SOON after Zoiloff had left me I sent for the spy. It was part of the scheme that he should be liberated at once, in order that, if he pleased, he should carry the news that he had heard to his employer.
The interview was short. I told him I had determined to spare his life and set him free if he would take a solemn vow never to reveal what he had heard, and to leave the country at once. There was no mistaking the genuineness of his terror, and he was eager to take any oath I wished to impose. As I dismissed him I said, with all the sternness I could concentrate into my voice and looks:
“Remember that from this hour you are a marked man. Every Russian agent in this country will know you; your every action will be watched, and every word you speak will be noted. One breath of treachery, one single suggestion of further deceit, and you are a dead man. Your life hangs on the thinnest of threads. And if ever you feel tempted to break your oath, recall this night and the stern faces of the ring of men who voted that you should die. Go!”
He staggered out of the room, reeling like a broken-witted drunkard.
After my regimental work on the following day Zoiloff came to me, looking worn and wearied.
“I have been at work all night,” he said; “but I have done good. I have found a place where this woman, Bokara, can be held in absolute safety for ten years if necessary, if once we can get her there.”
And he told me that one of our party, named Kroubi, had a large house in the middle of his estate, in a tower of which just such a prison as we sought could be found.
“You are sure of the man?”
“As of myself. And he himself will be her keeper.”
“She is a woman of rare fascination.”
“Would she fascinate me, think you?” he asked, a smile on his rugged face.
“There are not many men like you, Zoiloff,” said I, warmly, for during our intercourse he had won upon me strangely. He was such a staunch, genuine, thorough fellow.
“That is pleasant hearing from you,” he answered. “But you need have no fear on Kroubi’s account. Every impulse of his strong character which is not devoted to our cause is absorbed by his hatred of women.”
“We will trust him, then,” I agreed. “And now let us consider how to get her to his place.” And when we had threshed this out and made our plans the time for the Countess Bokara’s visit was close.
I felt both anxious and excited. The whole future of our plans hung, as I knew, in the balance, while the risks of the interview between her and the Princess seemed to grow as the time approached.
The Princess arrived first, and I went to her immediately.
“Has she come?” was her first question, eagerly asked.
“It is not yet time; but I think she will come. Do you know what happened here last night?”
“I have heard something, but would rather hear it all from you. It was good news, I believe—but it was sure to be, you are so zealous in my cause,” she said. “Tell me everything.”
I told her and she listened, deeply interested, her eyes watching my face as I spoke. At the close she smiled and said:
“One would think from your telling, Count, that you had been merely a bystander instead of the prime mover in it all.”
“Captain Zoiloff did more than I, for it was he who detected the miscreant. The rest was simple enough.”
“Then should I keep my feelings and words of thanks for him, and think of you as one who serves me, as it were, by routine.”
“We are all devoted to your service, Princess,” I said.
“No one more faithful than the others?”
“None less faithful than myself, I hope.”
“I like that standard. Pray Heaven that you are right, for then I am a lucky woman indeed;” and her eyes shone with a light that was like to dazzle me.
“You will be on your guard this afternoon with the Countess Bokara,” said I, after a pause I found embarrassing.
“I am always on my guard—except, I think, with you,” she added, musingly.
“I mean, you will not let her approach too close to you. I know her to be a dangerous woman, capable of any madness.”
“You will be there,” she said, with an accent of trust in me which I read with delight.
“But still she must not come too near you. Infinite mischief might be wrought in a single unguarded moment.”
“You think she may even try to murder me in your presence?”
“I believe her capable of any desperate deed; that is why I urge you,” I cried, very earnestly.
She smiled, let her eyes rest on mine with a look that seemed as tender and warm as a ray of summer morning sunshine, while a faint blush tinged her cheeks.
“I will not cause you a moment’s needless anxiety; you have had too many on my account already,” she said gently; and in the pause that followed a servant entered to say that the Countess Bokara was waiting to see me.
We had arranged that I should see her first alone, and I found her in a mood of jubilant and boastful confidence.
“I knew you would come round to my views, Count, though I confess I did not think the effect of what I said yesterday would be felt quite so quickly. I was disposed to give you at least three or four days, but I like you better for your promptness.” She spoke exultingly.
