BY NEVA’S WATERS

“REMAIN HERE,” SAID THE DUCHESS, ADDRESSING HER TWO ATTENDANTS.

“By Neva’s Waters.” ([Page 146]) Frontispiece.

BY
NEVA’S WATERS

Being an Episode in the Secret History of
Alexander the First, Czar of All the Russias

BY
JOHN R. CARLING
AUTHOR OF
“THE SHADOW OF THE CZAR,” “THE VIKING’S SKULL”
“THE WEIRD PICTURE,” ETC.

BOSTON
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
1907

Copyright, 1907,
By Little, Brown, and Company.

All rights reserved

Published October, 1907

Alfred Mudge & Son, Inc., Printers,
Boston. Mass., U. S. A.

TO
MY DAUGHTER, WINIFRED

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

BY NEVA’S WATERS

CHAPTER I
A MODERN FREE-LANCE

On a cold January night in the first year of the nineteenth century, a state ball, given by command of the fair young queen, Louisa, was held in the Royal Palace at Berlin.

Of those who attended this fête, many, chiefly of the masculine sex, were indifferent to polonaise or waltz, finding their entertainment in the galleries where, somewhat after the fashion of a modern restaurant, stood little tables, at which parties of two or more, while glancing at the dancers, could at the same time regale themselves with a supper and converse upon the topics of the day. This was a feature recently introduced by the Russian Count Wengersky, and though Court fossils stood aghast at the innovation, it had met with the approval of Queen Louisa and had brought immense popularity to the Count.

In one of these balconies sat round a table some officers, who, though of youthful aspect, were more interested in politics than in the charms of the ladies. Their talk, which was extremely animated, turned chiefly upon the question whether their sovereign lord, Frederick William III., would permit himself to be drawn into the confederacy formed by the four Powers, France, Russia, Sweden, and Denmark—a confederacy whose object was to resist by armed force the right claimed by Great Britain of searching on the high seas all vessels suspected of carrying contraband of war.

As these fire-eaters talked, they cast cautious glances in the direction of Viscount Courtenay, an Englishman, who sat alone at a table sipping his wine. A member of a famous historic house and patriotic to the backbone, the quick-spirited viscount was not the man to allow any disparagement of his country to pass unchallenged, and as his reputation for swordsmanship was such as not to be disputed even by “Fighting Fitzgerald,” then in the height of his glory, the Prussian officers took good care that any remark uncomplimentary to his native land should be spoken in a low tone.

Wilfrid Courtenay’s life should have been cast in the Middle Ages. He was a romantic freelance, whose ideas were more akin to the age of chivalry than to the nineteenth century. The spirit that finds a zest in danger, the spirit that made the vikings the terror of all coasts from the North Cape to Sicily, the spirit that sent the Crusaders forth to do battle with the Paynim beneath the blazing sun of Syria, the spirit that has caused Englishmen to plant colonies in the very teeth of hostile savages—that spirit still ran strong in the blood of the Courtenays. Accordingly, on the attainment of his majority, Wilfrid, leaving to his widowed mother the care of his patrimonial acres, had set out like a knight-errant to wander over Europe in search of adventure, in which quest he had fleshed his sword in more than one campaign, earning thereby from no less a personage than the Count d’Artois, himself a pattern of chivalry, the proud title of Le Bayard de l’Angleterre.

To this taste for fighting was added another, in singular contrast with it. Just as Frederick the Great, in the intervals of campaigning, found a strange pleasure in writing what his admirers called poetry, so Wilfrid was wont to devote some of his leisure to the study of painting, but whereas Frederick in his art never rose above mediocrity, Wilfrid, in his, succeeded in attaining a high degree of excellence.

For the rest he was tall, with fair hair, blue eyes, and that indefinable air that is always the accompaniment of aristocratic birth: shapely and muscular in limb; a giant in strength; a stranger to fear; chivalrous in his dealings. Among his faults was that of acting upon impulse rather than upon the cooler dictates of reason. But where would be the great deeds of history if their authors had always paused to weigh consequences?

Now as Viscount Courtenay sat alone toying with his wine glass, a familiar voice suddenly broke in upon his reverie.

“Wilfrid, that our respective countries, or shall we say our stupid cabinets, are at war with each other, is surely no ground for breaking off our personal friendship?”

“Prince Ouvaroff! You in Berlin!” exclaimed Wilfrid, his face brightening; and, somewhat apprehensive lest the other should salute him, continental-fashion, with a hearty kiss, he quickly extended his hand, and was relieved to find Ouvaroff content with the English mode of greeting.

“‘Prince’ do you say?” returned Ouvaroff in a tone of quasi-reproach. “It was ‘Serge’ in the old days.”

“Then let it be Serge still. I am glad to see a familiar face.”

The new-comer was of Russian nationality, with a countenance decidedly unhandsome, a genuine Kalmuck physiognomy, though its ugliness was redeemed by the mild expression of the dark eyes. But however unprepossessing in face, his figure was tall and well proportioned, and arrayed in the blue uniform of the Preobrejanski Guards, who formed, in 1801 at least, the corps d’élite of the Czar’s army.

