The Intriguers

“Not after your generosity, your Excellency,” answered the maid gratefully, with a smirk.

The General grunted. “That is as it may be. I don’t know that I trust you farther than that door. But if you should feel disposed to take your mistress into your confidence, you can tell her this – that we have our eye upon her and know more than she thinks.”

Half an hour later the terrified Katerina was brought into his presence. She had been taken in charge a few yards outside the Zouroff Palace, whence she was proceeding on a shopping errand for her young mistress.

The General, with his experienced eye, read at once in her demeanour the signs of great perturbation. She was no hardened criminal, only a weak, trembling girl. He had rough and ready methods for such as these.

“Speak the truth, girl, and fear not; the strong arm of the law shall protect you,” he thundered in his loud, vigorous accents. “You are the young woman who brought me a note the other day from the Princess Nada. My hall-porter has recognised you.”

This, of course, was a flight of the gallant General’s imagination. The hall-porter had distinctly said that he would not be certain of recognising her; but it was enough to scare the shrinking Katerina.

She sank upon her knees, trembling in every limb. “It is true, your Excellency. Are you going to kill me, or send me to Siberia?”

The General smiled grimly. “Neither, my excellent young woman, as you have confessed without any unnecessary trouble. Give my compliments to your young mistress, and tell her I will give myself the pleasure of waiting upon her this afternoon on a little private matter. You can tell her that I have interrogated you, and you have confessed. You can also mention that the police, presided over by General Beilski, has a long arm, and a very wide espionage; also that we find out things pretty quickly, however carefully they are concealed.”

Poor Katerina hurried away, her brain in a whirl. As she scurried home, she reproached herself that, under the awe-inspiring presence of the formidable General, she had given her young mistress away. But, after all, she was not to blame. The Princess ought not to have sent her on such an errand.

Nada had been wondering at her absence. The shopping errand on which she had been despatched should not have occupied her very long.

Poor Katerina had to confess to her interview with the General. Nada spoke no word of blame; it was her own fault that she had chosen so weak an instrument. And she further admitted to herself that if Beilski’s emissaries had seized her instead of her maid and conveyed her to his headquarters, she would have lost her head as her maid had done.

And the General was coming to-day to worm out of her all he could. Of course, she knew she would be as wax in his hands. But even above her own immediate troubles rose the one anxious thought – was Corsini safe? had he escaped the vengeance of her ruthless brother?

She could not make use of the already too terrified Katerina any more. She sent around a brief note to Corsini at his hotel, in which she asked him to procure for her a certain piece of music of which he had spoken to her in a brief conversation a little time ago.

The messenger came back with the information that Signor Corsini was engaged in his duties at the Opera, and that the note would be given him on his return.

This relieved her very much. Corsini, at any rate, was safe. Her strategies had succeeded. She braced her nerves for the forthcoming interview with the General. She knew it would be a strenuous one. How, in the name of all that was marvellous, had he discovered that she was the sender of that letter?

Beilski had chosen a most fortunate day from her point of view. Her mother was in bed with a feverish cold. She would have to receive the General alone. He would go to the point at once. If she had her mother’s protecting presence, decency, respect for his old friend of many years, would have tied his tongue to some extent. He might hint his suspicions of Zouroff to a sister; he would conceal them from a mother, ruffian as he knew the son to be.

But though her heart was fluttering, she received him very prettily and graciously. Had she not known him from a child?

“An unexpected pleasure, my dear General. It is not often that you come to the Zouroff Palace.”

“Not so often as I would wish, my dear child, but my time is very fully occupied. As you can guess, these are troublous times. How is your dear mother?”

Nada explained that the Princess was in bed with the first symptoms of a feverish cold.

The General took a few sips of the cup of tea that the charming young Princess offered him. His bushy eyebrows worked from time to time. He was a perfect gentleman at heart; he was also very chivalrous to women. He did not at all relish the mission he was engaged on. It was the breaking of a butterfly upon a wheel, and the butterfly was the little girl to whom he used to bring chocolates and bon-bons a few years ago.

“Sorry to hear it, my dear child. Keep her warm and she will soon be all right.” Of course he was not really sorry at all that the Princess Zouroff was well out of the way; it was now all plain sailing.

After a long pause, he spoke in gruff accents. “There is no need to fence, Nada. You got the message from your maid. You know why I have come and what I have come for.”

“Yes, I know,” answered the young Princess in a faltering voice.

The General drew his chair closer. “Now, out with it all. From whom did you get the information that prompted you to write that letter?”

