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Title: The Red Carnation Author: Baroness Orczy * A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook * eBook No.: 2000201h.html Language: English Date first posted: March 2020 Most recent update: March 2020 This eBook was produced by: Walter Moore Project Gutenberg of Australia eBooks are created from printed editions which are in the public domain in Australia, unless a copyright notice is included. We do NOT keep any eBooks in compliance with a particular paper edition. Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing this file. This eBook is made available at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg Australia Licence which may be viewed online.GO TO Project Gutenberg Australia HOME PAGE
1
Madame Olga Borgensky would never, I am sure, of her own accord, have
resumed her duties as political agent to the Russian Government.
When, two years ago, she had married Eugen Borgensky, a Pole, she had made
both to herself and to him a solemn promise to renounce once for all a métier which,
after all, most honest-minded persons would undoubtedly call that of a spy.
And when, on the occasion of His Imperial Majesty the Tsar’s visit
to Vienna, Count Gulohoff approached her on the subject of her returning
to the service of her country, she gave him a most emphatic refusal. I have
it on the surest authority that this refusal annoyed and disappointed Count
Gulohoff very considerably. He was at the time head of the third section
of the Russian police, and had been specially ordered to watch over his Imperial
master during the latter’s stay in Vienna, and there was in his mind
a suspicion, almost amounting to a certainty, that some plot was being brewed
by the young Poles—chiefly wealthy and of noble parentage—who
lived in Vienna, and had already given the home government one or two unpleasant
nuts to crack.
Madame Olga Borgensky was just the person to help him to discover the headquarters
of these young fire-eaters—she went everywhere, knew everybody—and
if Count Gulohoff could have succeeded in dispatching one or two of them
to cool in Siberia, he certainly would have been happier. But Madame Borgensky
was obdurate—at any rate, at first.
During the early part of the evening at Princess Leminoff’s ball,
the indefatigable and diplomatic Count Gulohoff had made many an attack on
her firmness of purpose, but she had an army of excuses and reasons at her
command, and yet one little incident caused her suddenly to change her resolution.
It was after supper, during the czimbalom solo so exquisitely
played by Derék Miksa, the czigány. Madame Borgensky
was standing close to the band with her partner, young Prince Leminoff, and
round her she noticed most of the young Poles that were such a thorn in the
flesh to the Russian Government. She found herself wondering, while listening
to Prince Leminoff’s softly whispered nothings, whether it was mere
coincidence that they each wore a red carnation in their buttonhole. The
next moment she distinctly caught sight of a scrap of blue paper being slipped
from the hand of Count Zamoisky into that of Dimitri Golowine, and then on
to young Natcheff. I suppose it must have been that slip of paper that did
the mischief, for one may as well expect a spaniel not to take to the water
after a wild duck than ask Madame Olga Borgensky not to follow up a political
intrigue when she had by chance caught one thread.
In an instant the old instinct was aroused. Forgotten were her promises
to her husband, the dangers she so often had to pass, the odiousness attached
to her former calling. She saw but one thing; that was the slip of blue paper
which, undercover of the pathetic Magyar love-songs, was being passed from
hand to hand, and the contents of which she felt bound to know, in the interests
of Russia, of the Tsar, whose life perhaps was being endangered by the plans
of these fanatical plotters.
“Prince Leminoff, I feel hot and faint; please take me into the next
room at once,” she sighed, half closing her eyes, and tottering as
if about to fall.
The young man started and turned a little pale. His fingers closed tightly
over a scrap of blue paper that had just been thrust into his hand; but his
tremor was only momentary. The next instant he was leading the now almost
fainting lady into the smoking-room, where a bright blaze was burning in
the hearth. Madame Borgensky sank back into an armchair close to the fire.
