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?”

“I think so,” replied Corsini. “I am afraid he is not a very estimable character and his appearance is not in his favour, but I helped him once when he was in great straits, and he swore to return the obligation. I am inclined to trust him myself.”

The four men withdrew. The big man chuckled quietly. “So you have persuaded them to get out of the way. They were urging you not to trust me, eh?”

“Something of the sort. Well, Ivan, what have you got to say?”

“Simply this. On that day you saved me, when the police were waiting within a few yards to trap me like a rabbit, I swore I would pay back the debt, did I not?”

“You did, Ivan. I remember that promise well. But you don’t mean to say you are going to pay it back to-night.”

“If not to-night, very shortly, Signor Corsini. You see, I know something about you. Well, I will tell you something you may, or may not, know; you have a very bitter enemy, who is resolved to hunt you to death.”

“That is true, Ivan. I can guess his name, but you know it. Is that not so?”

“It is quite true,” replied the outlaw in low tones. “Your enemy is mine, too, the dastard and scoundrel who enjoys the style and title of Prince Zouroff.”

“Your enemy also?” queried Corsini in wondering tones. “But how can you have crossed his path?”

“I have a heavy account against the man and his family,” answered the outlaw in his low, fierce voice. “In the old bad days of serfdom, his father, who was even a bigger ruffian, if it is possible, than his son, had my father flogged to death for a trivial offence. That was burnt into my brain.”

He tore open his clothes and showed his naked chest, on which was a long scar.

“You see that. Boris insulted my sister, a pure and innocent girl, born on his estate as I was. She told me the story. I borrowed a sword. I lay in wait for him in the woods one night. I challenged him to fight. I wounded him, thank Heaven, but he got his sword in too and left me with that scar. You can guess that I have got a big account against this Prince who swaggers about St. Petersburg and boasts amongst his intimates that he will dethrone the Czar.”

For a few seconds the outlaw paused, struggling to regain his composure, which the recital of his wrongs had so disturbed.

“After that incident, you will guess there was no safety for me, Signor. It was no longer possible for me to remain on this villain’s estate,” he resumed. “I wandered forth to embrace a life of crime—to become a thief, a bandit, a marauder. But, as Heaven is my judge, my guilt lies at his door.”

“You spoke of repaying a debt, Ivan,” interjected Corsini, with a view of recalling the unhappy man from these troublous and disturbing memories. “And if not to-night, very shortly. I don’t know that I very much desire repayment. What I did was out of feelings of humanity. Some people might say misplaced humanity. But what I did that night I should do again to-morrow if we were both in the same position.”

The big, bearded man regained his calmness, and spoke in slow, measured tones. “I have seen your portrait in the newspapers, Signor, and so was able to give a name to my preserver. It is in my power to put you in possession of an important secret that will bring great distinction to you, when you impart it to the proper quarters. In return you will secure for me a full pardon. I am not asking too exorbitant a price; I am sure you will admit that.”

“It is a secret, I can guess, concerning the man whom you describe as our common enemy, Prince Boris Zouroff.”

Ivan nodded his big head. “Listen! I have many friends in St. Petersburg, most of them certainly not of a reputable class. But I have one friend, quite a decent and honest fellow, born like myself on the Prince’s estates. His name is Stepan, and he is in the service of the well-known opera-singer, popularly known as La Belle Quéro.”

Corsini started. At first he had felt inclined to pay little heed to the outlaw’s rather wild talk. How could a man in his position be of any serious use, a man who had to skulk in obscure corners, lest he drew upon himself the too vigilant attention of the police?

“Stepan and I were boys together and great comrades. The poor fellow is heavily handicapped in the fact that he is very deaf. At times he can hear a little, but his hearing is never to be depended on. He was rather a favourite of Zouroff’s, who, I suppose, found him useful in certain ways, perhaps because of his infirmity: what he could not hear he could not communicate to others.”

“I quite understand,” interposed the young Italian.

“Some considerable time ago, Zouroff brought him up from the country and installed him in the service of Madame Quéro. Of course he had a motive in this, which you will presently comprehend. I must explain to you that owing to his deafness being so acute, all those who want to speak to him have to use signs. All the same, he is a very intelligent fellow, and can see through a brick wall as clearly as anybody. His speech is affected, too.”

“For what purpose did his master hand him over to Madame Quéro?” queried Corsini.

“I will explain, Signor. The singer has constantly at her house parties of men; no other woman but herself appears at them; and these parties consist of Zouroff and his friends. I have made it my business to find out all their names. You can have that list when you want it; it will be useful to certain persons in high quarters.”

Decidedly, Ivan was growing very interesting. The young Italian listened with the closest attention.