“I am not so confident as yourself that our interview will end to your liking,” I answered.
“I am confident, and have even more reason for it than you at present dream. You may prepare yourself for great news.”
“I am not good at riddles. What news do you mean?”
“That I do not consider your help so necessary as I once thought.”
That there was some new danger beneath her words I was certain, but what it was I could not guess.
“I do not understand you,” I said shortly.
“A child could see that. I like the look of perplexity and fear on your face;” and she laughed in a hard, sneering tone. “You have been very useful to me, after all, though you do not know it. What you showed me yesterday gave me the clue; and I have been merciful—in a way, very merciful. Death is ever sweetest to a woman when it comes, or seems to, from the hand of one she loves.”
“You have a pleasant wit, and your laugh fits it well,” I said drily.
“A jibe moves you more quickly than a threat, my friend. And this is a jibe in which you have had unwittingly a big share;” and her bitter tone was in full harmony with the hard, confident glance which she levelled at me. “Did you think I could be merciful even to those I hate?”
“Have you come to do no more than discuss your own qualities?”
“I have not come to be your dupe,” she retorted fiercely. “You have discovered my spy, I find, and I congratulate you on the clever stroke with which you have blinded his eyes. But it is too late, Count.”
“The man was caught last night in the very act of spying, and narrowly escaped with his life. He confessed you had employed him.”
She waved her hand, as though the matter were nothing.
“He had served his turn, let him go. I have no longer need of him; and, of course, you would have killed him had your last night’s meeting been anything but a clever ruse. But you scared his poor wits out of him—not a very brilliant or difficult achievement perhaps—and by now he is off to the frontier as fast as his shaky legs will carry him. But that is nothing. Tell me, Count, what would you do if within an hour you were to hear that your Princess had fallen dead?”
“Probably I should seek out her murderess, and kill her,” I replied hotly.
“Good; then I was right. You do love her, eh? Then listen. She trusts you, of course, trusts you blindly and implicitly; and if you sent her a little pretty gift, a little gentle act of courtesy from so gallant and faithful a servant, would she prize it, think you?”
“I don’t wish to discuss such matters with you,” I answered; but in my heart felt glad indeed that the Princess was safe in my house at that very moment.
“You don’t wear your heart on your sleeve, you mean. Men of your sort always think they do not. And yet the knowledge of the love of such a man would be precious to many women. That is how you have been useful to me. Now can you read the riddle?”
I thought I could, but made no reply.
“Yesterday, when I was here, you showed me what you could not hide from my eyes, that this woman had drawn you to her, as she has drawn hundreds of others. But this time she has dared to draw you from allegiance to me;” this with a touch of sudden passion, which passed instantly as she continued in a tone of exquisitely modulated softness, suggestive of the purr of a tigress.
“When I left you I saw how I could use the secret I had surprised. By now I have done my work, so I may speak frankly. I shall not want your aid now. Thinking that the Princess might be pleased with a little token from her latest lover—you need not wince, it does not matter now who knows your secret—I sent her in your name a little emblem of your devotion. And what more fitting emblem could there be than a rare and beautiful rose?”
“It was an unwarrantable liberty, Madam,” I cried, with a flush of anger. She laughed at my indignation.
“But it was more than an emblem of devotion, for it carried in its soft, sweet petals the essence—of instant death. You know these things are common in this East of ours. One scent of that rose, enjoyed, no doubt, with a murmur of your name, and a thought of your welcome little courtesy—and I and my Prince were rid of her forever.” A light of malignant triumph flashed out of her large dangerous eyes as she finished: “I shall not need your dagger now, nor the other weapons of your trade.”
“You mean that the Princess is dead?” I asked quietly.
“The news will soon be spread abroad noisily enough; and you may find it sufficiently embarrassing to explain your share in it.”
“You have the malice of a devil.”
“It was a sweet death for her. Was I not right when I said I was merciful?” she cried, with another hateful laugh. “And now I have come to warn you, that you may fly if you wish while there is yet time.” She gloated in triumph over my silence, which she read as that of consternation.
“You are a brave woman,” I said at length. “If what you said were true you might have guessed that you would not leave this house alive.”