“Now light a cigarette, Prince,” she said, when she had recovered
a little; “the smell of the smoke would do me good. Really that music
had got on my nerves.” And she pushed the gold étui of
cigarettes, that stood invitingly near, towards her young partner, who, without
a moment’s hesitation, and with the greatest sang-froid, folded
the compromising paper he was still clutching into a long narrow spill, and
after holding it to the fire one moment, was proceeding to light a cigarette
with it, when:
“Allow me, Prince; thank you,” said Madame Borgensky, gently
taking it from between his fingers, and, with an apologetic smile, she lighted
her own cigarette. To blow out the flame, throw the paper on the floor, and
place her foot on it was the work of but a second, and the young Pole had
barely realized what had actually happened when a cheery voice spoke to him
from the door.
“Prince Leminoff, the last quadrille is about to commence. Everybody
is waiting for you. Are you dancing it with Madame Borgensky?” And
the Abbé Rouget, smiling and rubbing his little white hands,
trotted briskly into the room.
“Shall we go, Madame?” said the young Prince after a slight
hesitation, and offering the lady his arm.
“Please let me stay here a little while longer and finish my cigarette
in peace. I really do not feel up to dancing just at this moment. I will
give you an extra valse later on if you like.”
“If Madame Borgensky will grant me the much sought for privilege,” said
the Abbé, “I should deem myself very lucky to be allowed to
keep her company for half-an-hour.”
“At any other time, Monsieur l’Abbé, I should only
be too happy,” said Madame Borgenky, “but just now I really would
prefer to be alone. Five minutes’ quiet will set me up for the rest
of the evening.”
“Your wishes are my commands, Madame; I will read my breviary till
the sound of your voice calls me to your side.”
And taking Prince Leminoff’s arm, the Abbé led him towards
the door. As soon as they were out of earshot:
“There is something amiss,” said the Abbé. “What
is it?”
“Only this,” replied the young Pole. “A scrap of blue
paper, containing our final arrangements for to-morrow night, is at the present
moment under Madame Borgensky’s foot. It is partly burnt. Can your
Reverence find out how much of it has remained, and if there is any danger
in proceeding to-morrow?”
“Easily, my son, quite easily; and if there is, I will find means
to warn you—but if all is safe, I will wear the red carnation, as usual,
at Madame Borgensky’s ball. Say nothing to the others till then.”
And the Abbé turned on his heel, and taking a breviary out of his
pocket, sat down in a chair opposite Madame Borgensky, and proceeded to read
the Latin text in a half-audible voice, apparently not taking the slightest
notice of the lady. Olga Borgensky, however, had not yet succeeded in picking
up the paper from under her foot; she was burning with impatience to know
the contents, and her excitement became such that she could only with the
greatest difficulty conceal it from the Abbé.
At length she could endure the suspense no longer, and she was just stooping
forward to pick up the paper at all hazards, when the voice of Count Gulohoff
startled her. He drew a stool close to her, and said in a low whisper:
“Eh bien, Madame? You see, I come back, an unvanquished enemy,
to renew the attack.”
“I may be able to serve Russia and help you, Monsieur,” Madame
Borgensky said excitedly from behind her fan. “Come to my ball to-morrow,
and if I find no means of speaking to you privately before then, I will slip
a letter for you inside the pink Sèvres vase that, as you know, stands
in the centre of the mantelpiece in the ballroom. And now take the Abbé away
if you can.” Then she said in a louder tone of voice: “What a
gay and animated dance this has been, even M. l’Abbé there has
been reading his prayers with holy joy and vigorous piety, but I confess
I am getting very tired, and would be so grateful if somebody will find out
for me if Eugen Borgensky is in the ballroom and ready to take me home.”
“I will go and find him at once,” said Count Gulohoff rising, “and
will your Reverence,” he added, turning to the Abbé, “give
me my revenge at piquet?”
“Oh! ah! yes! Did your Excellency speak to me?” said his Reverence,
as if waking from a dream. “Forgive me, I was enjoying half-an-hour’s
communion with the saints, which is most refreshing during the turmoil of
a mundane gathering. What did your Excellency say?”
“I merely asked if you would care now to give me my revenge at piquet;
if so, we had better go at once and secure a table before there is a rush
for the cardroom.”
