a horseshoe, tie a poker in a knot, or catch a bull by the horns and throw him down; and to these sights he would sometimes invite all Moscow.

On one occasion, to have a good laugh at the rising passion of the fops for pince-nez and spectacles, on the 1st of May he sent on the public promenade at Sokolnika one of his attendants, dressed in a riding costume, and leading amongst the crowd of young dandies a poor, crippled, and half-blind cur, with great tin spectacles on his nose, and a card hung round his neck with the following sentence in large letters, “And look, he’s only three years old!”

But it was his splendidly arranged hunting meets and horse races which made him a centre of attraction to all classes of society. Not one horse in all Moscow could be compared to his “Rissak,”[22] a mixed breed of Arabian, English, and Frisian horses. At the races held in front of the house at the “Crimean Ford” I can even now remember how the Count Alexano, in the winter in his tiny sleighs, and in summer in his racing droskies would lead with his own hands his spotlessly white horse “Smitanka,” or her rival, the dapple-grey “Amazonka.” Crowds would be running after the count when he, gathering the reins in his hand in his romanovski touloup,[23] or his damask coat, would appear at the gates on his snorting, white-maned beauty, calling out to his three Simeons—to his first jockey, Sainka the White, to arrange the bit; to his second, Sainka the Black, to tighten the stirrups; to his third, Sainka the Dresdenite, to moisten the horse’s mane with kvas.

The count was also playful in his correspondence. Who does not know the letter he wrote to his brother Gregory after the celebrated victory of Chesma?

“Sir, my brother, good day! We marched on the enemy, we went up to him, we caught him, we felled him, we broke him, we conquered him, we drowned him, we burnt him, and turned him into ashes. And I, your humble servant, am in good health.—Alexis Orloff.”

Copies of this letter were in the hands of every one. A born jester, a reveller, a boxer, this pleasure-loving count in his young years before the war had never even dreamt of being a sailor. Even to take the command of the fleet in Italy he went by land! He was very much talked about on the accession of the empress to the throne; after the battle of Chesma he was still more talked about; but to a good many he remained an enigma. At the reviews and parades, at his own princely levées, Count Alexis always appeared surrounded with great pomp, covered with gold, diamonds, and orders of all sorts; but in his walks in Paris he would go out amongst the elegant and fastidious crowd of promenaders sometimes with his head unpowdered, with a little round bourgeois hat, and a coat of the coarsest and commonest grey cloth. I, of course, like others, could not very well guess the motives which prompted him to do all this. Very often even his words would bewilder you. Yes, he was a man of great mind and subtle wit. I burned with impatience again to see him, after so long a separation, although the commission entrusted to me by the Princess troubled me very much. Before my departure from Ragusa I had let the count know by letter of my escape from the Turks, and also that I was bringing him news of a very important person, whom I had discovered by accident and had met.

My journey through Italy lasted a long time. I managed to get a chill on the mountains, fell ill, and was obliged to stay for some time at the house of a charitable magnate. At length I arrived at Bologna. After having rested from my journey a little, I changed my dress, and, feeling rather agitated, I approached the beautiful palace of the count at Bologna. I learnt that the count was at home, and sent to announce my presence. After my long imprisonment, I had every reason to expect a warm welcome and reward; but I was rather doubtful how the count would take my audience and conference with the dangerous and mysterious pretender, held without the permission of my chief. There were two sides to the question. If I had been asked to say conscientiously exactly what I thought of the Princess, I should have found it very difficult to give a truthful answer. At Ragusa I had heard many doubtful things of her past life, about mysterious ties she had formed. But what did her past life matter to any one? Who knows what ties she might have been induced to make to escape from her gloomy fate? And who knows if such ties really existed?

The count received me directly. I was led through a long suite of richly-decorated drawing-rooms and salons, first on the ground-floor and then upstairs.

At this time the handsome hero of Chesma, Count Alexis, was in his thirty-eighth year. Not only at home, but in a strange land, he loved to spend his time with doves, being passionately fond of these birds. On my arrival he was sitting at the very top of his house, where he ordered the footman at once to bring me. What a sight met my eyes! This celebrated man—so clever, so strong and so stately, before whom all other men seemed but pigmies—was seated on a common wooden chair at the dusty little window. Having run away from the heat, he was seated with only his shirt on! and was drinking out of a mug some iced wine, at the same time waving his handkerchief at a brood of doves, who were pirouetting about the roof. “Ah! Konchic;[24] how are you?” said he, turning for a minute towards me. “Well, what? run away, eh? Well, congratulate you, old fellow. Sit down. Oh! look there; are they not a lovely couple? What do you think of them? Ah! the rascals; there they are turning and twisting. Ah, tourmelins[25] ah!”