During his term of service as attaché to the Russian Embassy in London, the Prince had become well-known in West End salons, where he had met Wilfrid, who, in spite of an unreasoning prejudice against Muscovites, made an exception in favour of Prince Ouvaroff, appreciating his sterling qualities. The two had, therefore, become fast friends.

There was a mystery attending Ouvaroff. He had been brought up by a boyar of high rank, who would never, even on his deathbed, reveal to his adopted son the secret of his parentage.

“Your father lives and knows of your existence. ’Tis for him to speak—not me,” were almost the last words of his guardian.

The matter troubled Ouvaroff a good deal. He had often talked it over with his English friend, and now, their first greetings over, that friend reverted to the old theme.

“Any nearer to—to the discovery?”

The Prince’s face assumed a somewhat sombre look.

“No nearer, and, truth to tell, I hope I may never be any nearer than I am at present.”

Wilfrid lifted his eyebrows in genuine surprise.

“Do you remember,” continued the Prince, “that old gipsy fortune-teller, whom you and I once met near your place in Surrey? She predicted that my father would become known to me in the very moment of my killing him.”

“My dear Serge, surely you don’t attach any importance to her words?”

“I do, and—fear. Her prophecies were three—first, that on my return to Russia I should be created a prince; second, that I should become aide-de-camp to the Czarovitch Alexander. Both these have come to pass. Why should I refuse to believe the third?”

“Why? Because the old sibyl assured me that within a year I should save the life of the fairest princess in Europe, gaining her love by that act. Eight years have passed since then, and so far I haven’t saved the life of any woman, whether princess or peasant. Since she can prophesy falsely as well as truthfully, dismiss your gloomy forebodings.”

Ouvaroff changed the conversation.

“What’s this I hear you’ve been doing at Paris?” he observed. “I am told that a picture of yours exhibited there last Christmas almost created a riot.”

“A riot? Nonsense!”

“I see you do not like to—what do you say in England?—blow your own trumpet. But for once lay aside your modesty, and let me have this story.”

“Well, since you insist on being bored. You are referring, I suppose, to my picture, ‘The Last Moments of Marie Antoinette?’ Despite what French newspapers may say, I had no political motive. The work was done merely to please my own fancy. When finished my poor old drawing master saw it, and begged for the loan of it, to place it among a small exhibition of his own pictures. I consented. The result was marvellous. Thousands came to view the picture. Republicans who had once yelled for the head of ‘The Austrian,’ and had gleefully seen her perish on the scaffold, now melted to tears at sight of her image on the canvas. Bonaparte got wind of the affair, and, on the ground that it was creating a sentiment in favour of Royalism, ordered the picture to be destroyed. The gendarmerie were stoutly opposed. Shouts of A bas Napoleon were raised, a struggle ensued, and the gallery had to be cleared with fixed bayonets.”

“And is it true that you challenged Napoleon to a duel?”

“I demanded compensation for the loss of my picture or—satisfaction at the sword’s point.”

Ouvaroff could not help smiling at his friend’s colossal audacity.

“And General Bonaparte’s answer——?”

“Was a police order to cross the frontier within forty-eight hours.”

“You went?”

“I stayed. You see, the First Consul’s sister, the dark-eyed Pauline, with whom I had had some love passages—platonic, of course—had invited me to a ball a fortnight later. My dear Serge, how could I refuse? On the evening of the dance I presented myself, greatly to the dismay of my friends, who were aware that the First Consul was expected. I had purposely arranged to take my departure at the moment of his arrival.”

“He saw you?”

“Certainly. Figure his rage as he saw me raising Pauline’s hand to my lips as I took my leave! The music, the dancing, the conversation—all stopped. The stillness was painful. ‘Did you not receive an order to quit France a fortnight ago?’ he thundered. ‘Why have you not gone?’ ‘And did you not receive a challenge to fight a fortnight ago?’ I answered. ‘Why have you not fought?’

“He couldn’t speak for passion.

“‘As to quitting France, Citoyen Bonaparte,’ I continued, ‘in such matters as coming and going, we Courtenays are accustomed to please ourselves. I had fixed upon to-night as the time of my departure, and, as you now perceive, I—er—depart. Adieu, citoyen.’

“With that I passed, by preconcerted arrangement, through a circle of friends, and before he had time to order my arrest I had reached a private gateway, where a carriage was awaiting me. As I had taken the precaution to have relays of horses in readiness, I succeeded in crossing the Eastern frontier a few hundred yards ahead of the pursuing carabineers.”

“And so General Bonaparte declined to measure swords with you?”

“Bonaparte is a Corsican—that is to say an Italian bravo, who prefers darker methods. Listen to the sequel. A few days later, as I was sitting at the card table in the kursaal at Homburg, a man suddenly rose, accused me of cheating, and ended his remarks by flinging the contents of his wine glass in my face. Of course, a meeting was inevitable. It was to be a duel to the death. Later that night my second came to me in great distress, advising me to cry off. He had discovered that my adversary was a secret agent of the First Consul—none other, in fact, than the famous, or infamous, Abbé Spada.”

