CHAPTER XXXVII

IT'S NOT THE KNIFE ALONE THAT STRIKES TO THE HEART

Araktseieff, on arrival at the palace, was received by Chevalier Galban.

"What has happened here?" he asked, as he changed his travelling-dress for his uniform.

"A startling change. Since his daughter's death the Czar has become reconciled to the Czarina, and is with her constantly. Every diplomatic action has been broken off. The Greek deputation has not been received, the commanding officers of the various regiments of the guards have been despatched back to their colonies."

"And what do the women say to all this? That's the main point."

"The women are deucedly hard to get at just now. Since the reconciliation of the Czar and Czarina, domestic fidelity has become the rage in St. Petersburg. Every man is seen driving out with his wife. Even Princess Ghedimin ostentatiously parades everywhere on her husband's arm, and conducts herself so prudishly that she scarce returns my bow."

"And Zeneida?"

"Is in disgrace. The court chamberlain has intimated that it would not give displeasure in high quarters if she were to pass the coming season under a more genial clime. Upon which she at once sent back her credentials as court singer. She is having a sale of her furniture, and is preparing for immediate departure."

"And the cause of disgrace?"

"Pushkin. You are aware that he was to have married Sophie Narishkin?"

"That is--it was a piece of medical jugglery. They proposed to prolong the invalid's life and make it happier by her betrothal."

"All the same, Pushkin was her husband elect, and the Czar was deeply hurt that the very day of Princess Sophie's funeral Pushkin should go and get married to the lovely Bethsaba, whom he ran away with from the Ghedimins'!"

"Hullo! So he ran away with the little Circassian princess!"

"The Czar was very cut up at his heartlessness. Hence his displeasure with Fräulein Ilmarinen."

"But what had she to do with it?"

"She was witness to the marriage."

"What, she? And she who worshipped Pushkin! That is a dangerous woman!"

"Fortunately she can't do much harm now. She begged an audience of the Czar; but his Majesty answered that he would only receive her in your presence."

"Then it shall be a hot reception for her! Thanks for the good news!"

And Araktseieff hastened off to the Hermitage, where the Czar was to be found before noon.

Alexander extended his hand with emotion to the returned favorite, who had travelled night and day to obey his behest.

"My only true friend!" he said, in a low voice.

"Not the only one, sire. The Czarina stands first."

"You are right. We have come together again, and I am only beginning to learn that in her I have won back a whole world. I grudge the moments which this pile of drafts causes me to spend from her."

"I am at your orders, sire!"

"That will greatly help. Just you look through this sheaf of papers, which I can make nothing of, and execute everything according to your own judgment."

"I will not stir from here before I have gone through them all."

"Among them you will find a petition for a farewell audience from Fräulein Ilmarinen. Answer in my name that I am willing to receive her, but solely in your presence. Now I am off to church, where I shall meet the Czarina. We are holding a requiem mass for poor Sophie Narishkin."

Araktseieff made feint to be hearing this for the first time; and in consequence of the melancholy surprise went through a theatrical scene of up-turned eyes and exclamations, ending up with, as he kissed the hand of the Czar, "I feel that my heart is torn out of my body at this mournful news, sire!" He was the only man in the world who secretly exulted over the news of the unhappy child's death.

The Czar left him alone in his study; and the favorite found many more important matters to attend to than Zeneida's petition. From the multitudinous papers it was plain to see that when the cat's away the mice begin to play. Everything was tending to lead the Czar back to the paths of liberalism. Here must the first clearance be made!

A few days later Zeneida was surprised, in the midst of her packing, by a visit from Jakuskin.

"I have come to tell you how glad I am that you are leaving us."

"A singular kind of farewell."

"But comprehensible! It is well for you that you are going; and well for us, too. The rôle you were playing is at an end, and I am glad of it!"

"So it seems."

"Araktseieff is returned, and his iron hand is wielded over our heads. You, fair Madonna, had exiled him with your refined arts. Now it has become evident that the refinement of intrigue does not pay in our atmosphere. The old tyrant is back, and the Czar more completely in his power than ever."

"I know it. I have had intimation that a farewell audience will only be accorded me in his presence."

"And you are going?"

"Decidedly. I must reconcile the Czar with Pushkin."

"Is that your only reason?"

"What else keeps me here?"

"The wish to depose friend Araktseieff."

"I have no power to do that."

"Well, then, I have."

"By violence?"

"It is already done. To-morrow morning will no longer see him in St. Petersburg. I have struck him to the heart, and not with a dagger. His fate is already sealed. He is dead and buried already, though he has no idea of it. Read this letter."

Zeneida's face changed from ghastly white to fiery red as she hastily perused the letter handed her by Jakuskin. Her lips parted with surprise and horror as she read.

"You are terrible men!" stammered she, as she gave it back.