Again he waved his handkerchief, and I, not finding any chair to sit upon, began looking at him with curiosity.

The count in these last years of peace had grown stouter, his neck was quite like a bull’s, his shoulders like Jupiter’s or Bacchus’s, his face quite striking, with its look of health and dauntlessness.

“Well! what are you staring at?” said he, standing and looking at me. “I was amusing myself with birds, while you were sitting with the Turks. Here they are all clay-coloured and black, but the tuberous ones, like ours, old fellow, are few, and not common. Yes, they can take letters for a longer distance than 100 versts. Marvellous! If we could but breed them in Russia! Well now, tell me everything about the prison and about the travels.”

I began my narration. The count listened to me at first very inattentively, all the while looking out of the window, but afterwards he grew more interested; and when I touched upon the subject of the person whom I had met at Ragusa, and handed him the letter, the count threw a handful of seed from a plate at the assembled doves, and when they all flew off in a crowd up on the roof, stood up.

“This news, my dear fellow, is such that we must talk seriously. Let’s get down from this mast into the company cabin.” We went downstairs and afterwards into the garden. The count on the way had dressed himself, and given orders that no one was to be received. We walked a long while backwards and forwards in the avenues. While I answered his questions I looked attentively into the expressive and often dreamy eyes of the count. He listened to me with very great attention.

“Ah! art scheming?” said he, all at once; “why, suppose she is a pretender, an adventuress. Now explain,” added he, sitting down on a bench. “Art repeating the words of others or thine own?”

I felt confused, and did not quite know what to answer.

“All the tales of her past life are so strange,” said I, “so much like a fairy-tale—Siberia, poison, escape from Persia, correspondence with all the crowned heads of Europe—that I have conscientiously acted as a faithful servant of the empress, looked well about me, as I cannot, I must say, hide my doubts.…”

“Agreed,” said the count, “Of course, you can look at it in two ways; but the most important fact is that she is known of at St. Petersburg. They have written to me about her, speaking of her as a ‘vagabond,’ who has taken to herself a name and genealogy to which she has no right.”

The count was silent for some time.

“H’m! nice vagabond!” added he, as if to himself. “Puzzling, of course. Let it be so; I do not dispute it.… But why have they decided on exacting her extradition? and, in case it should be refused, on taking her by force, even if it is necessary to bombard the citadel of Ragusa? No one acts like that with a common vagabond. Such a person you just catch—a stone on the neck and in the water.”

I felt as if cold water were running down my back at these words of the count. I vividly remember that eventful June day.…

“Well, what, old man—you see yourself it’s no vagabond—what do you think about it? No, straight out with it, hide nothing.”

CHAPTER IX.
WE WILL BEFRIEND HER.

The words of the count filled me with astonishment. Involuntarily I remembered then the intelligence the Princess had given me of the fallen favours of the Orloffs, of the exile of the late favourite to Revel, and of the rising fortunes of their enemies. Was it grief, was it passion which blinded the count? or did he really believe in the descent of the Princess? I really did not know, but I could clearly see that he was not throwing his words to the winds, and that a great struggle was taking place in his heart.

“Excuse my impertinence, Your Grace,” said I impatiently, “but if you bid me, I’ll hide nothing from you. The person I saw, I must say, resembles very much the late Empress Elizabeth. Who does not know the portrait of that empress? The same imposing profile, the white, delicate complexion, the same dark arched eyebrows, the same majestic figure, and, more important than all,—the same eyes. I cannot help relating to you what my late grandmother in Oukraine told me about the relatives of the Razoumovskis.”

“Ah! bah! But yourself, Konsov—you are from Baturin!” excitedly said the count. “Well, well, and what did your grandmother tell you?”

I told him all I knew about Daraganovka, and about the mysterious child who had once lived there.

“Ah! that’s where this Tarakanovka comes from,” said the count. “True! true! Yes! yes! I remember now I heard something about a Tmoutarakanski[26] princess.”

