Now, all was changed. At last I had found the woman whom I believed was predestined to become my wife; she who had fascinated me, who held me for life or death.
Through the long night I thought only of her, puzzled over the secret of the old man’s influence; happy and content, nevertheless, in the knowledge that ere long I should return to her, never to part.
Chapter Nine
In the Izak Platz
Why need I refer further to the terribly wearisome journey across Prussia, Poland and Western Russia? Those of my readers who have accomplished it know well how dull, tedious and tiring it is, travelling hour after hour, day after day, through a flat, uninteresting country.
Suffice it to say, that on the fifth day after leaving London, the train came to a standstill in the spacious station of the Russian capital.
After some difficulty I discovered the whereabouts of the Hôtel Michaeli, and entering a likhac was driven to a small, and rather uninviting hotel under the shadow of the gilded dome of the Izak Church.
The proprietor, a tall, black-bearded Russian, greeted me warmly in French, exclaiming:
“M’sieur Burgoyne, n’est ce pas?”
“That is my name,” I replied.
“The apartments ordered for you are in readiness.”
“Who ordered them?” I asked.
“M’sieur must be aware that a gentleman secured his rooms a week ago?”
“No, I did not know that arrangements had been made for my reception,” I said.
“Will m’sieur have the kindness to sign the register before ascending?” he said, politely handing me a book and pen.
Those who have not travelled in the dominions of the Czar know nothing of the strict police regulations, the many formalities the foreigner has to undergo, and the questions he must answer before he is allowed to take up even a temporary residence in the Venice of the North.
I wrote replies to the printed questions in the book, and, signing my name, handed it back to him, and was shown to my rooms.
Though anxious to complete my mission and return, I confess I found much of interest. St. Petersburg externally is the finest city in the world, but internally the dirtiest and most enthralled, struggling as it does under a police régime so harsh that one can scarcely walk the streets without infringing some law, and attracting the attention of the spies, who everywhere abound.
I remained waiting several days for the appearance of the man to whom I was to deliver the diamonds, but he did not present himself, so I occupied myself inspecting the sights of the city. Through the churches of Kazan, St. Nicholas, and the Intercession I wandered, astounded at their magnificence; saw a comedy at the Bolshoi, admired the statues of Peter the Great and Souvaroff, and, perhaps the greatest novelty of all, visited that most magnificent of imperial residences, the Winter Palace.
Here occurred an incident of which at the time I thought nothing, though afterwards I had much cause to remember it.
Following one of the gorgeously attired servants through a labyrinth of picture galleries and apartments, we entered the Salle Blanche, the most luxurious chamber of this splendid palace, with its wonderful decorations of white and gold, from which it derives its name. In this chamber are held those court fêtes which eclipse all others in the world, for it is here the nobility assemble to pay homage to the Autocrat of all the Russias.
Standing in the centre of the apartment, I gazed in wonderment upon its marvellous gilding and glittering magnificence, while the servant described graphically, but parrot-like, how the receptions were conducted, the blazing of the priceless jewels worn by the Empress, and how the Emperor himself, the most quietly dressed amongst the gay assemblage, walked and talked with his guests.
The whiteness of the walls I was unable to understand, and being of a somewhat inquisitive nature, and desirous of ascertaining whether they were marble or wood-panel, I rapped upon it sharply with my knuckles.
In an instant a sentry, who had been standing motionless at the door, and several servants in the Imperial livery, were at my side.
“For what reason did you tap that wall?” demanded one of the men in French.
I was thoroughly taken by surprise, and stammered out an apology, urging that I was not aware of committing any offence.
“It is an offence, and a grave one,” exclaimed the servant, whom I afterwards found was a police spy. “Visitors must not touch the walls in that manner, and we have orders to eject those who break the law.”
“Oh, very well,” I replied, rather ruffled at the man’s impertinence, “I have no desire to do anything contrary to this strange law of yours; and, moreover, I’ll leave the Palace.”
With these words, I turned and retraced my steps to the entrance, being closely followed by the sentry and the guide.
It was a very small matter and soon passed out of my mind, though it afterwards proved more serious than one would have imagined.
Life in St. Petersburg was so different from any to be found in Western Europe, that during the few days I awaited the arrival of the man to whom I was to deliver the jewels, I thoroughly enjoyed myself.
In the daytime, perhaps the place which has most attraction for the foreigner is the Nevskoi Prospekt. It is the principal thoroughfare, a fine broad street four versts long, with imposing houses and handsome shops, the favourite promenade of the haut ton. The bustle and throng is as great as in Regent Street or the Strand on a sunny day, for the endless line of well-appointed equipages, with servants in splendid liveries, and mostly drawn by four horses, roll noiselessly over the asphalte, while upon the pavement stroll princes and generals in uniform, aides-de-camp and staff officers, merchants, mujiks, Greeks, Circassians – indeed, that heterogeneous assortment of sects and races which combine to make up the population of a great city. Russian women, as a rule, are the reverse of prepossessing; but the ladies who shop in the Nevskoi, and afterwards promenade on the English Quay, are even more remarkable for their elegance and beauty than those one sees in the Row or on Parisian boulevards.
As it is not my intention, however, to dilate upon Russian manners and customs, except for the purpose of presenting this strange drama in which I played a leading part, I must refrain from commenting on the thousand and one show places, the coffin shops, in the windows of which the grim receptacles for the dead are ticketed, and many other things which strike the stranger as ludicrous and curious.
I saw them merely pour passer le temps, and they can be of but little interest in the present narrative.
Exactly three weeks had passed since I bade farewell to Vera. I had breakfasted, and was standing before the window looking out upon the Izak Platz, that broad square in the centre of which the column of Alexander stands out in bold relief. Not having made up my mind whither I should repair in search of pleasure, I was idly watching the busy, ever-changing crowd of pedestrians and vehicles, when I heard the door behind me open, and, turning, confronted a tall, fair-bearded man, who had entered unannounced. He was well-dressed, and as I turned and looked inquiringly at him, he bowed and removed his hat.
“Is it to M’sieur Frank Burgoyne I have the pleasure of speaking?” he asked politely, in very fair English.
“Quite correct,” I replied.
“Allow me to present to you the carte of Mademoiselle Vera Seroff, and to introduce myself. Paul Volkhovski is my name, and – er – need I tell you the object of my visit?” he inquired, showing an even set of white teeth as he smiled.
“It is unnecessary,” I replied, glancing at the card he took from his wallet and handed to me. “The jewels are quite safe in that box upon the ottoman. The seals, you will notice, are untouched.”
“Merci,” he replied, a grin of satisfaction lighting up his countenance as he repeated, “The jewels – ah!”