CHAPTER II
BARANOFF'S PROPOSAL
Table of Contents For a moment Ouvaroff fastened his gaze upon the card which he so held as to be seen by none but himself; then, raising his eyes, he looked at Wilfrid. There was a sudden coldness in the Prince's demeanour, and Wilfrid intuitively felt that the writing on the card had something to do with it.
"The next dance is a Hungarian waltz, I perceive," said Ouvaroff in a changed voice. "I am reminded by this card that a lady is waiting for me. Excuse my absence for a few minutes. I am so ugly, you see," he added with an uneasy smile, "that when I do obtain the favour of a dance I cannot afford to miss it."
As honest a fellow as ever lived was Ouvaroff, but the words he had just spoken were a "white lie," as Wilfrid quickly proved; for, upon looking down during the whole course of the waltz, he did not see the Prince among the dancers.
While Wilfrid was puzzling himself to account for Ouvaroff's conduct, he saw Count Baranoff coming along the gallery, smilingly exchanging a word here and there with those to whom he was known.
Wilfrid watched him and took the measure of the man. His eyes, more oval in shape than those seen in Western Europe, had the deceitful, furtive glance of the Asiatic.
"Were I a Czar, that is not the sort of man I should choose for my minister," was Wilfrid's comment.
"Do I address Viscount Courtenay?" said the Count with a bow as he drew near to Wilfrid.
Yes, he did address Viscount Courtenay. This somewhat bluntly. Wilfrid had not asked for the diplomatist's acquaintance, nor was he disposed to be over polite to an enemy of England.
But the envoy was not to be rebuffed by Wilfrid's frigid manner. He sat down in the chair lately occupied by Ouvaroff. The little group of Prussian officers stared at the pair, wondering what there could be in common between the Czar's representative and the eccentric young Englishman.
As Baranoff seated himself a diamond dropped from his coat. Wilfrid picked it up and presented it to its owner, who gracefully waved it off.
"It is beneath the dignity of a Baranoff to resume what he has once let fall."
"And beneath that of a Courtenay to accept it," replied Wilfrid, placing the gem in the exact spot where it had fallen.
This diamond-dropping was an old trick of Baranoff's whenever he wished to gain the good graces of a stranger. He had always found the method very successful-with Russians. It didn't seem to answer with an Englishman.
The Count called for a bottle of Chartreuse and helped himself to a glass, first pouring in from a phial that he produced a few drops of a liquid that Wilfrid knew to be "diavolino," one of those Italian nostrums much in vogue a century ago, as warranted to keep in tone the constitutions of those given to dissipation.
Wilfrid's dislike of the man increased.
"You have business with me, sir?"
"Ah, how delightfully English! You come to the point at once. Business? Yes, we may call it that. At any rate I have an offer-a magnificent offer to make."
He eyed Wilfrid curiously, dubious as to how his words would be received. And indeed it was on Wilfrid's tongue to tell the envoy to take himself and his offer to Samarcand, or further, but he refrained for the moment, thinking that he might as well hear what the offer was.
"I wish," continued the Count, "to give you the opportunity of earning three hundred thousand roubles. Such is the price I am willing to pay for a service to be done by you."
Three hundred thousand roubles, or, roughly speaking, £50,000 in English money, would be a welcome gift to Wilfrid, whose family estate had a heavy mortgage upon it. But, mindful of the character of the speaker, he determined to learn first whether the proposal could be honourably entertained by an English gentleman and a patriot.
"Three hundred thousand roubles! It must be a very substantial service to be worth so much."
"You speak truth. It is a substantial service."
"There are thousands of suitable men in Europe. Why select me for the purpose?"
"Thousands of men-true. But only one Courtenay."
Wilfrid did not controvert a remark so obviously just.
"The work," continued the Count, "is one requiring a spirit that will dare great things."
"Then, who more qualified for the task than Count Baranoff?"
"You are very good," smiled the envoy. "But I was not at Saxony in the summer of 1792-you were."
"So, too, were many other men in the year you mention."
"True, but you were the central figure in a certain affair, forgotten by you, perhaps, but remembered by others. I will explain anon."