"We understand what we are about, eh?"

"And he knows nothing of it?"

"There is not a man about him who dares to make it known to him. Diabolka wrote me herself. I have copied her letter and sent the whole affair to the Czar through the Sophien post. May he learn it from the lips of the Czar--or, what is still more probable, may it fall into his own hands in opening the Czar's letters. Ah, Zeneida! If only he received the letter at the very time that you were having audience! If only you could see him then! Oh, I could fain envy you the satisfaction of that moment!"

* * * * *

Zeneida's audience was appointed for the next day. It was the Czar's usual habit, on leaving Monplaisir at five in the afternoon, to pass a short time at the Hermitage, which stood near the Winter Palace and had been a favorite resort of Catherine II. His library here, where he transacted business, was furnished very simply. Hither were brought to him the letters which came by the Sophien post. The apartment was now reserved to Araktseieff's use, who sat there from morning to evening settling, on his own responsibility, the affairs of the vast empire in the name of the Czar. Matters of home and foreign policy, religion, education, trade, finance, all were dependent on his sole will; ministers and stadt holders alike his puppets. Alexander would take no part in anything--signing, unread, whatever Araktseieff laid before him. Those drafts laid aside by him were mere waste paper.

To-day, too, found the favorite hard at work at the Czar's own writing-table, Alexander restlessly pacing the room, for Fräulein Ilmarinen alone had been granted audience that day.

Zeneida presented herself at the appointed hour. She was dressed in deep mourning, her golden hair forming a striking contrast to her sombre attire.

The Czar advanced to meet her, but received her with marked coldness.

Araktseieff feigned not to see her; did not lift his eyes from the papers before him.

"Fräulein Ilmarinen," said Alexander, "you desired to speak with me personally. You may speak."

"Will your Majesty forgive the boldness of my request, but I have papers to place before you which the owner intrusted to me on sole condition that I delivered them personally into your own hands. These papers form the diary of the late Princess Sophie Narishkin!"

With a deep sigh the Czar exclaimed, "Poor child!" his voice trembling with agitation.

"It was her last wish, and I must fulfil it."

"You were with her, then, in her last hours?"

"And afterwards. She had sent for me."

"It was you who closed her eyes?"

Zeneida bowed her head silently.

"I thank you," said the Czar, and, taking from her the white-bound diary, he held out his hand to her--a soft, thin hand--but the action was not a cordial one.

Zeneida kissed the hand.

"Have you any wish, Fräulein Ilmarinen?"

"Only one, sire! That you should graciously please to read the last three pages of Sophie's diary _in my presence_."

The Czar glanced back, as though to ask Araktseieff's permission. Then only did he resolve to accede to her wish, and, opening the diary, he read.

He bit his lips to conceal his emotion. But Zeneida well knew what it was he was reading; she knew the whole contents of the diary, as well as those last confused lines written by the convulsed hand of an unhappy child, looking forward with yearning and dread to the cold embrace of death. And the Czar, as he concluded the last page, looking up at Zeneida, saw that her eyes were filled with tears.

Mutely he nodded his head and sighed.

"She wanted me to read this to exonerate Pushkin, did she not? She wished it so. She had a great, noble soul!"

"Indeed she had, sire!"

"And it was at her desire; and Pushkin was only fulfilling her last wishes in acting as he did?"

"He could not have done otherwise."

"I believe it. He could not have done otherwise. And yet I cannot reconcile myself to the thought that he did it--that in the very same hour that he had covered the face of one bride with the funereal veil he could draw the bridal veil over the face of the other! He had to do it! And yet it seems incomprehensible to human understanding how there can be a whole eternity in one short hour of time; how, in one short hour, a man can fly from the arctic pole to the equator; how, in one and the same moment, a man can mourn over a dead love and marry a living one!"

"But if he had loved her previously?" asked Zeneida, softly.

"What did you say?"

"If that which he experienced for her who was gone was but the adoration and boundless reverence for a being of another world, whose wings were already bearing her heavenward when first he knew her? If all the affection, tenderness, devotion which led him to the feet of his worshipped bride were but sacrifices offered at the shrine of a saint to keep her in life?"

Alexander struck his forehead with his hand.

"You are right! I never inquired into it. Never asked him if the dream of love were more than a sick girl's fancy? He suffered himself to be bound by that dream. That was the whole of it. In his heart he loved another, and would have sacrificed himself for her. It was all my doing, my fault--for everything I do is faulty, and everything that goes wrong is through me!"

These words were spoken by the Czar of All the Russias, not in bitterness, but with the deep melancholy of conviction. It moved the heart to pity.

Suddenly he turned to Zeneida.

"Do you wish me, then, to grant Pushkin permission to return?"

