The Intriguers

“I should say, your Excellency, that he is sadly deficient in the common courtesies of life.”

There was a subdued laugh from the man in civilian clothes, standing in the bay window. He turned round for a second and exchanged a meaning glance with the Count. Golitzine knew what that glance was intended to convey. “There was no love lost between these two.”

“I think, Signor Corsini, you have very pithily defined our friend’s deficiencies. If he could have controlled his somewhat brutal impulses and acquired a little more polish, he might have advanced farther in his career than now seems possible.”

There was a brief pause, which was broken by the Count.

“In the course of these chats with Madame Quéro, I dare say you learn a good deal of her general habits. Women are apt to get confidential with an agreeable male friend. I expect she has told you of those secret little parties to which only men are admitted, which she has at her villa?”

“I swear to your Excellency that to me she has never breathed a word of them.”

“I quite believe you, Signor. There is good reason why she should keep silence. Her last party was on Saturday night. The next time you are chatting with her, just mention it in a casual way, and ask her why she does not include you, the Director of the Opera, in her intimate circle?”

“I will certainly do so, Count,” replied Nello just a little piqued at the information he had received. It was strange that Madame Quéro had never invited him to one of these, presumably, select parties.

“By the way,” added the Count. “If she should ask you where you got your information from I must request you not to mention my name. Refuse to satisfy her curiosity. I have special reasons for this.”

Nello promised that he would obey the Count’s injunction, and rose to leave, under the impression that the interview was ended. But Golitzine waved him to his seat.

“Just a few moments more, Signor Corsini. I want to take you a little farther into my confidence. We all agree that you are a very capable artist, but I suppose you may sometimes have wondered why your way in this country has been made so very easy; why, in short, your success has been so rapid.”

“It has occurred to me many times, your Excellency, but I did not like to ask directly for an explanation,” replied the young violinist quietly. “I thought that would come at the proper time and place. Am I correct in assuming that I am to be given it now?”

“It shall be given you now,” answered the Count in an equally equable voice. “And I am going to speak very plainly, Signor Corsini. Salmoros admired your talent greatly; he told me that in a private letter, and he wished to push you for reason of that; but he also perceived in you different qualities that would serve his own purposes – purposes which are closely associated with the welfare of the Russian Empire.”

The Count suddenly rose and waved his hand in the direction of the silent man, lounging in the bay window.

“I am going to make a somewhat dramatic introduction. I present Signor Corsini, the protégé of Baron Salmoros, to the Emperor Alexander himself, who has been a silent witness of our interview.”

Corsini rose and bowed profoundly. Unused to the atmosphere of courts, he was bewildered as to the exact etiquette on such occasions. Ought he to kneel and kiss the Emperor’s hand? He had a hazy notion he had read somewhere that this was the prescribed ritual.

The Emperor put an end to his embarrassment by advancing and holding out to him that strong hand which could bend a horse-shoe between its fingers.

“I am delighted to welcome you, Signor. Salmoros has vouched for you. Our good friend, Golitzine, who is a keen judge of men, assures me that you are loyal and true to those who befriend you, as we have done.”

“My services, for what they are worth, are entirely at your Majesty’s disposal,” answered Corsini fervently. It was but natural he should be a little overcome by the gracious condescension of such a high personage. He was not even petty enough to be chagrined by the discovery that his sudden advancement was not due solely to his artistic genius.

The Emperor, having said just what was needful, retired to the seclusion of his bay window. The astute Count resumed the conversation.

“I trust, Signor Corsini, there are no reservations in your expressions of loyalty to those who have advanced and befriended you?”

“I am afraid I do not quite follow your Excellency.”

“Tut, tut, my good young friend. I am quite sure we shall understand each other very quickly. La Belle Quéro, according to report, is very enamoured of you – an artist like herself, a handsome and presentable young man; vastly, in my opinion, superior to the brutal Zouroff. Now, this important thing is – what are your sentiments towards her?”

Nello’s answer was very frank. “I have grown to look upon her simply as a kind and good friend.”