“With all the pleasure in life,” said the cheerful little Abbé,
and putting his breviary into his pocket, he followed Count Gulohoff into
the ballroom.
2
At last! She was alone! Olga Borgensky drew from under her foot the
scrap of paper, and feverishly unfolded and smoothed it. It had been more
than half burnt, but the contents, such as they were, fully compensated her
for all the difficulties she had encountered.
This is what she read:
....ensky’s ball
....his carriage
....thrown without much
....lots as to who
....alom solo, in the
....red carnation in”
At her ball then, in her home, which had been so hospitably opened to these
young plotters, their infamous schemes were to be consummated.
No doubt existed in her mind. His Majesty the Tsar, as was well known, meant
to honor her by appearing at her ball for an hour or so on the following
evening.
When he re-entered “his carriage,” a bomb would be “thrown
without much” risk of detection, as the crowd would be sure to be very
dense. In the meanwhile the conspirators meant to draw “lots as to
who” should be the actual assassin, and this they meant to do during
the “czimbalom solo,” probably in the card or billiard-room,
and those that were willing to perpetrate this dastardly deed, and thus to
sacrifice themselves as well as their family, were to wear a “red carnation,” which
was evidently the badge of the fraternity.
The terrible part of the whole thing in Madame Borgensky’s mind was
that, as the infamous plot was to be carried through in her house, she, and
especially her husband, were certain to be suspected of some sort of connivance,
and might thereby lose their liberty, probably their lives.
Ah! how she hated these plotters now, with a bitter, deadly hatred, the
hatred of the Russian against the Pole, the hatred born of fear! How thankful
she was that Count Gulohoff had induced her to spy on them; she did not regret
her action now, as at one moment she feared she would do.
“Why, my darling, how pale and agitated you look,” said a loving
voice, close to her elbow. “Count Gulohoff told me you had not been
well, and I have ordered the carriage to take you home.”
And Eugen Borgensky bent anxiously over his young wife, and scanned her
wan-looking features and wild eyes.
“It is nothing, dear,” she said; “a little too much excitement,
I think. I will make my adieux to Princess Leminoff, and
we will go home at once.” When she joined him again a moment later,
all her wonted composure had returned.
3
The Borgensky’s ball was to be one of the most brilliant functions
of the season. Everybody had said so, for weeks past, ever since it had become
generally known that his Imperial Majesty, the Tsar, meant to honor Olga
Borgensky by being her guest for that evening. Everything the fair Russian
did, she did well. The giving of entertainments she had studied and cultivated
till she had brought it to the level of high art. She had been the Queen
of Vienna society for some years now, ever since she had married Eugen Bongensky,
the friend and confidant of his Eminence the Cardinal Primate of Hungary.
All the doors of the most exclusive Vienna cliques had been widely thrown
open for her, and tout le monde flocked to her soirées.
It was ten o’clock, and Madame Borgensky, exquisitely dressed and
covered with diamonds, was ready to receive her guests, with the calm and
grace that characterizes the “grande dame.” A very careful observer,
such as her husband probably, might, perhaps, notice that her hand shook
slightly as she held it out to each fresh arrival, that her cheeks were unusually
pale, and her lips quivered from time to time; also, that whenever she looked
away from the door that gave access to her guests, it was to glance at the
fine Italian marble mantelpiece at the furthest end of the ballroom, where
a magnificent pale pink Sèvres vase of beautiful proportions and graceful
lines stood in the centre among a multitude of other equally beautiful knick-knacks
and silver trinkets of all kinds.
“Ah, M. l’Abbé, I am charmed to see you,” said
Madame Borgensky, as the Abbé Rouget, his breviary between his fingers,
his fat face beaming with promises of enjoyment, arrived at the top of the
stairs and greeted his hostess. “You will find Eugen in the cardroom,
I think. I really have not seen him since I took up my post at the top of
the stairs, but he was asking me whether we should have the pleasure of seeing
you to-night.”