“I have heard of him. The first swordsman of France?”

“So-called. Well, we met, and considering the many men whom Spada has killed in his day, I felt justified in giving him his passport to Gehenna.”

“You killed him!”

“Within three minutes.”

Ouvaroff regarded the speaker with admiration.

“That’s Bonaparte’s way of dealing with the objects of his displeasure,” concluded Wilfrid. “But I’ll be even yet with the Little Corsican for destroying my picture.”

Now, as Wilfrid gazed down upon the dancers swaying rhythmically to the sound of the music, his eye was caught by a lofty figure standing, solitary and contemplative, within an arched entrance that opened upon the ballroom. It was a middle-aged man with silvering hair, whose cold, handsome face wore a somewhat sombre expression. He was clad in Court costume, carried his hat under his arm, and sparkled all over with diamonds from his powdered queue to his shoe buckles. It was the diamonds that attracted Wilfrid’s attention; he did not like to see a man so bedizened.

“Do you know that gentleman, Serge?” asked Wilfrid, indicating the magnate in question. “His face seems familiar to me.”

“Count Arcadius Baranoff, one of the Czar’s ministers. You must have seen him in London, for he was formerly ambassador at the Court of St. James’s. As rich as Crœsus. One of the men,” the Prince went on in tones of contempt, “who in the last reign climbed to power through the bedroom of the Empress Catharine. He is a proof of the power of the personal equation in international politics.”

“How so?”

“He is a rank barbarian, whose polish is but skin deep. When he was in London his brusquerie offended the men, his coarseness the women, and he left England burning with a desire to do her hurt, and now the time has come, he thinks.”

“Thinks!”

“You are aware that, after fighting each other for a year or more, the Czar Paul and Consul Bonaparte are now fast friends. This is mainly due to the diplomacy of Count Baranoff, who was sent to Paris as the Czar’s envoy: it was his hand that signed the Franco-Russian treaty. While in the French capital he tickled the Parisian fancy with a pamphlet, ‘Is it possible for an Englishman to possess sense?’”

“Oh, indeed!” muttered Wilfrid, with a glance at the distant pamphleteer.

“And now, on his way back to St. Petersburg, he tarries at Berlin in the hope of persuading the Prussian King to join the league against England.”

“Humph! Is he likely to succeed?”

“There’s no telling. He has had two interviews with the King. Frederick William is an amiable, weak-minded man. Were it not that Queen Louisa insists upon being present at these interviews, Baranoff might have carried his point. He is to have a final interview on the fourth day from this, and—mark this significant point—the Queen knows nothing of this intended meeting.”

“And Prince Ouvaroff as a Muscovite patriot,” smiled Wilfrid, “hopes that Baranoff will gain his ends?”

“By no means,” responded the other quickly. “Personally, I am opposed to the war, and—but let this be kept secret—so is the Czarovitch. Why should we give an opportunity to your Nelson to earn fresh laurels at Russia’s expense? But a truce to politics—I shall be letting out more than I ought,” he continued with a laugh, and then, by way of changing the subject, he added—

“You are not married yet?”

“No, nor likely to be. Waiting for the promised princess,” said Wilfrid mockingly. “But you—? What of the lady you loved five years ago?”

“I love her still,” replied the Prince moodily.

“She remains unwed?”

“So far. But she is ice to me.”

“Take heart. The Neva is not always frozen. That she does not marry should encourage you to continue your suit.”

“Give me your face and figure and I might succeed. Is it likely that she, confessedly the most beautiful woman in Moscow, will marry an ugly fellow like me?”

“What have looks to do with love? What says your own Russian proverb: ‘I do not love thee because thou art pretty, but thou art pretty because I love thee.’”

These words failed to arouse Ouvaroff.

“I have discovered of late that I have a rival, and a successful one. There is peril in aspiring to her hand.”

Before Wilfrid had time to ask the meaning of these mysterious words a liveried attendant approached, carrying a silver salver, upon which lay a sealed envelope. This with a bow he presented to the Prince, who, upon opening it, found therein a card inscribed with the words:—

“He who now speaks with you is the man.

Arcadius Baranoff.”

CHAPTER II
BARANOFF’S PROPOSAL

For a moment Ouvaroff fastened his gaze upon the card which he so held as to be seen by none but himself; then, raising his eyes, he looked at Wilfrid. There was a sudden coldness in the Prince’s demeanour, and Wilfrid intuitively felt that the writing on the card had something to do with it.

“The next dance is a Hungarian waltz, I perceive,” said Ouvaroff in a changed voice. “I am reminded by this card that a lady is waiting for me. Excuse my absence for a few minutes. I am so ugly, you see,” he added with an uneasy smile, “that when I do obtain the favour of a dance I cannot afford to miss it.”

As honest a fellow as ever lived was Ouvaroff, but the words he had just spoken were a “white lie,” as Wilfrid quickly proved; for, upon looking down during the whole course of the waltz, he did not see the Prince among the dancers.

