He had not only failed, but he had bungled, and in so doing had opened the flood-gates of public opinion upon the Imperial policy. Russia never forgave inefficiency, still less inefficiency that brought ridicule in its wake. He knew this, and he knew also that his disgrace was imminent. Still he clung to Patouchki, to his belief in the chief's calm equipoise of judgment. He could endure a public expression of disgrace, if only Patouchki absolved him from intentional failure.
And then, too, was not Olga awaiting him? He had done nothing to alienate her love; she stood far above and beyond the lesser prejudices of political intrigue and jealousy. He was still her lover. What mattered anything so long as he had Olga to cling to; Olga's love and trust for his haven of refuge? He would marry her at once, and take her away, out of the fœtid artificial air of Petersburg, out of the network of personal envy and political stratagem, to those wide, far-reaching estates on the Balkan frontier, and there they would be free and untrammelled, removed from the narrow suspicions and cruel dogmatism of the Court.
And so planning, hoping, believing, Vladimir Mellikoff turned his face towards Petersburg. He lingered on his homeward journey, hoping against hope at each halt to receive more pacific communications from the Chancellerie; and thus when at last he reached the Russian capital, the first month of the long Muscovite winter was already on the wane. He drove to his lonely palace on the Neva, where the dark windows and barred doors afforded but a sorry welcome.
It was a dreary home-coming, and Vladimir, as he crossed the threshold and met the cold, damp atmosphere of long-closed and disused rooms, shrank back shuddering. Unsuperstitious though he was, he could not throw off the chill of apprehension which seized him, as he entered the echoing corridor and passed on to a small drawing-room, that served as study and office.
A fire smouldered in the stove, and the curtains were closely drawn, giving a less cheerless aspect to the apartment. A couple of candles in tall silver sticks were lighted on the chimney shelf, and beneath them were arranged the numerous notes and cards of invitation that had accumulated during his absence. Somewhat apart from these lay a small sealed envelope, addressed in a clear, flowing hand.
Vladimir glanced over the notes and cards, holding in his hand the while the huge ticket, covered with a Noah's Ark gallery, by which the Countess Vera had invited her friends to her unique bal costumé. With a half smile on his lips, called out by the little Countess's vagaries, Vladimir caught sight of the note lying apart by itself, and in a moment his heart told him who was the sender.
"It is from Olga," he murmured passionately, as he took it up and touched it with his lips. "It is from Olga; it is my welcome home."
Then he broke the seal and drew forth the thick, creamy paper; as he did so a slight, subtle perfume floated across the air.
It was a short letter; brief almost to cruelty. But when one deals a death-blow, it is as well to strike swift and sure.
Vladimir read the words through, again and again, without comprehension, without understanding; and then, suddenly, as their meaning struck him, one low and terrible cry burst from him; he flung himself down on his knees, burying his face in his hands. The letter floated slowly from his grasp and fell noiselessly upon the carpet, the distinct careful penmanship plainly visible in the candlelight.