“Ah, Madame! Eugen Borgensky is too kind. The archbishop, as you know,
has allowed me innocent recreation from time to time-with the exception of
dancing,” he added with a half-regretful little sigh.
“Besides which, M. l’Abbé, you know you can always have
half-an-hour’s peace in the smoking-room during which to tell your
beads,” said Madame Bongensky a little sarcastically, remembering in
what an agonizing plight the holy man had placed her the evening before by
his persistent devotions.
“I find when I have the pleasure of coming to this house, Madame,
that I can always have the billiard-room to myself for a quiet meditation
some time during the evening. It is necessary for the soul not to entirely
lose sight of spiritual things in the brilliancy and gaiety of a mundane
function. But I must not monopolize your kind attention so long,” said
the jovial Abbé, as he bowed to his hostess and began working his
way through the now rapidly filling ballrooms.
Madame Borgensky looked anxiously after him, a puzzled expression on her
face. Was it mere coincidence that the Abbé had in the buttonhole
of his soutane a red carnation, exactly similar to the one
worn by Prince Leminoff and three or four other young men she had noticed
in the course of the evening, and the meaning of which was now clear to her?
Surely he would not risk such a pleasant, assured position as he possessed
for the sake of the destinies of a country that was not even his own.
Madame Borgensky caught herself now scanning the young men’s buttonholes
very curiously; there were at most only about ten or twelve of them that
wore the red flower; the Abbé was certainly one, Prince Leminoff—foolish
youth!—another, and . . . Ah! no! no! it is impossible, her eyes are
deceiving her, her overwrought imagination is playing her own sight a cruel
trick. She closed her eyes once or twice to chase away the fearful vision,
but it would not go. It was true then? There, standing with his back to the
pink Sèvres vase, a red carnation in his buttonhole, was Eugen Borgensky,
her husband!
Ah! how could she have guessed? How could she know what a terrible deed
she had done? She, Olga Borgensky, a happy, loving, and loved wife, had actually
spied upon and betrayed her own husband into the hands of a police that knows
of no pardon. But, no; all was not lost yet, thank God! she had so far told
Count Gulohoff nothing. She had devised a means of communicating with him,
that she had felt would be a safe one, in case she found no chance of speaking
to him privately, and now it would prove her salvation.
Feverishly she turned to go into the ballroom, heedless if any one should
notice her. What matter what people thought of her actions, as long as the
terrible catastrophe is averted in time—
“His Imperial Majesty, the Tsar, “thundered the voice of the
usher. All conversations ceased, and all necks were stretched forward to
catch a glimpse of Alexander III., as he ascended the stairs, chatting pleasantly
to Count Gulohoff.
Madame Borgensky, forced to pause, felt as if the whole room, the Tsar,
her guests, were all changed into weird spectres that seemed to dance a wild
fantastic dance around her; one moment she thought her senses would leave
her . . .the next instant she had bowed after the approved Court fashion,
and was thanking Alexander III. for the honor he was doing her, while his
Majesty, with his usual affability, was conversing pleasantly with her and
Eugen Borgensky. She had lost sight of Count Gulohoff, who, exchanging handshakes,
nods, and smiles, worked his way through the ballroom towards the mantelpiece,
where the gay little Abbé was being monopolized by a group of pious mondaines,
and seemed to be enjoying himself thoroughly.
“Ah, your Excellency is just in time,” said his Reverence, “to
settle a most knotty point. We are having, mesdames and I, a very animated
discussion on pottery and china, namely, the superiority (which I call very
exaggerated) of antique over modern manufacture, and I was contending that
many a connoisseur is not guided, when buying a piece of china, by the actual
quality of the ware, but merely by the mark upon it.”
“Ah! M. l’Abbé is terribly sceptical of feminine knowledge,” said
the Countess Zichy, “but I am sure that in this instance he wrongs
us grievously. I, myself (and I have no pretensions at being much of a connoisseur),
need never look at the mark of a piece of china; I can always locate its
origin, sometimes even its date. Does your Excellency doubt me?” she
added, turning to Count Gulohoff, who had assumed a somewhat incredulous
attitude.