“It is true,” she cried daringly.
“Yes, as to intent, perhaps. But the Princess herself is safe, and here in this house waiting to see you.”
“It is false,” she said fiercely. “I don’t believe you;” and she stared at me, the veritable type of disconcerted fury.
“It is true,” I replied shortly; adding sternly: “And true, too, that though you failed in the act, you shall answer for the intent.”
She was magnificent in her rage, as she stood at bay, staring open-eyed at me; and for many moments not a word was spoken by either of us.
“Let me see her!” she exclaimed at length.
“Not alone,” said I significantly. I rang the bell.
“Tell the Princess Christina we will wait upon her,” I said to the servant, and a minute later the two were face to face, while I looked on, all anxiety and apprehension as to the result.
They stood for a moment looking at one another; the Princess calm and dignified, in an attitude of queenly grace, her speaking, lustrous eyes alight with the hope with which she had sought the interview. But the hope was quickly clouded with a dash of anticipative disappointment, caused by the Countess Bokara’s vehement passion and hate which envenomed her fiery glances, and spoke in every straining movement of her lithe sinuous body.
“Your Highness surely does me great honour in this reception,” said the Countess scornfully, breaking the short silence.
“I am sorry we have not met before,” was the mild, temporising reply. “I would have gladly seen you to remove your too evident prejudice against me.”
“I have heard that you are accustomed to rely much upon the attractions of your beauty. But I am not a man.”
“I am desirous only of disarming by mutual understanding so powerful and, as I have too much reason to know, so bitter an enemy. Tell me, Countess, why are you so bitter against me?” The tone was very gentle, almost solicitous, but I could see that the other’s sneer had gone home.
“Why should I tell you what you must know full well?”
“If people speak truly of you we have assuredly the same end in view—the welfare of Bulgaria.”
“I am not half a Russian, and the tool of tyrants.”
“Am I?” and the Princess’s eyes flashed. “Your agent has discovered our real designs and carried them to your ears. You know now our cause is the cause of freedom, and that we are no more the tools of Russia than you can be. Why, then, say this? And why my enemy?”
I was astonished and not a little dismayed by her frankness.
“Your conversion has been rapid. It is but a few nights since your friends, impelled by zeal for you and for your cause, tried to murder me.”
“That was not done with my knowledge. God knows I would not spill a drop of blood. What would your death profit me or the end I have in view? Do you think I am so mad as to wish the country to believe I desire to rule by terror, the sword, and the secret dagger?”
“They do believe it!” cried the Countess in a tone of hate; “and they do not wish you to rule at all. Who has called you to take the place of the Prince, to plot against him, and to drive him from the throne? What are you doing but nurturing and fostering the villainous ingratitude of the people, that by this act of double treachery you may mount the throne?”
“You forget, the Prince is himself resolved to abdicate,” I interposed.
“And why?” she asked hotly, turning upon me. “Why, but that the plots which the Princess here and those in league with her have organised against his life are driving him away?”
“This is no work of mine, Countess. Before my name was ever mentioned, before the thought of my ever taking the throne was ever suggested, the Prince’s position had become untenable.”
“Because your allies, these hateful Russians, had made it so in preparation for your coming, or the coming of some other tool.”
“But now that you know I am acting not for, but against, them, the cause of your enmity, if this be the cause, is removed.”
“Do you wish me to join you, then, to swell the train of your slaves?”
“I wish to disarm your hostility.”
“To suborn me from my allegiance to my Prince, you mean?” Her answers were growing in bitterness and vehemence each time she spoke. “Your Highness mistakes me. I am no traitor to my sovereign.”
“But the Prince is bent on abdicating.”
“Because you and others are driving him to it. You ask why am I your enemy. This is the reason, or one that will serve.”
“You have others.”