"No, sire. He is in good hands. Whoever is a true friend to him would rather desire that he should live a happy life _far from St. Petersburg_!"

This surprised Araktseieff. He threw his pen down and scrutinized Zeneida.

"And for yourself, have you no wishes?" continued the Czar.

"I am leaving St. Petersburg to-morrow, sire!"

"And do you not wish that I should send you back your credentials?"

Oh, how proudly she raised her head at the words! She, too, was a queen, and she proved it.

"Sire, where I am once shown that my presence is unwelcome I do not remain!"

It was an audacious speech, bordering on treason, and not the manner in which to address the Czar of All the Russias!

Springing from his chair, it was the favorite and not the melancholy monarch who hastened to reply to the haughty singer.

"Are you aware, young lady, that there are duties from which a feeling of wounded pride does not exempt us? To them belongs the respect due to the throne and ruler, to whom you owe your fame."

Zeneida's bosom heaved; her nostrils dilated like those of a zebra prepared for the fight with a wolf. Her great dark flashing eyes threatened to annihilate the favorite; her lips quivered as if with fever.

"Your Excellency," she gasped, "there are men who have carried gratitude to their benefactors to the other ends of the earth with them, and who, though they had the misfortune to lose the favor of their august protectors, _have not gone home to sing the 'Knife Song'_!"

This was such a smart slap in the face to Araktseieff that he went back to his seat as though thinking it not worth his while to reply to the insinuation. Did she really know about it? Had she her secret spies--perhaps Diabolka?--the gypsy girl could write now!

Instead of his silenced favorite, the Czar now took up the lance. It was but fair. If the squire defends his lord, surely his lord should defend the squire.

"Your bitter remarks are in the wrong place, Fräulein Ilmarinen. If there is one man in Greater Russia who deserves to be looked upon as a perfect pattern of fidelity and loyalty, that is the man! He who has been at my side in every battle; has shared with me every danger, yet never claiming part in my glory; who watches, that I may sleep; who defies the world, to defend me; who forsakes me never, when all else desert me; that man is Araktseieff! What hard proofs of loyalty has he not withstood! How often have his enemies prevailed to banish him! And yet, as often as I have called, he has returned, without a word of reproach to me! I struck him a vital blow in exiling his son, yet he could kiss my hand and say I had done right, and remain loyal to me. Such is Araktseieff!"

But the favorite could not glory in this imperial recognition of his services, for, as he resumed his seat and, in order to mark his contemptuous indifference, opened the Sophien post-bag, the very letter Jakuskin had mentioned to Zeneida came to hand, and absorbed his attention to such a degree that he actually became deaf to the sound of his own praises from the lips of the Czar.

Zeneida saw how his face was working with demoniacal torture; how, convulsed by nameless horror, it had changed to the semblance of a maddened spectre; she saw his hair stand on end, his lips become blue, his eyes start from their sockets.

"Oh, woe is me!" he suddenly roared out, in a tone so brutalized that the Czar turned round in affright. Araktseieff beat his breast with the letter, as a man tries to heal his wound with the hair of the dog that bit him, or of a scorpion with its dead body; then, up from his seat, "Oh, woe! oh, woe! that I came back! Why was I not there at the time?" And he flung out of the room like a madman.

The Czar, thinking that a sudden fit of mania had seized the favorite, endeavored to hold him back.

"Alexis Andreovitch! What is the matter--where are you rushing?"

"Pardon, your Majesty; I must go back to Grusino."

"You will not leave me now? Affairs of state--the country?"

Zeneida, placing herself directly in front of Araktseieff, with arms crossed on her breast, gave him one look.

That look sobered him for an instant. Compelling his countenance to resume its cold exterior, while the Czar laid his hand soothingly on his arm, his official self fought the real Araktseieff for the mastery. But this time the man conquered. Striking his forehead with the crushed letter still held in his hand, he burst out:

"What do I care for Russia? What do I care for all this miserable earth--for the Czar--for all the gods, when they could let such things happen? Oh, woe is me!"

And, pushing away the Czar's hand, he rushed screaming from the room like one struck to death. The letter to the Czar he took with him.

"What can have come to the man?" exclaimed the Czar in amazement.

He had but now been investing him with virtues such as had never been possessed save by that one man, and here this very man suffers himself to indulge in so coarse and violent an outbreak as would not be ventured upon before a petty prince, let alone a Russian Czar.

Was there some witchcraft in Zeneida's gaze that could madden the soberest men, until, flinging down the seals of office at the feet of their sovereign, they should say:

"What is your country to me? What care I for you and your gods?"

The eyes of the Czar strove to read the secret from Zeneida's face.

The artiste would have withdrawn.

"Stay!"

"If your Majesty commands, I will stay altogether and not leave St. Petersburg."

"Do you know what ails this man?"

"I do."

"Then speak."