“I would not do so for worlds,” said the courtly Russian, “but
I confess that I would feel very interested to test your knowledge, Comtesse;
this room, for instance, is full of bibelots. Olga Borgensky has some rare
and beautiful pieces; shall we experiment now, to commence with, on this
exquisite pink vase?” And Count Gulohoff, inwardly thankful at the
turn the conversation had taken, stretched out his hand towards the vase,
from the inside of which he had already noticed protruding the corner of
an envelope.
“Allow me, your Excellency,” said the Abbé, “to
lift the vase up for you.”
“No! no! I have it quite safely,” said Count Gulohoff, who,
hearing the faint, crisp rustle of paper inside the vase, was tilting it
towards him, in the hope that he could obtain the letter unperceived.
At that moment the Abbé, who was short and somewhat round, apparently
in trying to reach the vase must have lost his footing, for he fell forward,
and, in steadying himself, jerked the arm of Count Gulohoff so violently
that the latter lost the grip he had on the vase, which fell crashing to
the floor.
There was general consternation among the little group of male and female
connoisseurs who had gathered round to see the end of the debate: the poor
little Abbé especially seemed terribly distressed, trying to pick
up the pieces, and wondering whether the valuable vase could by any possibility
be repaired. Count Gulohoff was for one moment terribly disconcerted, when,
in the crash, he lost sight of the letter; his mind was, however, soon set
at rest, for he quickly noticed it lying on the floor, close to the priest’s soutane,
and he was able to pick it up unperceived.
4
Madame Borgensky, forced in her capacity as hostess to be constantly attentive
to His Imperial Majesty, doing the necessary presentations, and having to
appear as gay and entertaining as possible, had not, from the end of the
room where she was, noticed the little scene that was being enacted close
to the mantelpiece. Had Count Gulohoff possessed himself of the letter, she
wondered?—the letter that denounced her husband, as well as his friends.
She endured most excruciating tortures of mind, all the more unendurable
as she was, for the moment, at least, perfectly powerless to do anything.
She was gaily chatting the while, gradually leading Alexander III. towards
the further end of the ballroom in the hope that she might yet ward off this
fearful, monstrous thing.
Ah! it was too late. She had caught sight of Count Gulohoff coming towards
her, and she felt, more than she actually saw, that the fatal letter was
in his hand.
“Will your Majesty, and also my fair hostess, deign to allow me to
take my leave?” said the Count, bowing before the Tsar, while he threw
a quick glance of intelligence at Madame Borgensky, who had now become deathly
pale; “serious duties call me away.”
“Yes, dear Count!” said his Majesty laughing. “I bet you
he has discovered some conspiracy against my life, and is going to save me.
I assure you, Madame, last year he discovered 365 plots, each one of which
would inevitably have ended my days, were it not for the devotion and fidelity
of Count Gulohoff.”
“The devotion and fidelity of all your Majesty’s right-minded
subjects,” said Count Gulohoff. “Madame Borgensky, I feel sure,
would do what I have done, and more, were she but given the opportunity,
which, after all, may arise any day.”
“Indeed, your Majesty, and so would my husband, than whom your Majesty
has no more faithful subject,” said Madame Borgensky, vainly trying
to master her emotion.
“I thank you, Madame,” said the Tsar, with the charming cordiality
so peculiar to him, “and I can assure you that in coming here I quite
forget that I am the guest of a Pole. Well, au revoir, cher Comte.
I shall leave soon after one o’clock, and I hope Madame Borgensky will
allow me, for the moment, to monopolize her society and let me escort her
to the supper-room.”
And offering his fair hostess his arm, Alexander Nicolaïevitch led
her across the room and down the stairs, followed by the respectful salutes
of all, and the glances of admiration levelled at his beautiful partner,
who, with eyes open wide with agonized fear, and cheeks blanched with terror,
was making superhuman efforts to appear calm and self-possessed.
5
The 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? I 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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