The Intriguers

By the time the meal was finished, Corsini was almost his normal self. The animated discussions over different composers, in which each disputant defended his opinions warmly, had driven for a time into the background the personal events of the last few days.

“We shall never agree about Russia,” remarked the Baron at the end of this artistic conference. “Now, we have had quite a long argument and the subject is very absorbing to both of us. Let us talk of something a little nearer home. The Signor Corsini I sent out to Russia in the nature of a speculation is now Count Corsini, a member of the nobility of the Russian Empire. Have you reflected over these facts and to what extent they are going to influence your future?”

Nello answered candidly. “For the last few days, Baron, I seem to have been living in a world of dreams. I never sought adventure, but through you – no, I must not forget dear old Papa Péron, he was the origin of all this – adventure has come to me.”

At the mention of Péron’s name, Salmoros lifted his glass and spoke in a voice of emotion.

“To the memory of my dear old friend and comrade, who had a heart of gold. Ah, why did he choose to die in that miserable garret, when he knew I was so near? What misplaced pride!”

“He had the artistic temperament, Baron, but he was never a man of the world. He would give, but he blushed to take,” was Nello’s answer. “Well, you have asked me for my ideas as to the future. Candidly, I have not yet formulated any, except as regards in one direction. For one thing I would prefer not to remain in Russia.”

The Baron smiled his quiet and comprehending smile. “There I think I am with you. A charming place for a brief visit, but for a prolonged residence, certainly not.”

Corsini went on. “I love England and its free ways. Here there is too much intrigue. I propose, when certain things are settled, to return to England. The Emperor has kindly said that if I wish it the directorship of the Imperial Opera is mine for life. It is a fine post and I fully appreciate the compliment. But – ”

Salmoros interrupted him. “I quite understand. You would sooner play your violin at the Floral Hall in London than conduct the Imperial Opera in this city of St. Petersburg, honeycombed with spies, traitors, and actual or potential assassins?”

Nello nodded. It was very easy to explain to this wonderful old man, who seemed to know what you were going to say before the words were formed.

“Now confide in me,” said the Baron in his most confidential tones. “You dropped a rather significant phrase just now. You said you had not yet formulated your ideas, except in one particular direction. Will you tell me, or can I guess it?”

The young man blushed vividly. “I have been fortunate far beyond my deserts, sir. The Princess Nada Zouroff, whom I first met in London at the Russian Embassy, has been kind enough – ”

“Don’t be so formal, Nello,” said the Baron kindly, using his Christian name to put him at his ease. “You need not tell me any more. I had a long talk with Golitzine this afternoon. Of course he told me many things and amongst them was this item of news, that Nada is going to marry you.”

This wonderful old Salmoros knew everything, but how could he help it, when so many channels of information were open to him? Corsini’s answer was a still deeper blush.

“She will make you a good wife. Golitzine knows them well; he speaks in the highest terms of her and her mother. The father was a bully and a ruffian, the brother we know was a traitor, and will get his deserts.”

He raised his glass, bowing to the young man with an old-world courtesy.

“To the health of your fiancée, the future Countess Corsini. When do you propose to marry?”

“I cannot fix the exact date, Baron. Her mother, you may have heard, is very ill. Nada has only returned to the Palace to-day. It would not have been safe for her to do so while that scoundrel Boris was at large.”

Salmoros mused for a few moments before he spoke again. “So you will marry as soon as all the circumstances will permit. And I take it you will reside in England. What does the young Princess say to that?”

“Nada loves England,” was Corsini’s answer, “and after the events of last night Russia will not have very pleasant recollections for her or her mother.”

“True,” agreed the Baron. “I shall very much like you to spend part of your honeymoon with me at my place in Sussex, if it falls in with your arrangements.”

“I am sure we shall be delighted, sir,” cried Nello. He paused and added a little nervously: “But I hope you won’t want to send me on any more missions of this sort. If so, you must let me know the nature of the danger beforehand.”

Salmoros laughed good-humouredly. “No, my young friend, I will not play that sort of trick upon you a second time. Besides, being a Count and the husband of a very charming Princess, I doubt if I should find you so useful for my purposes. I will do my utmost to advance your artistic interests in England, instead. But remember, it is a promise; you will bring your wife to my house in Sussex, if not upon your honeymoon, at some time convenient to yourselves.”

Nello assured the benevolent old Baron that they would certainly accept his hospitality, and bade him good-night.

Outside he saw the four stalwart figures of his bodyguard waiting for him. Beilski had not relaxed his precautions. It was still possible that some fanatical and devoted adherent of Zouroff might resolve to avenge his defeated chief.

A burly, bearded man was walking up and down outside the door of the hotel. Corsini recognised him immediately – “Ivan the Cuckoo.”

The four men drew nearer, as they perceived the late outlaw was accosting him, but Corsini raised his hand and waved them back.