CHAPTER XVIII

Zouroff had exulted very greatly on that night when he had said good-bye to Corsini at the doors of the Palace. The carriage was waiting a short distance away. In a few hours the young musician would cease to be a menace to him.

He was doomed to grievous disappointment. One of the escaping band had managed to despatch a telegram in cipher acquainting him with the fact that his plans had miscarried, that Corsini had been rescued by the police at Pavlovsk.

Upon receipt of that telegram, he went into one of his violent rages, but of course nobody witnessed his distress. After he had recovered himself, he sought out his valet and imparted to him the news.

Later, in obedience to his master’s instructions, the valet learned that Corsini was back at the Opera; further, that General Beilski had surrounded him with a strong bodyguard, which was to protect him, in an unobtrusive fashion, day and night.

His suspicions fell at once on La Belle Quéro. If he had obeyed the promptings of his wild and savage nature, he would at once have gone to her dressing-room at the Opera, taxed her with her treachery, and strangled her with his own hands. Needless to say, he had no idea of the part played by his sister in the rescue of the hated musician.

But he was wily as well as savage. He would take his own measures with this treacherous Spanish woman in due course. She certainly would not escape his vengeance; but he would do nothing rash, nothing calculated to bring his own neck into jeopardy. He would meet her as if nothing had happened. He would be more lover-like than ever.

And things, as he thought, were now hastening so rapidly towards the goal that his revenge need not be long delayed.

Corsini had resumed his duties at the Opera, and his brief disappearance had been plausibly explained. The story of a short indisposition had satisfied all curiosity.

His feelings at this particular period were, perhaps, a little uncertain. He was not quite sure that the excellent Salmoros, whom he had once looked upon as a pure and benevolent philanthropist, ever ready to extend a helping hand to a struggling genius, had done him such a good turn, after all.

True, he had made certain strides in his calling: he might be said now to have gained a European reputation in place of a purely local one. On the other hand, he was mixed up in the political schemes of Golitzine. He had been kidnapped, and but for the tenderness of a woman, perhaps two women, might have been done to death by now.

On the whole, England seemed a safer place than Russia. In Russia there was only one bright spot. And that was the presence of the Princess Nada.

And this constant, ubiquitous bodyguard annoyed him. Of course he was quite sensible enough to know that it was necessary. Whoever his enemy might be, Zouroff or another, he would try and kidnap him again, undeterred by the failure of the first attempt. Golitzine and the Chief of Police were quite right to put a cordon round him.

It irked him very much, this body of four patient men who guarded him day and night, not in any way obtrusively, but always within reach – lurking in the corridor of his hotel, in the passages and lobbies of the Opera House, always ready to rush to his assistance if he were suddenly surprised.

In London he could walk east, west, south, or north without fear – to the breezy heights of Hampstead, the sylvan glades of Richmond. For, if he were to seek inspiration, he must fly from closed rooms, from shut doors, and hold communion with the stars.

On the second night of his return, the four patient men accompanied him on one of his walks, scattering discreetly, but ever on the alert.

Inspiration had come to him. The fugitive notes, with difficulty recaptured, were shaping themselves into music in his brain. Suddenly a tall figure loomed out of the darkness and stood in front of him. The four silent watching men formed up and drew closer.

“Do not fear,” whispered the man; “I am a friend. I see there are men looking after you. They are members of the police, I am sure. Tell them not to be afraid for your safety; but I would like them to withdraw out of earshot.”

“I seem to remember your voice, I have a faint recollection of your face,” answered Corsini, “but at the moment I cannot recall when and where we met.”

The big man laughed softly. “Throw back your memory a little while. A lonely road leading out of a still more lonely village filled with troops and mounted police. Your train had broken down, you had taken a quiet walk. You were saying your prayers before a village ikon. There suddenly appeared a tall, bearded man who implored your charity.”

Then Corsini recognised him. “Ivan the Cuckoo, Ivan the outlaw! What are you doing here?”

“Get your friends a little out of earshot and then we can talk quietly,” was the outlaw’s answer.

Corsini went up to the leader of the four men, who had drawn very close.

“This is a man whom I met on my first entrance into this country under very strange circumstances. I have good reason to believe he is well disposed towards me; but he wishes to speak to me in private. Will you withdraw a little so that you cannot hear what he says?”

The chief of the party looked somewhat doubtfully on the big figure of the outlaw. “He seems a bit of a ruffian, Signor, but it is as you wish. We will go out of earshot, as you request, but we will keep our pistols well levelled at him, in case of accident. You are sure you can trust him?”