Miss Hildreth: A Novel, Volume 1

by Augusta de Grasse Stevens

Thus does history but repeat itself, and the story of Ivan Ivanowich is rehearsed again and again, only the actors changing, not the drama, or the mise-en-scène.

On one bright and beautiful morning in January, when all the fashionable world of the famous capital were out and abroad, and to all outward seeming "youth was at the prow, pleasure at the helm" of the day's amusements, a group of some half-dozen men were gathered together in a small inner apartment of the building known as the Imperial Chancellerie. Of these, some were in the police uniform of the Tsar, the others in plain morning dress, in one case enhanced by a great-coat lined with almost priceless sables. Conversation, which had been carried on in low tones, languished somewhat, and the only sounds that broke the increasing silence, were the scratching of a quill-pen over rough paper, or the fall of a coal from time to time from the open fireplace. It was the owner of the fur-lined great-coat who was writing, and as he sat busy and preoccupied, the clear, searching sunlight fell full upon him, and revealed a face of more than usual distinction. The brow was broad at the temples, growing narrow as it reached the hair that fell heavily across it, and which was well streaked with grey; the eyes were intensely black, deep set in cavernous sockets, out of which they flashed and glowed like smouldering fires; the cheeks were thin, the complexion olive; a slight, short beard and moustache accentuated the pointed chin and firm, thin lips; the hand that guided the pen was slender, nervous, long-fingered, and capable.

In a word, the man writing in the inner sanctum of the Petersburg Chancellerie, and the man paying his devoirs to Patricia Hildreth, and conversing amicably with Mr. Tremain, are one and the same, Count Vladimir Mellikoff. It was easy to see that he was the ruling spirit of the group assembled, each one of whom treated him with deference and respect.

The quill-pen continued its noisy progress over the official paper for some moments, and the silence grew so intense that the tinkling of the sleigh-bells and the echoed laughter of the occupants of the droschkies as they flew past could be distinctly heard, despite the heavy double casements. At length the door opened and another person entered, at sight of whom the assembled men fell into attitudes of anxious respect, even Count Mellikoff rising from the table and bowing deferentially to him.

The new-comer was a tall and handsome man, with a stern, uncompromising face, and of alert and dictatorial manner. He was dressed in morning attire, and wore on his coat more than one ribbon of merit or distinction. He advanced rapidly, bowing comprehensively, and took the chair offered him by Count Mellikoff, from which the latter had just arisen, with a courteous word and gesture.

This personage, for he well deserves the grander designation, was Paul Patouchki, a naturalised Russian, who owned Poland as his mother, yet yielded his allegiance to the Tsar; he was the head and chief in Petersburg of that secret section of the Chancellerie whose work it was to keep strict watch and ward over the Imperial subjects, who, from business or pleasure, elected to live without the Tsar's boundaries. Patouchki was trusted implicitly by his superiors, whom, indeed, he had often served at the risk of his life, and by them, the Emperor of all the Russias not excepted, he was entrusted with the organisation and development of the most delicate missions; for by no harsher word were the despotic actions and orders of the Chancellerie ever designated.

Patouchki seated himself and drew towards him a heavily brass-bound despatch-box, and unlocking it with a key suspended from his watch-chain, took from it his morning's correspondence; this he scrutinised rapidly, sorting out the more important papers, and pushing the largest number towards a fair, boyish-looking young man, who had entered with him, with a muttered, "For you, Ivor," and then opening and reading with quick and comprehensive eyes the few special communications he had reserved for his own perusal.

Indeed, every movement and action of this remarkable man bespoke a character of keen perceptions, unbending will, inflexible opinions, and quick deductions. As he finished his letters he folded them neatly and laid them down with nice precision, in due regularity of sequence of importance; this done, he leant back and looked up at the men who stood somewhat back from him in the same respectful attitudes. This slight movement was evidently a signal well known, for each one of the group now advanced in turn and laid before Patouchki their reports, which were in the form of sealed documents; then falling back again, waited for the chief to speak.

When he did so, his voice was harsh and crisp, the words fell from his lips with the precision of bullets from a repeating revolver, and it was noticeable that, whatever the bearing or meaning of his instructions, his countenance and expression never changed or softened; that hard, imperious, unsympathetic human mask was never known to show emotion of any kind.

"Count Vladimir," he said, addressing the most distinguished of the group, after himself, "I have read and considered your report of the work done by you in western France, which, I am requested by his Excellency to say, does you infinite credit; it has been decided by the secret committee of the Chancellerie to give into your hands a somewhat delicate mission. What say you, sir, to an expedition into the heart of Africa?"