“But that peaceful breathing space had an end too soon. During a toilsome journey through the Crimea, filled with the usual details of business, the deadly fever and ague smote his frame; while, just at the same time, tidings no less deadly reached his heart. The vaguely treasonable projects of the secret societies had ended in a desperate and deliberate plot, of which his own assassination was a leading feature.”
“His assassination!” cried Ivan. “Impossible! They could never have done it.”
“So it seemed,” Henri answered. “For the deed was often purposed, never once attempted. Still the shaft struck home. Many of those who plotted to take his life owed all that made their own precious to his bounty; every one of them had received favours at his hands. ‘But what could I expect? It is a just retribution,’ he cried, unconscious in his deafness that he spoke aloud. ‘Almighty God, let thy judgments fall on me alone, and not on my people!’”
“A just retribution?” Clémence repeated. “How was it possible to him, even for a moment, to imagine that?”
“It could only have been possible to shattered nerves and a mind unstrung by suffering. The remembrance of the dark tragedy that began his reign—the thought of his father’s horrible fate, perhaps soon to be his own—came back upon him in the hours of pain and weakness. Moreover, a stem duty was laid upon him. Before treason such as had been now disclosed to him no monarch on earth could remain passive. The ruler ‘beareth not the sword in vain.’ But to Alexander it was easier to suffer than to strike.
“So he returned to Taganrog with fever in his veins and the bitterness of death in his heart. For some days he struggled on, refusing to yield to his ever increasing malady, and rejecting the severe remedies his physicians pressed upon him. They thought he wished to die; and so it may have been, still I am persuaded he would not have thrust the cup of life aside by any act of his own. He really believed their treatment mistaken. ‘My malady is beyond your skill,’ he said to them; and again to Wylie, ‘Ah, my friend, I think you are deceived as to the nature of my illness; it is my nerves that need a cure.’ Wylie bore witness afterwards that throughout those days, so sad for the watchers, and to the very end, he ‘continued to rest upon Christ as his only hope. His greatest pleasure was to have the Scriptures read to him; and he often requested his attendants to leave him alone, doubtless that he might hold communion with God in prayer.’[86]
“One loving, tireless watcher scarcely quitted him night or day. New strength seemed poured upon the feeble frame and timid spirit of the gentle Elizabeth. Rising almost from her own bed of sickness to watch beside his, yet she never failed, never faltered; even in the most terrible hours of agony no entreaties could win her from his side. And strength was given her to the end. His last word, his last look was for her. She had her reward.”
“Thank God!” murmured Clémence—“thank God!”
“When at last Wylie told him his danger,—‘Then you really believe I am dying?’ he said, looking him earnestly in the face. Wylie assented. ‘The best news I have heard for many years,’ returned he, pressing Wylie’s hand. The Archimandrite Fedotof was summoned to act as his confessor. Their interview was very brief; but the priest said that ‘he had never seen more Christian humility, or a dying man more thoroughly prepared.’ Afterwards, with Elizabeth, he partook for the last time of the memorials of his Saviour’s love. No doubt Christ drew very near him then; for a look of exceeding peace and rest came over his worn, suffering face, and he said to Elizabeth that he had never been so happy in all his life. Summoning the physicians again, he gently told them to do what they pleased, he would no longer object to anything. But their treatment, if ever it would have availed, was worse than useless now. Increased suffering and violent delirium were the result. Still there were intervals of consciousness, in which he thanked those around him for their services, spoke to Elizabeth with the warmest gratitude and affection, and earnestly commended her to the care of his friend Volkonski, entreating him not to leave her until he had brought her to his mother at St. Petersburg.
“Calm returned at length. It was early in the morning. He opened his eyes, fixed them with full recognition on the face of Elizabeth; took her hand, pressed it to his lips and his heart; and then greeted Volkonski, who stood beside him, with a smile. Overjoyed at the recognition, the faithful servant bent down over the hand of his beloved master and tried to kiss it; but Alexander had long ago forbidden him this act of homage as too ceremonious for so dear a friend, and now he drew his hand away with a slight, loving gesture of reproach. The curtains had been pushed aside from a window near the sofa where he lay, and the morning sun was streaming brightly in. ‘Ah, le beau jour!’ he murmured with a look of pleasure. Then looking anxiously and tenderly at Elizabeth, ‘Que vous devez être fatiguée!’ he said. They were his last words, although for another day and night of weakness and suffering life lingered on. The following morning he again knew those around him, pressed once more the hand of Elizabeth, looked at her with expressive eyes full of affection, and tried to speak—but in vain. Then, at last, Christ took his weary servant home.—So you see, my child,” said Henri to the little Alexander as he drew him closer still, “God comforted him.”