While Wilfrid was puzzling himself to account for Ouvaroff’s conduct, he saw Count Baranoff coming along the gallery, smilingly exchanging a word here and there with those to whom he was known.

Wilfrid watched him and took the measure of the man. His eyes, more oval in shape than those seen in Western Europe, had the deceitful, furtive glance of the Asiatic.

“Were I a Czar, that is not the sort of man I should choose for my minister,” was Wilfrid’s comment.

“Do I address Viscount Courtenay?” said the Count with a bow as he drew near to Wilfrid.

Yes, he did address Viscount Courtenay. This somewhat bluntly. Wilfrid had not asked for the diplomatist’s acquaintance, nor was he disposed to be over polite to an enemy of England.

But the envoy was not to be rebuffed by Wilfrid’s frigid manner. He sat down in the chair lately occupied by Ouvaroff. The little group of Prussian officers stared at the pair, wondering what there could be in common between the Czar’s representative and the eccentric young Englishman.

As Baranoff seated himself a diamond dropped from his coat. Wilfrid picked it up and presented it to its owner, who gracefully waved it off.

“It is beneath the dignity of a Baranoff to resume what he has once let fall.”

“And beneath that of a Courtenay to accept it,” replied Wilfrid, placing the gem in the exact spot where it had fallen.

This diamond-dropping was an old trick of Baranoff’s whenever he wished to gain the good graces of a stranger. He had always found the method very successful—with Russians. It didn’t seem to answer with an Englishman.

The Count called for a bottle of Chartreuse and helped himself to a glass, first pouring in from a phial that he produced a few drops of a liquid that Wilfrid knew to be “diavolino,” one of those Italian nostrums much in vogue a century ago, as warranted to keep in tone the constitutions of those given to dissipation.

Wilfrid’s dislike of the man increased.

“You have business with me, sir?”

“Ah, how delightfully English! You come to the point at once. Business? Yes, we may call it that. At any rate I have an offer—a magnificent offer to make.”

He eyed Wilfrid curiously, dubious as to how his words would be received. And indeed it was on Wilfrid’s tongue to tell the envoy to take himself and his offer to Samarcand, or further, but he refrained for the moment, thinking that he might as well hear what the offer was.

“I wish,” continued the Count, “to give you the opportunity of earning three hundred thousand roubles. Such is the price I am willing to pay for a service to be done by you.”

Three hundred thousand roubles, or, roughly speaking, £50,000 in English money, would be a welcome gift to Wilfrid, whose family estate had a heavy mortgage upon it. But, mindful of the character of the speaker, he determined to learn first whether the proposal could be honourably entertained by an English gentleman and a patriot.

“Three hundred thousand roubles! It must be a very substantial service to be worth so much.”

“You speak truth. It is a substantial service.”

“There are thousands of suitable men in Europe. Why select me for the purpose?”

“Thousands of men—true. But only one Courtenay.”

Wilfrid did not controvert a remark so obviously just.

“The work,” continued the Count, “is one requiring a spirit that will dare great things.”

“Then, who more qualified for the task than Count Baranoff?”

“You are very good,” smiled the envoy. “But I was not at Saxony in the summer of 1792—you were.”

“So, too, were many other men in the year you mention.”

“True, but you were the central figure in a certain affair, forgotten by you, perhaps, but remembered by others. I will explain anon.”

The summer of 1792 was about eight and a half years back. Wilfrid hurriedly reviewing his brief sojourn in the kingdom of Saxony, could recall nothing to explain Baranoff’s words.

“What I require for my three hundred thousand roubles is that you shall make love—successful love, mark you—to a certain lady.”

Wilfrid gave a scornful laugh.

“I thought the enterprise was one demanding a high degree of courage!”

“And so it does. There’s great danger in it.”

“That makes it interesting. Where is this Lady Perilous to be found?”

“In the city of St. Petersburg.”

“Is the lady young or old?”

“She is in her twenty-third year.”

“Seven years my junior. Ill-favoured, perhaps, and therefore unable to obtain a suitor?”

“She has the loveliest face in St. Petersburg.”

“Not ill-favoured? The daughter of a vulgar merchant, or of some wealthy serf desirous of obtaining a nobleman for his son-in-law?”

“On the contrary, her father is a prince.”

Wilfrid started. He thought of the gipsy’s prophecy.

“Is the lady of fallen fortunes?”

“She can command millions of roubles.”

“A prisoner immured within a fortress from which you would have me rescue her?”

“Nothing of the sort.”

“A cloistered nun, repentant of her vows?”

“Not at all. She moves freely in Court circles.”

“Demented, or that way inclined?”

“As sane as women in general.”

“Subject to some hereditary taint? Epileptic or the like?”

“As sound in physique as yourself.”

“Then by all that’s holy!” cried Wilfrid, in a paroxysm of perplexity, “explain why a lady of princely birth, beautiful, and rich, can lack suitors among her own nation? Why must a foreigner from distant England play the lover?”

“Because there is no one in St. Petersburg bold enough to take upon himself that rôle, since discovery means certain death to the lover, death perhaps to her.”

“Death!” queried Wilfrid, somewhat startled at the word.