“In the side wall of Madame Quéro’s villa there is a secret door, my friend Stepan is janitor. On the night when these parties assemble he is on duty. A small bell is pulled, which he cannot hear, but he sees the wire of it vibrating. Stepan ushers them into an inner chamber across which, screening it from the small vestibule, hang heavy black velvet curtains. These men, Signor, are conspirators, one and all. Stepan is too deaf to overhear what they are conspiring about, but he has his suspicions.”

“One moment, Ivan,” interrupted Corsini. “You said that Prince Zouroff has showed this man favours. Is he not loyal to his master?”

“No more loyal than I am, Signor, although, like him, I was born on the villain’s estates. Shall I tell you why? When Stepan was a youngster, before this terrible deafness came upon him, he was in love with my sister. You can now understand that he hates Zouroff with only a few degrees less hatred than myself.”

“It is quite intelligible, Ivan. Please go on.”

“Now I am getting to the point where you come in,” explained the outlaw. The four patient men were still watching the prolonged interview, with their pistols ready to be discharged at a moment’s notice, should this burly stranger show any suspicious movement.

“These men conduct their conversation in French; that much Stepan knows. On the nights of these assemblies, both the vestibule and inner chamber are very dimly illuminated. Stepan could manage to hide me there to overhear. But, as you know, Signor, I speak French very imperfectly myself and it would be impossible for me to follow them. I often have to ask you to repeat your words slowly, to catch the sense.”

Corsini admitted that it was so.

“Now, Signor, here comes the strange thing, a coincidence that must have been fashioned by Providence to direct our ends. In a dim light, you and Stepan are as alike as two peas; it was this resemblance that put the idea into my head. I will not say that in the broad daylight the difference between you might not be discernible.”

Corsini drew a deep breath. He was beginning to have an idea of the scheme which had worked in Ivan’s cunning brain. “You want to dress me up as Stepan, put me in his place, and overhear what they are plotting, so that I can communicate it to the police?”

“Precisely, Signor. Is it not a great idea?”

“It sounds pretty well, my friend, but there are one or two little things that might confound your scheme. Has it occurred to you that, since the Prince might communicate with me by signs, I might not be able to understand the alphabet.”

“I have arranged for all that, Signor,” replied the big man, who was pretty full of resource. “There is a fair-sized cupboard in the vestibule in which Stepan can hide himself while you are listening. You pull open the cupboard and he can change places with you when you please. You can do this as often as you like in the twinkling of an eye.”

Corsini smiled. “Admirably thought out, Ivan, but there will be no need. I know the alphabet perfectly; I learned it when a boy, and since my short sojourn here I have picked up a fair amount of Russian. Of course Zouroff speaks Russian to Stepan.”

The outlaw smiled gleefully. “No, Signor; everything, I see, is working most smoothly for our plans. Zouroff had the boy very well educated; he can speak French as well as you can, and the Prince always expresses himself to him in that language.”

“Then all should go very smoothly, Ivan. When do you want me to take up my rôle; in other words, when does the next meeting at the villa take place?”

“To-morrow night or the night after, I cannot be sure. But I shall hear from Stepan to-morrow, who will be informed by Madame Quéro. I will send you round a note to your hotel,” answered the outlaw.

“And at what hour do they assemble?”

“Shortly after midnight, Signor. Here, by the way, is a list of the names which you might like to show. I take it, after our conversation, you will go at once to General Beilski and tell him what you have learned.”

Corsini nodded. It was not, however, his idea to repair to that somewhat pompous functionary. He proposed to seek the astute secretary, Golitzine, at his own house; failing that, at the Winter Palace.

“And you will not forget the free pardon, Signor, for the poor outlaw who was driven to a life of crime through the wrongs perpetrated upon him and his by the Zouroffs, father and son.”

“No, Ivan, I will not forget that. I shall also press for a substantial reward, if things come off as we hope. Now, supposing I want to communicate with you? Will you let me have your address, or not?”

Ivan pointed his hand in the direction of the four waiting men.

“I am rather fearful of this sort of gentry, Signor, as you can well imagine. But I trust you; I proved your metal that night when I found you in front of the ikon. I know you will not betray me. Still, do not write to me unless absolutely necessary, and be very careful of your messenger. Anyway, address me under an assumed name.”

He drew a dirty piece of paper out of his pocket and scribbled upon it the address of his mean lodging, in one of the commonest quarters of the town; also the assumed name by which he was to be addressed.

Corsini held out his hand. “Well, Ivan, if this all turns out well, you will have more than repaid your obligation. Good-night; I will get that free pardon for you, rely upon it. I shall hear from you to-morrow or next day at the latest.”

He watched the big figure of the outlaw well out of sight. Then he beckoned to the leader of the four men.

“A most fortunate meeting,” he said, in a cheerful voice. “I am now going straight on to Count Golitzine. I will try his house first.”