“MY INTERPOSITION WAS ILL-TIMED AND UNFORTUNATE.”—
“Yes, I hate you. Is that what you wish me to say? I hate you. Is it as musical for you to hear it as for me to speak it? I hope it is. I hate you, and thank my God that I have a chance of telling you the truth to your face.” Her passion, only lightly held in restraint, broke its bounds now, and her eyes flamed, and her lips quivered with the rush of it. “What have you ever done in regard to me that has not earned that hate? Where are the men, good and true to the Prince and myself, that you have lured away from me? What are your actions, one and all, but those of deadly antagonism to me? Am I a craven sheep that I shall see my friends alienated, my Prince threatened, my cause destroyed, and my very life attempted, and only bleat a few baa-words of thanks to you for your gracious thoughts of me? God has not inspired my heart with that meekness, and while I have breath to breathe, a voice to speak, and hands to do, I will be your enemy. Is that enough, your Highness?” She spoke with such furious vehemence that at the close she was breathless; and she clenched her hands, and glared with hate at the Princess.
“I have not done the things you say. I could not do them,” said the Princess, in a tone whose calmness did not hide from me the ache of disappointment in her heart.
“It is easy to deny. It costs but a breath,” was the sneering answer. “But you ask me will I cease to be your enemy?” she added, her eyes flashing dangerously. “I will—on one condition.”
“What is that?”
“One that will at least test your sincerity. Give up this enterprise of yours; cease to persecute my Prince, and I will cease to be your enemy.” She put the conditions with a leer of malice, and stood waiting for the answer with a curling lip and insolent mien.
“I am not persecuting the Prince, and from my heart I declare that if Bulgaria could be freed by him I would serve him only too gladly.”
“I think no good can come of prolonging this interview,” I said, for I could not bear to hear the ring of insult in every word which the Countess uttered. But my interposition was ill-timed and unfortunate. Turning partly toward me the Countess said, in a tone of simulated submission, the irony of which was maddening:
“Your Highness’s newest and most faithful adviser would spare your ears the blunt utterances of truth from my rough lips. A renegade is always solicitous to temper the wind for his latest mistress.”
I drew a deep breath of rage at the insult and the foul slander insinuated with such devilish adroitness.
“The Count is right, Madam, I must admit my defeat,” said the Princess haughtily.
“I must ask you to withdraw, Countess,” said I sternly.
She laughed with wanton insolence.
“I am no servant of yours to be bade to do this or ordered to do that. I came to this interview to please you, I shall leave it to please myself;” and she drew herself up to her full height in defiance. Then she laughed again a loud, ringing laugh, forced, of course, but a clever parody of spontaneous merriment. “Upon my word, this is a pretty scene, and I have vastly enjoyed it. I have, alas! no weapon with me save my tongue, or there should have been a different ending, I do assure you. But that I can use. You have shrunk from the truth to-day, as the Count here shrank yesterday, when I discovered the secret of his warm allegiance to you.”
“Silence, Madam!” I cried hastily, fearing what her rash tongue would say.
“Is he not earnest, your Highness? Is he not a man to be proud of? To warm a woman’s heart? I told you just now of men you had won away from my Prince and me—here stands the latest of those renegades, a man who loves you.” She uttered the words with an accent of assumed sincerity. “I congratulate you, Princess, upon your conquest. I cannot hope to regain for my Prince a man who is aflame with a newborn passion for you.”
“This is monstrous,” I cried, my face flushed with anger and concern. “If you do not leave the room, I shall summon my servants that they may remove you.”
She faced me unflinchingly.
“You dare not,” she said.
“Then be silent, and end these ill-timed jibes, and leave the room.”
“Jibes? Is that a jibe?” And she raised her arm and waved it to where the Princess Christina stood, her face covered with deep ruby blushes. “An unconventional love avowal, at any rate. You are a brave man, Count Benderoff, and I do believe that much rarer thing, a modest one; but at least you should not quarrel with me because I tell the Princess that you love her, and let you see by the surest token that a woman can give that she loves you in return.”
At this the Princess sank upon a chair and concealed her face in her hands, between the white fingers of which the deep red glow was showing.
I turned away and would not let her think I had seen it.
“Your cowardice and insolence have drained my patience,” I said fiercely to the Countess. “Come,” and I went to the door.
She stood a few seconds, as if hesitating whether to defy me longer, and glanced in infinite triumph at the troubled figure of the Princess.
“If the interview has not accomplished your object,” she cried, “at least it has not been without interest;” and with a last insolent, exultant laugh, she swept out of the room, followed closely by me, more resolved than ever to cage this angry, dangerous tigress.