“At the hands of the State.”

“Ah!” said Wilfrid, beginning to receive a glimmer of light. “She is a lady important politically?”

“Very much so,” replied the diplomatist with a look that confirmed his statement.

“What prospect have I of winning this lady’s affections?”

“I have discovered, no matter how, that you are the only man in Europe who can succeed.”

“Really! That’s very flattering to my vanity,” laughed Wilfrid. “The lady did not send you on this mission, I trust?”

“She is modesty itself, and would die rather than commission any one on such an errand.”

“I ask her pardon for wronging her in thought. Have you got her portrait?”

The Count hesitated for a moment, and then drew forth an ivory miniature.

“Painted three months ago. It scarcely does her justice.”

As Wilfrid’s eyes fell on the miniature he fairly held his breath. It was a face more beautiful than any he had ever seen. The soft violet eyes and the lovely delicate features, with their sweet grave expression that spoke of a nature, pensive and spirituelle, might well inspire love in the heart even of the coldest; much more then in that of a romantic character like Wilfrid.

“Well, what do you think of it?” asked Baranoff.

“It is the face of an angel,” replied Wilfrid as he returned the miniature. “What is her name?” he added.

“You do not recognise her?”

“No.”

“I thought perhaps you might have recognised the face. Her name? Pardon me, I will give it if you are prepared to undertake the rôle of lover—if not, ’twere best, in the lady’s interests, to keep it secret.”

Wilfrid reflected. A lady of political consequence, Baranoff had called her, threatened by the State with death if she listened to love-vows! Wilfrid was sufficiently versed in Russian history to know that the reigning dynasty was a younger branch of the House of Romanoff, and that a return to the rights of primogeniture would deprive the present Czar of his crown. Was the lady with the angel-face a descendant of the elder line, and thus so nearly related to the throne that, in the Court of the gloomy and suspicious Paul the First, it would be perilous for any man, even the highest among Russia’s nobility, to aspire to her hand? Imbued with this idea Wilfrid began to weave a whole political romance around the person of the beautiful unknown. Was she, though nominally at liberty, a virtual prisoner at the Czar’s Court, watched by a hundred suspicious eyes—pining for affection, yet forbidden to marry?

To try to set her free from such gloomy environment was no more than his duty.

And Wilfrid, if Baranoff had spoken truly, was certain of gaining her love! To woo and carry off a fair princess from the power of a jealous Czar was just the sort of enterprise that appealed to his knightly and romantic character. He could no longer hesitate.

“Do you assent?”

“Assent!” echoed Wilfrid. “Is it possible to dissent? You say that provided I succeed in marrying this lady you will add to the pleasure by paying me the sum of three hundred thousand roubles! Really, your proposal is so extraordinary, so captivating, that I am almost inclined to think that you are trifling with me. And,” he added in a graver tone, “it is not wise, sir, to trifle with a Courtenay.”

“No trifling is intended. But, pardon me, I have not, it seems, made my meaning quite clear. You are labouring under a slight misapprehension. I spoke of love: I did not speak of marriage.”

Wilfrid stared hard at the speaker, upon whose lips there now appeared a sinister smile. Then, vivid as fire upon a dark night, the full meaning of the proposal flashed upon him. He was deliberately to set to work to corrupt a woman’s innocence! The lady in question had given some offence to the powerful diplomatist, who chose this diabolical method of revenge. The fall from purity, the shame that is worse than death, would destroy whatever influence she possessed in Court circles, and probably at the same time remove a political obstacle from Baranoff’s path.

Now whatever sins might be imputed to Wilfrid, he had not yet played the rake. In an age when gallantry was considered one of the marks of a gentleman, and even the clergy were not conspicuous for purity of morals, he had kept his name stainless, thanks to the influence of a good mother, who had bidden him see in every woman a saint.

His anger, then, can be imagined. He blamed himself for holding converse with so cold-blooded a barbarian.

“I deserve this insult,” he muttered. “What else could I expect? Can one meddle with pitch and not be defiled?”

“You must not talk of marriage,” resumed Baranoff. “What I require is that the lady shall be induced to compromise herself.”

“So that all the world shall hear of her fall?” said Wilfrid, smiling dangerously.

“Why, truth to tell, ’twill not avail me much if the amour remain secret.”

The candour with which Baranoff spoke showed that he was quite convinced that Wilfrid had consented to his scheme.

“But you have said,” commented Wilfrid, “that the affair, if discovered, may bring upon her the penalty of death.”

“So it may, if it be discovered while she is on Russian ground. But I will so arrange matters that both you and she shall have every facility for escape. Once over the frontier you are safe. As I have said, the danger is great. But so, too, is the reward. Think! Three hundred thousand roubles!”

“Your Excellency,” said Wilfrid with the air of one who has formed an irrevocable decision, “I will at once depart for St. Petersburg.”

“Good!”

“I will seek out the lady.”

“Excellent!”

“And I will warn her of your damnable designs.”

“Ha!” muttered Baranoff, looking thunderstruck.