Golitzine drew a breath of relief. It was as he had hoped. The young musician had placed his fancy on one far removed from him, by rank and position. The comparatively coarse charm of the handsome singer could not compete with the youthful beauty of the Princess Nada. A benign expression stole over his lined face.

“And if you knew that Madame Quéro was taking advantage of the hospitality of this country, of her apparently neutral position, to conspire and plot with his Majesty’s sworn enemies, you would be hand and glove with us to find out what you could in order to frustrate her designs?”

“Assuredly, your Excellency.” Nello had started from his seat and spoken with fervour. “My duty and my allegiance is to the Emperor, yourself, and the Baron Salmoros. Madame Quéro, good friend as I believed her to be, counts as nothing.”

“That is precisely what I want to be assured of,” said the Count. “Now, Signor, put that question I suggested to Madame Quéro. It may be she will tell you a deliberate lie. It may be she will seek to entangle you in this plot, and make you one of the conspirators as the price of her favour. I should prefer that, but I think she is too clever to do it. Anyway, report to me how things go, which way they go. And I rely upon it, that you are a faithful servant of the House of Romanoff.”

Nello assured him that he was, and returned to his hotel full of thought.

So this was what the apparently benevolent Salmoros had secured him for, to be a spy of the Russian Government. At first he felt a little indignant. La Belle Quéro might be a traitress, a conspirator, but was it his mission to unmask her?

Then his shrewd Latin sense came to his aid. Whatever their ulterior motives, his powerful friends had incidentally helped him, and his bounden duty was to them. If the handsome Spanish woman, who should have no part or lot in the political concerns of Russia, had chosen to mix herself up with a lot of base intriguers, that was her business. It was, after all, diamond cut diamond.

Perhaps he was the more impelled to the cause which the wily Golitzine had urged him to take, by the rumour in the circles where he chiefly mixed that the names of Prince Zouroff and La Belle Quéro were generally coupled together. It was currently reported that as soon as the beautiful singer could get a divorce from her complacent fisherman, she would marry the Prince. But in Roman Catholic countries divorce is not easily to be obtained, and the fascinating Madame Quéro was still united to the lover of her youth. And according to further rumour, Zouroff was not inclined to hurry matters on. As a matter of fact, he was much more interested in other things. Perhaps, also, the lady was not quite so keen as formerly.

So Nello resolved to play his part, the part that it was his bounden duty to play. If the Spanish woman and her confederates were playing a low-down game, he was playing a straight one by outwitting them, in the interests of the Imperial House which had shown him such remarkable favour.

That night the two met, as Madame Quéro was going to her dressing-room. She had sung better than ever that evening, never had she aroused greater enthusiasm. Her eyes were sparkling, her cheeks were glowing with triumph. She met Corsini’s cold glance, and her smile faded away.

“You do not seem very amiable to-night, Signor. Have I had the misfortune to offend you in any way?”

The appealing look she darted at him was certainly that of a woman more or less in love. For a moment, Nello felt a little ashamed of the part he had to play; it seemed cowardly to hurt a woman. But after all, his duty was to his benefactors, and if she was the traitress they alleged she deserved no mercy.

Nello bowed, but made no immediate response. He was on the point of moving away, when she laid a detaining hand upon his arm.

“Stay, I beseech you! Why are you so cold? I have sung better than ever to-night, and yet you offer me no word of congratulation. Many a time, when I have sung badly, you have been profuse of your praises, and I thought we were such good friends!”

Nello saw his opportunity at once. “I used to think, Madame, that we were very good friends.”

“And has anything happened to alter your previous opinion?” inquired Madame Quéro in a faltering voice.

Again the young Italian made a movement to pass on, and again the impetuous woman detained him.

“If you please, we will not leave it where it is, with studied coldness on your part. Please tell me how I have offended you.”

Nello spoke with exaggerated courtesy. “Madame, I am too humble to have the right to be offended. I, the mere Director of an Opera, you, one of the idols of Europe.”

The prima donna stamped an impatient foot. “Signor Corsini, you are trying my patience unduly. It is easy to see that you have some fancied grievance. Will you be good enough to explain what it is, or at any rate the nature of it?”