The summer of 1792 was about eight and a half years back. Wilfrid hurriedly reviewing his brief sojourn in the kingdom of Saxony, could recall nothing to explain Baranoff's words.
"What I require for my three hundred thousand roubles is that you shall make love-successful love, mark you-to a certain lady."
Wilfrid gave a scornful laugh.
"I thought the enterprise was one demanding a high degree of courage!"
"And so it does. There's great danger in it."
"That makes it interesting. Where is this Lady Perilous to be found?"
"In the city of St. Petersburg."
"Is the lady young or old?"
"She is in her twenty-third year."
"Seven years my junior. Ill-favoured, perhaps, and therefore unable to obtain a suitor?"
"She has the loveliest face in St. Petersburg."
"Not ill-favoured? The daughter of a vulgar merchant, or of some wealthy serf desirous of obtaining a nobleman for his son-in-law?"
"On the contrary, her father is a prince."
Wilfrid started. He thought of the gipsy's prophecy.
"Is the lady of fallen fortunes?"
"She can command millions of roubles."
"A prisoner immured within a fortress from which you would have me rescue her?"
"Nothing of the sort."
"A cloistered nun, repentant of her vows?"
"Not at all. She moves freely in Court circles."
"Demented, or that way inclined?"
"As sane as women in general."
"Subject to some hereditary taint? Epileptic or the like?"
"As sound in physique as yourself."
"Then by all that's holy!" cried Wilfrid, in a paroxysm of perplexity, "explain why a lady of princely birth, beautiful, and rich, can lack suitors among her own nation? Why must a foreigner from distant England play the lover?"
"Because there is no one in St. Petersburg bold enough to take upon himself that rôle, since discovery means certain death to the lover, death perhaps to her."
"Death!" queried Wilfrid, somewhat startled at the word.
"At the hands of the State."
"Ah!" said Wilfrid, beginning to receive a glimmer of light. "She is a lady important politically?"
"Very much so," replied the diplomatist with a look that confirmed his statement.
"What prospect have I of winning this lady's affections?"
"I have discovered, no matter how, that you are the only man in Europe who can succeed."
"Really! That's very flattering to my vanity," laughed Wilfrid. "The lady did not send you on this mission, I trust?"
"She is modesty itself, and would die rather than commission any one on such an errand."
"I ask her pardon for wronging her in thought. Have you got her portrait?"
The Count hesitated for a moment, and then drew forth an ivory miniature.
"Painted three months ago. It scarcely does her justice."
As Wilfrid's eyes fell on the miniature he fairly held his breath. It was a face more beautiful than any he had ever seen. The soft violet eyes and the lovely delicate features, with their sweet grave expression that spoke of a nature, pensive and spirituelle, might well inspire love in the heart even of the coldest; much more then in that of a romantic character like Wilfrid.
"Well, what do you think of it?" asked Baranoff.
"It is the face of an angel," replied Wilfrid as he returned the miniature. "What is her name?" he added.
"You do not recognise her?"
"No."
"I thought perhaps you might have recognised the face. Her name? Pardon me, I will give it if you are prepared to undertake the rôle of lover-if not, 'twere best, in the lady's interests, to keep it secret."
Wilfrid reflected. A lady of political consequence, Baranoff had called her, threatened by the State with death if she listened to love-vows! Wilfrid was sufficiently versed in Russian history to know that the reigning dynasty was a younger branch of the House of Romanoff, and that a return to the rights of primogeniture would deprive the present Czar of his crown. Was the lady with the angel-face a descendant of the elder line, and thus so nearly related to the throne that, in the Court of the gloomy and suspicious Paul the First, it would be perilous for any man, even the highest among Russia's nobility, to aspire to her hand? Imbued with this idea Wilfrid began to weave a whole political romance around the person of the beautiful unknown. Was she, though nominally at liberty, a virtual prisoner at the Czar's Court, watched by a hundred suspicious eyes-pining for affection, yet forbidden to marry?
To try to set her free from such gloomy environment was no more than his duty.
And Wilfrid, if Baranoff had spoken truly, was certain of gaining her love! To...
