V
1266 Words
VThe supper was very gay. Alexander III., always a valiant trencherman, and notoriously as fond of a good glass of Tokay as of the society of a pretty woman, was graciousness itself, and deigned to enjoy himself vastly. As for the czigány who were playing during supper, he declared he had never heard more entrancing music, and when, after the feast, the traditional czimbalom solo was to be played, his Majesty declared his desire to listen to it, and afterwards watch the czárdás before he left.
It was while the gipsies, with all that peculiarly pathetic weirdness with which they play the Magyar folksongs, played that exquisite tune so dear to all Hungarian ears, "There is but one beautiful girl in all the world," that Madame Borgensky first realized that something after all might be done, if God would but help her, and allow her to think. Ah! how she prayed at that moment; inspiration such as she needed could but come from above.
She looked round at her guests; her husband, the Abbé Rouget, Prince Leminoff, and the dozen or so that wore the red carnation were absent. She knew where they were, and—oh! how terrible—knew what at that moment they were doing. Drawing lots as to who should do the assassin's deed. Oh! if it should be her husband. "Not that! not that, oh my God, direct his hand! he does not know! he does not understand!" she pleaded. "The Tsar is his guest! no! no! even they would think that deed too horrible."
"Ah! that music was indeed divine," said Alexander Nicolaïevitch, half dreaming, as the last chords of the czimbalom died away, "and it will long haunt my memory after I leave Vienna to-morrow. And now, my dear Madame Borgensky, I must reluctantly bid you farewell, thanking you for your kind hospitality. Believe me," his Majesty added, looking admiringly at his beautiful hostess, " that the remembrance of to-night will long dwell in my heart." And the tall figure of Alexander III. bent low to kiss gallantly the tips of Olga Borgensky's fingers that lay cold as ice in his hand.
"Ah! here comes our kind host," said his Majesty, as Eugen Borgensky, very pale, approached him. "My dear Borgensky, may I express a hope that next winter will see you and Madame at St. Petersburg? 1 can assure you she has left many friends and admirers there."
"Your Majesty's wishes are commands," said Eugen Borgensky, bowing coldly.
The Tsar shot an amused glance at him. "Jealous?" he asked Madame Borgensky sotto voce.
"No doubt," she answered, trying to smile.
And Alexander III., followed by his host, and two or three gentlemen of his suite, turned his steps towards the stairway, still having on his arm Olga Borgensky, from whom he seemed loath to part, and bowing cordially to those whom he recognized among the guests, while the gipsy band struck up the Russian national hymn: "God Save the Tsar."
The poor unfortunate woman walked by his side as if in a dream; her movements were those of an automaton. Now, if in the next five minutes something did not happen—something stupendous, immense—the terrible deed would be accomplished, Heaven only knew by whose hands.
Once in the hall, while two or three of the gentlemen in attendance busied themselves round their Imperial master, helping him with his furs and gloves, and the brilliant equipage drew up under the portico, Madame Borgensky shot a quick glance into the street outside. The crowd was very dense; she recognized no one. Then, as if moved by sudden inspiration, when Alexander III. began at last an evidently reluctant leave taking, she walked up to one of the large banks of palms and cut flowers that had been erected on each side of the hall, and gathering a huge arm-full, she turned to the Tsar and said:
"These are for remembrance; let me place them in your carriage in memory of to-night." And she threw him one of those glances she alone had the secret of, which quite finished turning an Imperial head and subjugating an Imperial heart. Carrying her sweet-smelling burden, burying her head among the blossoms, she walked through the doorway to the Imperial carriage, closely followed by the Tsar. With her own hands she opened the carriage door, standing there, beautiful and defiant, daring them, the unknown assassins, to throw the bomb that would annihilate her, their hostess, the wife of their comrade, as well as him.
Then, when the Tsar had at last entered the carriage, she lingered on the steps, arranging the flowers, still chatting gaily, and when she herself had closed the carriage door, she stood, her hand in that of Alexander III. She meant to stand there till the coachman, whipping up the horses, had borne his Imperial master out of any danger. At last the lackeys were mounted, the Tsar gave her a last military salute, the coachman gathered the reins . . .At that moment Olga Borgensky felt two vigorous arms encircling her waist, and she was thrown more than carried violently to one side, while a second later a terrific crash rent the still night air.
There was a tremendous rush and tumult; something appeared to be smouldering some yards away in the middle of the road; while the Emperor's carriage, with its small escort of mounted cossacks disappeared, in a cloud of dust, along the brilliant road.
"Come in, Olga, you will catch cold," said her husband's voice close to her, as soon as she had partially realized the situation.
There seemed to be a great commotion both outside and in. She allowed Eugen Bongensky to lead her, past her astonished and frightened guests, into a small boudoir, where she saw the Abbé Rouget sitting in a huge armchair, with eyes raised heavenwards, softly murmuring: Mater Dei, ora pro nobis." He seemed sublimely unconscious of any disturbance, and rose with alacrity to offer the half-fainting lady his seat.
At a knowing wink from the little Abbé's sparkling eyes, Eugen Borgensky, gently kissing his wife on the half-closed lids, left the two alone together. Olga Borgensky looked pleadingly at the Abbé; she was dying for an explanation, longing to know what had happened.
"Madame," at last said the jovial priest very earnestly, "your brave attitude tonight has averted a terrible catastrophe. You have no sympathies with our plots and plans, you do not understand them; but you well understood that, at any cost, any risk, your life with us would be sacred.
"One of us, the one who drew the fatal number, was stationed outside your gates, to rid Russia of her autocrat. On seeing you, his heart failed him, he threw the bomb in the middle of the road, where it could not reach you, even if it hit the Tsar. Both of you, however, are safe."
"But Count Gulohoff," she said—" he knew, he and the police must have been there; did they arrest any one? Was my husband seen? "
"No, Madame, Count Gulohoff was not present. I succeeded, by substituting a letter of my own for the one you had placed for him in the pink Sèvres vase, in inducing him to go with his minions to the other end of Vienna to seek for conspirators who will not be there. To-morrow the Tsar and Count Gulohoff will have left Vienna. It is true our plans have utterly failed, but we are also quite safe, and not even suspected."
"And Eugen Borgensky, my husband, M. l'Abbé?"
"I pledge you my word, Madame, that whilst I can do anything to prevent it, and I can do a great deal, he shall never again wear the red carnation."
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