Corsini looked at her steadily. “Madame, you have been good enough to call me your friend. If that is the case, why have I not been invited to those little private suppers at your villa? So many go, that one more would not have made a serious addition.”

Her face went as white as death. “Who has told you such a falsehood?” she stammered.

Nello never took his eyes off her. The white face, the stammering tongue, proved that Golitzine was right. She had secret parties at her villa, and she was dismayed to find that anybody had heard of them.

“A friend of mine, whose name I must not reveal, Madame.”

Without another word Madame Quéro went to her dressing-room. From there she despatched a hasty note to Prince Zouroff.

CHAPTER XIII

La Belle Quéro and the Prince Zouroff were sitting together in the boudoir of the small villa on the outskirts of St. Petersburg.

They were both smoking cigarettes. Madame Quéro looked anxious and perturbed, Zouroff surly and annoyed.

“Inez, you are very unreasonable. Why have you dragged me here at this time of night? If your note had not said ‘very urgent,’ I should not have taken myself away from more important matters.”

La Belle Quéro flicked the ash of her cigarette on the carpet. “Once, my friend, you would have come on the slightest request from me. I should not have been compelled to mark my note urgent, eh?”

The Prince answered a little awkwardly. “Don’t let us be too sentimental, dear child. We have been good friends, we have got to a closer degree of comradeship. Is it not an ideal relationship? Well, what have you to tell me? You have not summoned me here for nothing, I am sure?”

“Not even for the pleasure of your society, my most charming and exquisite Boris?” inquired the prima donna, in a tone of raillery.

The Prince frowned. At the moment, the light caprices of women did not appeal to him.

“You are talking nonsense, my dear Inez. Let us come to the point.”

The Spanish woman came to the point at once, with an angry glitter in her eyes. What a pity that Zouroff was not a little more gentle in his dealings with women!

“Our little secret evening parties have been discovered, that is all. It may give you and me food for reflection.”

The Prince drew a deep breath. “Discovered! It is impossible. Who dares to suspect us?”

“It does not matter who suspects us. It is enough that we are suspected. I suppose the Secret Police have been at work.”

Zouroff thought a few moments, and then a sudden light came to him. He crossed over and grasped the beautiful young woman by the arm.

“Tell me the truth and don’t palter with me,” he thundered in his harsh, raucous tones. “Where have you this information? But I can answer the question myself. It is from that white-livered Italian, Corsini. He is a spy in the pay of Golitzine.”

Madame Quéro endeavoured to utter a faltering negative, but Zouroff, always fond of brutal methods, tightened his grasp on the delicate flesh.

Under the hypnotic influence of this brutal and commanding man, she stammered forth the truth.

“You have guessed right. It was Corsini who told me, in a very brief interview. He had heard the rumour from a friend.”

Zouroff smiled. It was a very sinister smile at the best. The lips curled up, the strong, white, even teeth showed themselves, suggesting the fangs of a wolf.

“So this degenerate Italian is daring to thrust himself across our path, is he? Well, then! the Italian mountebank must disappear.”

Madame Quéro rose to her full height and braved the brutal and truculent Prince.

“I think I have got a word to say in this: If he does disappear, I shall go to the Emperor and tell him the whole truth.”

“You have fallen in love with this young man, eh?” inquired the Prince in a jeering voice.

“No, I will not say that. And besides, he is in love with somebody else. But understand me, if you please” – she spoke with her old imperiousness – “I will not have a hair of this young man’s head harmed. He is young, he is innocent; he shall not fall a victim to your dastardly schemes.”

Boris regarded her with his cold, hard glance. “Suppose I said that, in that case, even La Belle Quéro herself must disappear. What then?”

Tears came into the beautiful woman’s eyes. She looked at him, more compassionate than angry.

“Oh, Boris, have you sunk so low, have you let your ambitions overcome all the softer impulses of your nature? Would you really murder me for fear I should tell, and frustrate your schemes?”

She looked very beautiful as she appealed to him. For a moment the old love for her, the old infatuation surged up in his heart. He clasped her to his breast, and murmured softly the words: “Why are you not heart and soul with me, as you used to be?”