As he caught the angry sparkle of Wilfrid’s eye, it suddenly dawned upon him that he had mistaken his man. Reared in the atmosphere of Catharine’s Court, in its day the most licentious in Europe, Baranoff had become dead to all sense of honour, and failed to understand how a man could resist the twin temptation of a pleasant amour and a rich bribe.

“Do I take it that you refuse my offer?”

“To the devil with your offer!”

Baranoff elevated his eyebrows and affected the extreme of amazement.

“I hold out to you the prospect of an amour with a beautiful and charming woman, to be followed by a free gift of three hundred thousand roubles, and you refuse!”

“Repeat your infamous offer, and I’ll—yes, by heaven! I’ll fling you over the rails of this balcony!”

Unconsciously Baranoff backed a little from the table, for Wilfrid looked quite capable of putting his threat into execution.

There was a brief silence. Then Baranoff spoke.

“So you will visit St. Petersburg and put the lady on her guard,” sneered he, mightily pleased that he had withheld her name. “I fear that if you seek to enter Russia at this present juncture you will be taken for a spy of Pitt’s. As minister of the Czar it would be my duty to order your arrest.”

“Oh, indeed! Do you really entertain the hope of returning to Russia?”

“What is to prevent me?”

“Myself.”

“You!” exclaimed Baranoff disdainfully.

Wilfrid laughed pleasantly.

“I shall certainly do my best to provide you with a grave in Brandenburg’s sand. In seeking to make me the agent of an infamous deed you have offered an insult not to be passed over by an English gentleman. You will have to defend your conduct with the sword.”

There was a very palpable start on the part of Baranoff, and his face paled. Though well versed in the art of fencing he durst not measure swords with the man who, inside of three minutes, had transfixed the Abbé Spada, the champion duellist of France.

He sought to shield himself behind the privileges of his high offices.

“It would be contrary to etiquette,” he remarked loftily, “for a chargé d’affaires to accept a challenge. My imperial master would never forgive me for putting my life to the hazard of a duel while engaged in conducting a diplomatic mission, otherwise——”

“Now you are talking nonsense,” interrupted Wilfrid, bluntly. “The Czar loves a duel, for only a few weeks ago he invited all the sovereigns of Europe to his Court to settle their international disputes by single combat.”

And Baranoff, well knowing that the eccentric Czar had so acted, felt himself deprived of his argument.

“Fight me you must! I will force you.”

“Force me? indeed!” said the Count. “In what way?”

“By publicly branding you as a coward; by putting affronts upon you in every assembly you frequent. For example, if you are among men I shall walk up to you with a pair of scissors, and after asking, ‘Why do these Muscovites wear their beards so long?’ I shall proceed to clip yours. If you are sitting with ladies I shall relate in their hearing and in yours the story of how you propose to deal with one of their sex. It may be that through fear of me you will keep within your hotel, in which case I shall have to affix a notice at the chief entrance, stating the reason of your enforced seclusion! In short, sir, I shall make your life at Berlin so abominably unpleasant that for very shame you will have to fight. There must be a meeting unless you wish to see the name of Baranoff turned into a byword for a coward.”

The Count listened with secret consternation, feeling certain that this obstinate pig of an Englishman would keep his word. A man who had not shrunk from defying the First Consul to his face was not likely to pay much respect to the status of a diplomatic envoy.

And to whom could he look for protection? Not to Frederick William. So long as Queen Louisa was by his side that monarch would avow, rightly or wrongly, that he was powerless to control the actions of one who was not a native-born subject. Not to the British Ambassador at Berlin. That magnate, in view of the hostile relations between Great Britain and Russia, would be highly amused at the mortification of the Muscovite envoy.

While he was thinking of all this Wilfrid, too, was thinking, and it suddenly occurred to him that there was another and better way of punishing Baranoff—one that would likewise strike a blow at Bonaparte.

“As your Excellency seems to have no liking for the duel, I give you the alternative of quitting Berlin within twenty-four hours.”

An instant feeling of relief swept over Baranoff. Here was a way of escape. Then he began to reflect that if he should depart within the time prescribed he must sacrifice the promised interview with King Frederick, and go back to St. Petersburg without gaining the adhesion of Prussia to the Northern Confederacy—a sad blow to his hopes!

Disposed to take a favourable view of matters, he had that very day sent off a despatch to the Czar stating that King Frederick seemed slowly coming over to Russian views. He must now return to report the failure of his mission, and, if he should speak the whole truth, to confess that he had been frightened from Berlin by a single Englishman! The neutrality of Prussia meant the loss of so many war vessels to the Confederacy, and was practically equivalent to a bloodless naval victory on the part of Wilfrid.

Some such thought as this caused Wilfrid to smile. Baranoff, quick to read his thoughts, was consumed with secret rage.

No, he would not withdraw from Berlin at Wilfrid’s bidding, and he said as much.

“Go you shall,” retorted Wilfrid. “As General Bonaparte, your dear ally, banished me from France, so I in turn do banish you from Prussia. ‘Tit for tat,’ as our English children say.”

Baranoff gave a scowl of baffled hatred.

“How much has Louisa paid you for this business?” he sneered.

