Never was there a journey more fraught with peril than that which I now undertook. I had to disappear from civilisation for an unknown length of time, and plunge into a region shrouded in mysterious dread, the land of prison and exile; the gloomy realm which forms the background to the showy life of the capital beside the Neva, like a dark subterranean dungeon hidden beneath a glittering palace.
From Siberia few enemies of the Russian Government ever return. My safety depended on my keeping up the character of a financial agent, on the look-out for sources of wealth requiring French capital for their development. In that character I was sure of a cordial reception, and it served as a convenient cloak for some curiosity about the country I was passing through.
Not daring to intrust my secret to a companion, I was obliged to go without sleep from the moment of leaving the Ural mountains behind. The utmost indulgence I could allow myself was such a light doze as left the attention ready to leap into activity at the least provocation. At every stopping place I got out and made a careful examination of the neighbourhood. The one thing I had to fear was the night. In the Cimmerian darkness of a northern winter I might have been carried past an army without perceiving it.
The train by which I travelled was a long one, and it was increased before we entered Asia by the addition of an open car like a cattle-truck, containing peasants whom I took to be prisoners. I had to be careful not to show myself too inquisitive, but I noticed at the various stations along the track that they were all young men of about the same age, and that they got in and out in obedience to orders given by officials who were armed, and whom I imagined to be warders or police.
I did not consider it safe to hold much conversation with my fellow passengers. It was probable that more than one spy was among them. I had an uneasy sensation of being watched by invisible eyes, and I knew that if I once aroused real suspicion by my behaviour, my doom was sealed.
So the days and nights passed, and the train crept on its way across the silence of the frozen continent. I strained my eyes in vain across the blinding waste, and strained my ears through the night. No sight or sound rewarded me, save the solitary huts of the railway-men and the monotonous tinkle of sleigh-bells.
According to my reckoning we had got nearly half way from the Ural to the Amur when the longest stage of all was reached. We ran from the sunset of one day to nearly noon of the next, only halting to take in water and fuel. Then at last the train entered a town of considerable importance, apparently a sort of depôt of the line, there being many side-rails on which trucks were standing as though waiting till they should be required.
As soon as the train stopped, I got out as usual with the other passengers, to stretch my legs and look about me. The long journey and the lack of proper rest had so exhausted me that it was some time before I realised that there was an unusual lack of bustle about this particular halt.
When at last the fact of this strange stillness was borne in upon my consciousness, I roused myself to observation. At once I perceived that the alighting passengers were fewer in number than before. It was the troop I had mistaken for prisoners who were missing. I looked at the end of the train for their car. It was no longer there.
We had silently slipped the wagon in the course of the night!