She disengaged herself gently from his embrace; it no longer thrilled her. “You are no longer the same to me, Boris,” she whispered, with the usual subterfuge of the woman. “You have had other loves besides La Belle Quéro.”

“I do not admit that, Inez,” he answered, in his rough, hard tones, a little shaken by his emotion. “But remember, we are bound together by solemn ties, by solemn oaths, to the same cause. Mark my words,” he added, with a sudden access of savagery. “If you play me false in that respect, expect no mercy.”

“If I play you false, Boris, I expect no mercy; I shall get none. I know the manner of man you are.”

“Yes, you know the sort of man I am, Inez. Pursue your little flirtations, if you will. I shall not complain. But once play me false in other matters, and your doom is sealed.”

He strode out of the room, and the face of Madame Quéro went white as she remembered the threat. The Prince loved her in his rough, brutal way, but if she interfered with his plans, he would brush her out of his path with as little compunction as he would kill a fly that annoyed him with its impertinent buzzing.

And then, in a few moments, her thoughts went back to the handsome young Italian, Corsini. She had, in an unguarded moment, given him away. Zouroff’s slow, but unrelenting, vengeance would pursue him. The Prince had said that Corsini must disappear. In this autocratic country people disappeared every day, and nobody seemed to wonder. It was such a common occurrence.

Next day Madame Quéro, very disturbed, sought Corsini at his private office at the Imperial Opera. Her object was to gain a little time before Zouroff could put his evil designs into execution.

She approached him with her most winning smile.

“Signor, you reproached me for not having asked you to my villa. Will you allow me to repair the omission? Will you sup with me, tête-à-tête, on Thursday night?”

She had meant, in this intimate meeting, to give him a few hints as to his personal safety without too closely inculpating Zouroff and his associates, whom she still greatly feared.

Nello expressed a thousand regrets. After his duties at the Opera were over, Prince Zouroff had requested his attendance at his Palace, as Princess Nada had wished to again hear his rendering of the romance which had now become celebrated.

The voice of the prima donna grew agitated. She was very distrustful of Boris and his ways.

“But, Signor Corsini, why go there when you know so well that the Prince is quite indifferent to music? He does not care for any sort, yours or mine.”

Nello darted at her a shrewd glance. “I do not think myself, Madame, that the Prince is a great connoisseur; but he is generally in his box when you sing.”

The beautiful Spanish woman blushed ever so slightly. “Ah, Signor, he comes because I am the fashion. But all the same, I wish you would not go.”

Her manner was very insistent. Nello could see that she was greatly agitated.

“Tell me, Madame. You have some reason for not wishing me to go?”

Madame Quéro hesitated. She dared not tell the truth, that she feared there was some sinister design on the part of the Prince. Had he not said that Corsini must disappear? Her blood ran cold at the thought.

She relied on her woman’s wiles. “Suppose,” she whispered softly, “that I told you I was very jealous of the Princess Nada. Would that keep you away?”

Nello looked at her steadily. A few days ago her request might have had some influence on him, but now he knew her for a traitress. She was only seeking to trap him for her own ends. He was proof against her. Golitzine had warned him.

“The Princess Nada is an old friend of mine, Madame. I have promised to play that little romance for her whenever she wishes to hear it. I cannot break my promise.”

The blood of the Biscayan peasant surged wildly in her veins. “You are a fool, Signor Corsini; you do not know your real friends, I assure you.”

Corsini assumed his most diplomatic manner. He bowed profoundly. “I have made many friends in St. Petersburg, Madame, but I shall always remember that you were one of the first and best.”

“Always excepting Princess Nada,” remarked the prima donna spitefully.

“Ah, Madame, I met her first in London; I cannot tell you under what tragic circumstances. Yes, to be quite frank, the Princess has a little niche in my memory that nobody else can occupy. You will forgive me?”

Madame Quéro turned away from him scornfully, her warm Spanish blood all aflame at the mention of her rival.

“Go then to your beautiful Princess, with her bloom of the lilies and roses on her cheeks, and your fate be on your own head.”

Corsini, in spite of his equable temperament, was a little disturbed by the interview. Madame Quéro had been very insistent that he should not go to the Zouroff Palace. What was there behind this insistence?