He rose from the bench. I could see that he was very much agitated. Crossing his hands behind his back, and with his head hanging down, he began walking backwards and forwards on the garden path. I respectfully followed him at a little distance.

“Konsov, you are now no longer a boy!” said Alexis Gregorevitch, turning his keen eagle eyes upon me. “This is a most important State affair. Be careful, not only of your actions and your words, but even of your very thoughts. Can you swear to be silent on everything?”

“Your Grace, I give you my oath.”

“Well, then, listen, and—remember—you answer me with your head.”[27]

The count stopped, and his thoughtful gaze seemed to pierce my very soul; then he added, “Don’t forget; you know me of old—your head!…”

We crossed the garden, and sat on an isolated bench.

“Of course it will not be very difficult to catch this calumniated person,” said the count; “you’re obliged to do a great deal sometimes, when you are ordered to do it. But would it be honest now? What do you think about it?—Mysteriously—deceitfully? Ah! and especially with a woman.—It would be a pity now, wouldn’t it?”

“Of course it would,” answered I, in my simplicity; “of course we must conquer our enemies; but then openly—otherwise everybody will have the right to call us traitors, soul-killers.”

At this minute the eyes of the count twinkled very curiously. He closed them quickly, as though something had blown into them.

“Of course, of course, old man, it would be mean.… You and I are not executioners,” said he. “Of course they wouldn’t write from Petersburg for nothing; and then, who knows what they think about us there? But there now, I’ll be open. I received two secret envoys from over there, tempting and inducing me to turn traitor.… Could I expect such a thing? Isn’t it an insult, after all my long years of faithful devotion? Ah! what think you of that?”

The frankness of the count struck me with astonishment, and flattered my vanity. “What a lot falls to the great of this earth!” thought I and from the bottom of my heart I pitied the count, whose fallen greatness I knew already.

Alexis Gregorevitch put several questions to me about the Princess and her entourage, told me he would employ me as adjutant, and dismissed me with the order to go to Bologna and await his commands. I thanked him for his attention, and took my leave.

The next day the count left for Livorno[28] to visit his squadron, and remained away a whole week. As I was without any money and in great want of everything, it was not very pleasant for me. I had no one to write to in Russia. Several more days passed. At last I was summoned.

The count received me in his study.

“Can you guess, Konsov, what I’ve to tell you?” he asked me, arranging some papers.

“How can I guess the thoughts of Your Grace?”

“Here’s a note. Go to the purser, get some money, pay your debts. Send the money to those French creditors. You’ve ruined yourself in the service. To-morrow you go to Rome.”

I bowed, and awaited further orders.

“Do you know why?” asked the count.

“I cannot guess.”

“Whilst you wandered about and were ill, this mysterious Princess, deserted by the volatile Radzivill,” said the count, “left Ragusa. At first, with a Neapolitan passport, she went to Barletta, lived there some time. Now she has appeared in Rome as a Polish lady. Do you understand?”

I again bowed.

“Well, now,” continued the count, “I am very culpable in her eyes. I have not answered her two letters. But how could I, surrounded by all these spies? Answer? I tried once or twice to send her a faithful emissary, one of your own companions-at-arms, but she would not receive him. I pity that poor, young deserted thing, so inexperienced and without any means. You’ll be able to see her and begin the negotiations. I have invited her here; at Rome, I have heard, there are several Russians. Try and get to know everything that’s going on; but, first of all, shield her from all enemies and all foreign influence. Let her believe in us alone. We will befriend her. About your own conscience, be easy; all shall be done in all mercy and according to the laws of justice.”

CHAPTER X.
IS THE COUNT A TRAITOR?

I was overwhelmed; I was wonderstruck.

“Is it possible the count can be a traitor?” The thought flew like lightning through my brain. Impossible. Celebrated patriot, celebrated hero of the Coup d’État,[29] right hand of Ekaterina? Such thoughts would be unworthy. But what in the world is he plotting? Agitated by different doubts, suddenly a bold and almost insolent plan came into my head—that of learning the most secret designs of the count. It is true that in these last few days a rumour had been circulated to the effect that from the north had been received a secret ukase, that the count, for whom the deepest regret was felt, had been recalled, and the command of the fleet given to another.