With disdain on his face Wilfrid rose.

“When next you take to pamphleteering let the theme be, ‘Is it possible for a Russian to be a gentleman?’ My present address is the Hôtel du Nord. If by to-morrow evening at six of the clock you have neither left Berlin nor sent me your second, you may prepare for humiliation. I take my leave. Adieu, or Au revoir, whichever you please.”

And so saying Wilfrid withdrew to the quietude of his room in the hotel to think over matters.

It was a fascinating thought that during a brief stay in Saxony he had been seen by a girlish and beautiful princess, upon whose imagination he had made an impression so powerful that after the lapse of eight years she still retained him in mind. True, Baranoff was a person upon whose statements little reliance could be placed, but in the present instance Wilfrid was convinced that he had not spoken falsely.

“The lady has a real existence,” he muttered. “Now how ought I to act in this affair?”

It was hard that a princess who cherished his memory with affection should meet with no return. Yet, on the other hand, it would be embarrassing for both if he should be unable to requite her love.

If he went it was doubtful whether he would find her, so slight were the clues he held.

Would his friend Ouvaroff be able to identify her? The thought had no sooner entered Wilfrid’s mind than he recalled the Prince’s strange saying in connection with his own love suit. “There is deadly peril in aspiring to her hand.” This could scarcely be a coincidence—Ouvaroff’s lady must be Baranoff’s princess.

“Humph! if Serge were first in the field,” thought Wilfrid, “it seems unfair to cut him out. But, if the princess won’t have him——”

Early on the following morning he called at Ouvaroff’s quarters. To his extreme disappointment he found that the Prince had taken his departure, leaving a note to the effect that he had been hastily summoned to St. Petersburg by command of the Czarovitch. “Pardon my running off without a farewell,” he wrote, “but Alexander’s service brooks no delay.”

Ouvaroff was not the only Muscovite to leave Berlin that day, for in the evening the political circles were surprised, and probably relieved, by the news that Count Baranoff had suddenly departed for St. Petersburg, thus relinquishing his attempt to make Prussia a member of the Armed Neutrality.

And now was Wilfrid continually haunted by the lovely face in the miniature. It filled his mind by day; by night it mingled with his dreams. Sometimes he saw the face, its lips curved into a witching smile as if inviting a kiss; sometimes the eyes would assume a sad, wistful look, as if appealing to him for aid.

To visit St. Petersburg, or not to visit it? was the question to which for a long time he could discover no answer. Still in doubt he looked one night from his hotel window, and saw the face of the sky as one dark cloud. But while he gazed, there presently came a rift, and through the rift one planet sparkling bright.

Hesperus, the star of Love!

It seemed like an answer to his thoughts. Love in the shape of a fair princess was beckoning to him. His mind was made up—he would go to her!

CHAPTER III
THE INN OF THE SILVER BIRCH

A winter night, frosty and still. The northern stars, set in a sky of steely blue, twinkled over a plain of frozen snow—a plain so vast that its visible border touched the horizon. In all the wide landscape no town, no hamlet, not even a solitary dwelling was to be seen; the view, a monotonous blank, relieved here and there by clumps of dark firs, the darker by contrast with the surrounding white.

Lofty posts, painted with alternate bands of black and white, and situated a verst distant from one another, indicated the ordinary line of route over the wintry waste, and along this route a hooded sledge was moving with all the speed that three gallant mares could supply, the bells upon the duga, or wooden arch, ringing out musically over the crisp snow.

Two persons occupied this sledge, one, the yamchik or driver, Izak by name, an active little Russian, who sat partly upon the shaft, in order when necessary to steady the vehicle by thrusting out a leg upon the snow; the other, Wilfrid Courtenay, who, voluminous in fur wrappings, sat, or rather reclined at the rear under cover of the hood.

It was over Russian ground that the car was speeding, its goal being St. Petersburg, distant now about one hundred miles.

Wilfrid had met with considerable difficulty in entering the Czar’s dominions. Twenty days had he been detained at the frontier-town of Kowno for no reason whatever as far as he could see, save the caprice of petty officials, whose insolence and greed had so galled the spirit of the Englishman that several times he was on the point of turning back. However, he thought better of it, and when at last leave was granted him to go forward, forward he went. Having learned by experience that travelling in one’s own equipage is more convenient, and, in the end more economical, than the ordinary method of posting, Wilfrid had purchased at Kowno a covered car, together with three steeds to draw it, accepting at the same time the proffered services of a yamchik, who boasted that he knew every verst of the way from Kowno to St. Petersburg.

And here he was speeding along at the rate of twelve miles an hour. The keen cold air, combined with the rapid swaying of the car, caused him to fall into a semi-slumber, from which he was roused by the voice of Izak.

“If the little father will condescend to look, he will see the village of Gora,” he cried, pointing with his whip to a light shining far off like a star.

Welcome news to the cold and hungry Wilfrid. Gora should be his stopping-place for the night.

Fifteen minutes more and they reached the silent, sleeping village, which, like most of its kind in Russia, consisted merely of a line of wooden cabins on each side of the post-road with a row of trees in front.