He had pressed her closely as to her reasons, and she had led him to understand she entertained an undefined jealousy of the Princess Nada. In all probability that was the true explanation. Anyway, she would give him none other.

He was very busy during the next day or two with the cares of management – the directorship of the Imperial Opera was no light task. He met the singer several times, but she still appeared to nourish resentment.

Well, he could not help it. Wild horses would not have kept him away from the Zouroff Palace, from the few minutes’ glimpse of the beautiful young Princess. The Thursday drew near, and his pulses beat with pleasurable anticipation. If Madame Quéro withdrew her friendship from him, it would not break his heart; and if she was the traitress that Golitzine assumed, her friendship was not worth having.

As for the woman herself, she was torn with conflicting emotions. At one moment she hated him, at another she wept to think that he should fall a victim to the machinations of the unscrupulous and unrelenting Prince. And on the Wednesday, the day before the reception at the Zouroff Palace, her softer feelings conquered.

She had seen the Prince the night before, and he had told her that he was going into the country and would not return to St. Petersburg till the midday of the Thursday.

She drove to the Zouroff Palace in the afternoon and sent up her card to the Princess Nada. On it she had pencilled – “To see you on an urgent matter.”

The young Princess’s maid, Katerina, who was devoted to her mistress, brought in the card.

Nada read it, and she frowned. She was not at all conventional for a girl of her rank and station, and she numbered many artists amongst her friends. But she had heard of the reputation of La Belle Quéro. Rumours had reached her of the peculiar relations between the singer and her brother, the Prince. Obviously, she was not the sort of woman she could receive in a private capacity.

“Go down yourself, Katerina, to this person, and be perfectly civil,” she enjoined her maid. “Explain to her as politely as possible that I am not able to see any visitors to-day.”

The young woman conveyed the cold, decisive message to the waiting Madame Quéro. A dull, red flush spread over the singer’s face as she recognised the reasons for the refusal to accord her an interview.

But she had not come unprepared for such a rebuff. “One moment, if you please,” she said, drawing forth a letter and handing it to the maid. “Take this to your young mistress. I will wait till you return. I fancy next time you will bring me a different answer.”

The maid bowed and went back to the Princess. Nada tore the letter open angrily. The woman was a trifle too insolent and persistent. Then her angry mood passed as she mastered the brief contents.

“I regret very much to intrude upon you; I can quite guess that my presence is not welcome. A great danger is threatening a certain gentleman, Signor Corsini, for whom I believe you have some friendship. You are the only person I can think of at the moment who can avert that danger, especially as it is threatened by a member of your own family. If you still persist in refusing to see me, please seal up this letter and return it by your maid.”

There was no longer any fear of refusal. Corsini threatened with danger, and by a member of her own family, who could be none other than Boris!

“Bring the lady to me at once, Katerina,” she commanded the wondering maid.

A moment later the two faced each other, the Princess standing in the middle of the room, courteous but distantly polite, to receive her unwelcome guest.

They looked at each other steadily, with dislike in their hearts, the aristocrat of pure and ancient lineage, the woman who had played barefoot in the gutter as a child, and won her way with her exquisite talent to fame and fortune.

There was between them, at the start, the antagonism of class. But there was also between them a still more subtle antagonism, recognised by each: they had a mutual tenderness for the same man.

CHAPTER XIV

It was exceedingly difficult for a person of Nada’s frank and open temperament to resort to the arts of the dissembler, to feign a cordiality she did not feel. Still, she managed to pull herself together and, to a creditable extent, conceal her dislike of her unwelcome visitor. With a grave courtesy she invited the Spanish woman to seat herself.

“Your note has distressed me, Madame, for more than one reason. In the first place I am very sorry to hear that Signor Corsini is menaced by a great danger. I met him in London; ours was the first private house he played at after his great success at the Covent Garden concert. I have a great esteem for him as an artist, and I am shocked to think that, after so short a stay in my own country, he should be the victim of some sinister designs. Secondly, I am the more disturbed because your letter tells me very plainly in what quarter these designs are being entertained.”