And so the summer drew on apace, and Petersburg became a desolate wilderness; empty, save for the thousands of poor souls who toiled on and on, irrespective of the seasons' changes, and whose sole recreation was a walk across the Troitski, or Nicholas bridges, stopping for an instant's prayer before the shrine of the good name-saint, or leaning against the granite parapet, drinking in the languid breeze that came, touched with a suspicion of coolness, from off the grey Neva; or an hour's stroll in the Boulevard-park, shorn now of its aristocratic idlers, but gay enough with the brilliant colours in the costumes of the less favoured mondaines.
The Court had long since flown westward; and after a few weeks' halt at Gatschina, the gentle Tsarina had taken a favoured few of her personnel, among whom was Olga Naundorff, and departed for her native Denmark; where, in the dear old home of her childhood, she dropped the restrictions of royalty even as she put off her state robes and jewels, and in a cotton frock and straw hat became a girl again, outvieing even her daughter, the Grand Duchess Xenia, in her happiness and delight.
Neither Patouchki nor Ivor left Petersburg. The former because no place possessed half the charm for him as did the frowning Chancellerie, and his own office within its walls; no music sounded so sweet to his ears as the triumphant clang of the jubilate chimes, or the mournful cadences of the miserere bells; no recreation so well pleased him as an hour passed in reviewing the Chancellerie's past achievements, or in building up vast schemes for its future greatness.
And Ivor stayed because his self-imposed task was not yet accomplished, and because he felt the time growing daily shorter, when, unless he could redeem his word and find the woman Adèle Lallovich, his rival would return and snatch his prize from out his very arms.
Therefore he waited and he watched with a dogged patience and perseverance. The July days passed into August, and August became September, and still he made no further progress in the path of victory; while on the other hand, according to private despatches from the Italian, Mattalini, Vladimir Mellikoff was apparently succeeding in his undertaking beyond his most sanguine hopes, and spoke confidently of his speedy return to Petersburg.
Ivor felt the situation to be critical, and yet was unable to force the march of events. So far his every effort had miscarried; each well-laid plan, each secret scheme had but resulted in failure. Adèle Lallovich seemed to have as completely vanished from out the orbit of his machinations, as though she had never come within that of his vision.
And so the 15th of September dawned, and Tolskoi, with the sense of defeat pressing heavily upon him, failed for the first time to report himself at the Chancellerie. He felt he could not bear with equanimity Patouchki's piercing glance, or the harsh tones of his voice as he put the invariable question—"Have you found her?" and still less could he meet the slow, cold smile that curled the chief's lips at the monotony of his negative reply. He knew, too, that this was the day appointed in America for the examination of the warrant papers, under which Count Mellikoff had effected the arrest of a certain person calling herself Adèle Lamien, and should this inquiry terminate in the establishment of the woman's identity with the murderer of Stevan Lallovich, Mellikoff would lose no time in starting for Russia; and, when once on the ground, and his influence over Patouchki restored, what would become of his, Ivor's, charges against him? The deepest laid schemes must fall to pieces under the pressure of bald fact. It had never been a part of Ivor's design that Vladimir should return triumphant; his defeat and disgrace, while absent, were necessary factors in the carrying out of his project. It was on that very defeat and disgrace that he depended most for his success with Olga; like her royal ancestress, she could not tolerate or forgive the sin of failure.
The day had been very close and hot; what breeze there was came laden with a fiery touch, the great gilded dome of Isaac's Church blazed with blinding intensity, the tall, lance-like spire of the great Petropavlovsk fortress quivered in the palpitating atmosphere; there was no retreat, however secluded, that was not laid bare and permeated by the searching, cruel sunshine.
Ivor had remained a voluntary prisoner all day; but as evening drew on, and the garish sun sank gradually down to rest in a panoply of royal crimson and gold, he roused himself, and passed out into the rapidly filling streets. Walking idly along the Boulevard de Cavalerio, he made his way to the Nevski—the Rue Rivoli of Petersburg—stopping now and then to look in the shop windows, and to wonder aimlessly which one of all the pretty baubles displayed in the Circassian Bazaar would best please Olga's fancy.
After half an hour's wandering through the arcades he turned in the direction of the church of Our Lady of Kazan. The great doors stood open, and on either side the semi-circular colonnades, like those of St. Peter's at Rome, made deep and shadowy resting-places for the weary.