Miss Hildreth: A Novel, Volume 2

by Augusta de Grasse Stevens

Count Mellikoff, left alone, leant back in his chair with a heavy sigh, passing his hand wearily across his eyes. The rival musicians had settled their difficulties by the withdrawal of the barrel-organ, and only the strains from the German band floated in, mellowed by distance. It was the "Blue Danube" they were playing, and unconsciously, Vladimir Mellikoff kept time to the pathos of the under theme with his thoughts. The look of anxiety deepened on his face, emphasized by the additional expression of sadness that crept into his eyes.

And, indeed, he had reason to be both sad and anxious; of late he had detected in Patouchki's letters and despatches a latent tone of distrust and suspicion, which he was quick to feel and to resent.

There were no more veiled allusions to his past ability and faithful services; no assurances of his proved fidelity to the Tsar; no commendation of the work already accomplished, such as had come rarely, to be sure, but yet with sufficient regularity in the earlier stages of his mission. Rather were there peremptory commands, undisguised admonitions, and barely concealed innuendoes of dissatisfaction and distrust on the part of the Chancellerie.

"Rest assured I shall be the last to misjudge or condemn you, Vladimir," had run the chief's last letter; "but it becomes me to warn you that there are others who take a less lenient view of your position than I do, and who will not scruple to use every indiscretion against you. He who serves Russia must be prepared to find her not only suspicious, but ungrateful; it is your high privilege, Vladimir, to be counted among the most loyal of her servitors; but even to you may come the bitter lesson, that trifling with her decrees is followed by swift and sure punishment. The sworn presence of the woman, Adèle Lamien, in Petersburg, to which Tolskoi has given his oath, but which, as yet, we have been unable to verify, greatly complicates your position, since the Chancellerie knows that it was to find her you undertook your present mission. If, in the month that elapsed between your arrival in the States and her alleged appearance here, you have allowed her to slip through your fingers, you know full well the judgment that will be passed upon you. Your telegrams of late have been vague and uncertain, your letters no more assuring. In the meantime, and up to this present moment, we have been unable to put our hands upon this woman; she has disappeared as mysteriously as she came. And since there is room for doubt in the matter, we prefer to give you the benefit of that doubt, at least for the present."

This had been the substance of Patouchki's communication, and Vladimir could not mistake its tone, even if its meaning had not been further enhanced by the arrival of the Italian, Mattalini, who came ostensibly as a bearer of despatches, and with a request, which was more of a command, that Count Mellikoff would kindly retain him in his service.

A bitter smile had come to Vladimir's lips as he read the letter of recommendation and looked at the candidate for his favour standing before him. Well might Ivor Tolskoi have said, that lying craft and duplicity were stamped on his every feature. Vladimir Mellikoff but confirmed these words when he said, half sadly to himself, as the man turned away:

"And has it come to this, my chief? Am I to be dogged and watched by such a paid miscreant as this Italian? Is he to be my 'double,' and am I to stand or fall according to his testimony? Oh, Russia, hard indeed are you as a task-mistress, heavy your yoke of iron, and bitter your recompense!"

It did not require any great perspicuity to read through the Chancellerie's design in sending Mattalini to be servant to Count Mellikoff; and, from the moment the sullen Italian entered his service, Vladimir felt his evil star had arisen, and his evil hour arrived.

That Tolskoi should have been the one to swear to the actual presence of Adèle Lamien, or Lallovich, in Petersburg, when he—Mellikoff—was hunting her down in America, troubled him but little. Firm in his own belief, and secure of his ultimate success, he paid small heed to a chance likeness that might easily have deceived so gay and volatile a young man as Ivor. Was it likely that he, Valdimir Mellikoff, an old and tried servant of the Tsar—old at least in experience if not in years—should be distanced and out-done by a yellow-haired youth still almost in his adolescence? Count Mellikoff smiled, and put the thought aside as valueless.

Much more disturbing and distressing was the scant news he received of his betrothed. Olga had written once or twice during the first two months of his self-imposed exile, and then suddenly her letters had ceased, and he could obtain no further news of her than what he could glean between the lines of the official telegrams in the daily newspapers. These were meagre in the extreme, only a bare mention now and then of the more important items of Russian politics, or her attitude on the Bulgarian question; but they at least told him that the Court was still at Petersburg, and therefore he knew Olga to be there also. With the beginning of the Russian summer she would accompany her Imperial mistress to Gatschina, or the baths, and then he felt he should indeed be separated from her.