At one end of the village stood its only house of entertainment, the Inn of the Silver Birch—an inn very different externally from the generality of its class. As a matter of fact, it had originally been the seat of a rich boyar, the lord of the village and of the surrounding land. It was a large and handsome structure of timber, pillared and balconied, and with much carving about its eaves and gables. On three sides grew lofty birch trees with silvery bark; the fourth side lay open to the gaze of the travellers.

“This is the twentieth inn I’ve seen painted red,” remarked Wilfrid.

“’Tis the will of the Czar,” answered the yamchik. “Some weeks ago he gave a ball, and to it came a lady wearing a red dress. ‘What a pretty colour!’ said Paul. And lo! at once a law that all post-houses and bridges shall be painted red. Great is the word of the Czar! He wills, and—pouf! ’tis done.”

“A pity he doesn’t will a spell of warm weather, then,” growled Wilfrid, as he set his half-frozen feet upon the hard ground.

As was the village, so was the inn, still and silent as the tomb. Wilfrid’s summons, however, soon brought to the door the landlord, a somewhat melancholy-looking man. He was accompanied by a tall and pretty girl of about eighteen, sufficiently like him to be recognizable as his daughter.

Though wrapped in sheepskins they shivered as the keen, icy air from without, chilling the warmer air within, produced an instant fall of sleet, a phenomenon which, familiar enough to the four, was witnessed without surprise.

Now as the girl caught sight of Wilfrid there came into her eyes a sudden light. It was not the light of recognition, for she could never previously have seen Wilfrid, but it was a look that seemed to say she had been expecting him, and was glad he had come. Such at least was the impression that Wilfrid derived from her odd manner.

Turning from her to the landlord Wilfrid requested accommodation for the night, but at this the landlord put on a lugubrious look of refusal, explaining that it was neither for lack of room nor of victuals that he was compelled to turn the little father away, but the fact was the whole inn had been hired for the night by a small party, now fast asleep, whose grandeur was such that they had insisted that no other traveller should be received, lest the noise, however light, which must necessarily accompany his presence, should disturb their slumbers.

“Did they look under their pillow for a rose-leaf?” asked Wilfrid.

But this classical allusion was lost upon the landlord. It grieved him, he continued, to refuse a traveller at so late an hour of the night, but what could he do? He had given his word. There was another inn some twenty versts farther on; would not his Excellency——?

No, his Excellency wouldn’t, especially when he noticed on the face of the pretty girl a look of disappointment, evidently occasioned by her father’s words.

“Your name?” asked Wilfrid, addressing the landlord.

“Boris, son of Peter.”

“Good Boris, your guests’ command applies only to noisy and drunken roysterers, not to a gentleman so orderly and quiet as myself. Lead on—I’ll not disturb their slumbers.”

Boris hesitated, but a whisper from the girl seemed to decide him.

“His Excellency may enter,” said he.

The girl’s eyes danced; she could not have looked more glad had she herself, and not Wilfrid, been the traveller. While Boris conducted the yamchik with the car and horses across a courtyard to the stables, Wilfrid followed the girl—whose name she told him was Nadia—to a large room on the ground floor, a room not warmed by the ugly-looking closed-up stove, the usual accompaniment of a Russian room, but by a fire of pine-logs blazing upon the stone hearth, the ruddy glow forming a cheerful contrast to the snowy prospect without, which could be dimly discerned through the panes of the double lattice.

In one corner of the apartment hung a small painting of the Madonna, before which a taper was burning.

Wilfrid was passing this negligently by when Nadia gave a little scream.

“Ah! you are a heretic!” she cried. “Come, you must bow before the picture—so.” She showed him how to do it, and, to please her, Wilfrid bowed. “Now you make the sign of the cross, with your fingers bent thus.” Wilfrid imitated her action. “That’s right. Now you are a member of the True Church.”

She smiled so prettily that Wilfrid could not help smiling too.

Throwing a huge bearskin over the back and seat of a chair, Nadia drew it to the fire, and bidding her guest be seated, she began to bustle about, saying that all the servants were asleep and that it would be a pity to awaken them, so she herself would prepare his supper.

As Wilfrid seated himself, the innkeeper entered from the kitchen, where he had left the yamchik, who, when his meal was over, would curl himself up and sleep, peasant-fashion, upon the stove.

“Your Excellency has travelled far to-day?” asked Boris. His manner was in striking contrast with Nadia’s free and lively style. He stood in humble fashion, as if not liking, even in his own house, to sit down in the presence of his guest; but, invited by Wilfrid to a seat near the fire, he sat down, mentally contrasting the Englishman’s affability with the hauteur of the Russian grandees sleeping above.

“You have come far to-day?” he repeated.

“From,” replied Wilfrid, as he set to work with knife and fork, “from a place called—let me think—Via—Via—”

“Viaznika?” interjected Nadia.

“Ah! that’s the name—Viaznika.”

“You set off late in the day?” pursued the innkeeper.

“About noon.”

Boris looked as if Wilfrid had made a very puzzling statement.

“Your horses seem fleet enough,” he murmured.