“I waited for you, Signor, to express my thanks to you who have so nobly fulfilled your part of the bargain,” said Ivan, speaking in low tones. “I was at the Count’s house an hour ago; he has promised me a most substantial sum, part of which will go to my good old comrade, Stepan. After all, Signor, if we must be truthful, it was he who really saved the Emperor.”

“I quite agree,” answered Corsini. Yes, Stepan had expressed his suspicions to Ivan, and Ivan’s quick wit had developed the plan of campaign, which the Italian had skilfully conducted. The honours seemed a little unequally distributed. Corsini was a Count, with a handsome sum of money. Ivan was to have also a substantial pecuniary reward, and Stepan was to have some share of what Ivan received. Still, it was no use pondering over these caprices of fortune.

“Signor,” went on the late outlaw, “I am sick of Russia. As soon as I get my money, and the Count promises it immediately, I shall leave this country. I am tired of it. I shall go to England – I hear it is a land of the free – set up a business there, and turn myself into an honest man.”

Corsini shook him by the hand. “Bravo, Ivan. Yes, by all means go to England. It is, as you say, a land of the free. I shall go back there as soon as I can. I am not over-fond of Russia.”

Ivan’s eyes sparkled. “Perhaps, Signor, we might meet there some day, if it would not be presumption on my part to intrude on you.”

“Nonsense, my good Ivan. I shall always be pleased to see you in memory of those few moments we spent before the village ikon. Here is an address to which you can always write me.”

He felt very grateful to Ivan. If it had not been for the good services of the “Cuckoo,” he would never have been a Count of the Russian Empire. He handed him an envelope on which he scribbled his full title and description, addressed to the care of the Baron Salmoros. Any letter directed to that quarter would be sure to reach him, and he knew the Baron would be certain to pardon him for taking the liberty.

A little later, in the leafy month of June, Corsini and his charming young wife spent a week-end with Salmoros at his beautiful place, Marwood Park, in Sussex.

Salmoros, with that spirit of unconscious ostentation which often marks the nouveau riche, had built himself a very lordly pleasure house, designed by an eminent architect. Although a childless man, and a bachelor to boot, he had insisted upon a very spacious dwelling.

The eminent architect, a man of some humour, had remarked to him when he laid before him the plans, “Most men, Baron, when they build houses, build them too small; afterwards they have to enlarge. I have made ample provision here for another wing, if it should be required. It will not destroy the general scheme of the structure.”

Of course, when the eminent architect made this suggestion, Salmoros was comparatively a young man. He might marry and want to put aside suites of rooms for his sons and daughters. The eminent architect had this in his eye when he suggested the possibility of another wing.

Salmoros had agreed, but the other wing had never been built. He had not married, and the house as it stood was spacious enough for his wants.

Here he stored his valuable pictures, his rare china, his costly antiques. His gardens were the best laid-out in England, his rock walk was not to be equalled in the kingdom, his hot-houses were the pride of the county.

Everything that money could purchase was his, not from a mere common love of display, but that he would have everything of the best – cellars stocked with the finest wines, cabinets filled with the most choice cigars. A week-end with Salmoros was to the bon viveur a period of ecstasy. Everything in that well-appointed ménage was perfect.

Even Nada, accustomed to the splendours of the Zouroff Palace, was a little overwhelmed by the stately magnificence of the great financier. Corsini, of humble extraction, was fairly dazzled by it.

“We seem to walk on velvet, darling, don’t we?” he whispered to his wife as they went down the great staircase. “If we could only have a little music, we might think we were in Paradise.”

But the Baron had provided for that. There were no other guests during the week-end. With the whim of an old man he had wanted to have them to himself.

During the perfect dinner, prepared by a chef to whom he paid an enormous salary, a small orchestra played some exquisite music, so softly rendered that it did not interfere with conversation. Salmoros thought out all these things with the true spirit of the artist – the artist with perhaps, in his complex spirit, a little of the Oriental.

Nada was enchanted. What seemed barbarous in Russia was here touched with refinement, a different thing altogether. What a wonderful old man he was!

And Corsini was equally delighted, with his artistic appreciation of all that was beautiful and refined. The gaudy splendours of the Winter Palace were vulgar compared to this perfect setting – and only for a party of three – the exquisite glass and silver, the snowy napery, the well-trained service, the full but subdued light, and that orchestra in the gallery of the vast dining-room rendering that beautiful, but not obtrusive, music, every member of the small band an artist.

The long meal was ended. Salmoros rose.

“Come into my favourite sitting-room,” he said. “We can smoke there in comfort, and Madame can have a cigarette.”

He led the way into a cosy chamber, furnished in the most exquisite taste. Easy, comfortable chairs abounded. Salmoros presented a cigarette to the Princess and offered Corsini one of his choicest cigars. There was a little period of silence, and then the Baron turned to Corsini.