In it she said: "I have just got hold of some French papers, and I see that poor woman you told me about, has just died in Petersburg, and the real story has now come out.
"It seems that it was suicide after all, so your vision was quite true!
"She had received large sums in advance for commissions from some of the Russian nobility, and had either spent or speculated with them. That was why she had to invent the story of an embezzling manager, to cover her own shortcomings. But the truth was leaking out in spite of her endeavours, and she made up her mind to commit suicide rather than face the horrors of a Russian prison. The paper goes on to say that she chose a most terrible death, little realising what the torture would be. It seems that she waited till the middle of the night you described, and then covered her whole body with oil, and set fire to it! This accounts, of course, for the horrible shrieks you heard. In her awful agony she seized a knife—that she had either secreted or found in her room—rushed out into the passage in a blaze, and when the musjig tried to stop her, she ran from him, and attempted to stab herself as she made her way up the stairs. All this you seem to have seen accurately; also the fact that the musjig pursued her and succeeded in wrenching the knife from her hands before she had injured herself with it. The paper mentions that a Russian gentleman had gone to the rescue when he heard the shrieks, but this was before she had got hold of the knife, and it was the musjig alone who saved her, in the end, from immediate death."
During this Russian visit we had gone down to Moscow from Petersburg, and here again a curious adventure befell me.
It was, as I have said, in the height of the summer, and one was thankful to have a large, handsome room, with three windows looking over the square, and the famous Kremlin Palace in the distance. My room was divided into two unequal parts, separated from each other by a door which was, during the hot season, thrown wide open and fastened back securely. Between this door and the one opening into the outer corridor the washing apparatus stood, and also a wardrobe of white painted deal, with a very poor lock to it, as I discovered later.
On retiring to rest the first night, I locked the outer door, undressed in this ante-room, and finally hung up my gown in the wardrobe I have mentioned. Then, after looking out of the windows on the fast diminishing crowd below in the square, I went to bed, feeling quite cheerful, and looking forward to a long night's rest after a journey which had been hot and tiring.
As so often happens, one was probably over-tired, and sleep was not to be wooed by any of the usual methods. In vain I counted sheep getting over a hedge, added a hundred up backward and forward, tried deep breathing, and other little "parlour games." It was absolutely useless. Twelve o'clock struck, then the half hour, and I gathered from the stillness below that the good Moscow citizens had retired to their respective homes. This seemed an added insult! Then one o'clock struck, and after that I lay for a seeming eternity, before two strokes from the clock outside indicated the half hour. Scarcely had the reverberation ceased when I heard cautious sounds in the corridor, which gave me a good fright, and made me regret the silence I had found so irksome. The outer door of my room was quietly being opened, creaking on its hinges in the most ordinary and commonplace way, but evidently opening under a very wary hand. "Then I could not have locked it after all!" And yet I felt so convinced that I had done so! Certainly I had intended to do so on my first night in a strange hotel! The best I could hope was that some other new arrival had mistaken his room, and was returning late, and consequently trying to be as quiet as possible. This flashed through my mind, and brought a moment's comfort. I expected to see a man's head round the open door at the foot of my bed, and to hear a hurried apology and still more hurried retreat. I say a man's head, for the footsteps, though so quiet and cautious, were without doubt a man's footsteps. But several moments passed in horrible suspense. The outer door had creaked on its hinges and opened without a shadow of doubt. Where was the man?
The door had not closed again, so far as I could hear. From my bed I could not command a view of the smaller portion of the room, where, presumably, he must be hidden. There was nothing but the wash-hand stand and the wardrobe there. What could he be doing or waiting for? My comforting supposition of a mistake in the number of his room, made by an innocent guest, could not be stretched wide enough to account for the long pause. Perhaps it was some robber lurking about the passages! He had tried my door gently, and found it open. I had heard the door creak on its hinges in spite of all his care. Now he was doubtless waiting to make sure that this noise had not awakened me before beginning his operations!
This was the only reasonable supposition, and I lay in absolute terror for some minutes, fearing to stir or almost to breathe at such close quarters, and quite incapable of rising and putting an end to my terrible suspense. I longed to hear the next "quarter" strike, but nothing relieved the dead silence in my room and in the streets outside. At long last the quarter to two struck, and something in the friendly tones of the massive clock relieved the tension and gave me courage—the courage of desperation—to strike a match and light my candle before starting on a tour of discovery. The middle door was fastened back, as I had found it when taking possession of the room. In any case, that was not the door which had been opened—the sound came from the outer door. I must find out if anyone were hiding in the little dressing-room; and in any case, I must lock the outer door, which I had felt so certain I had locked on coming up to my room. I passed through the open inner door with fear and trembling. To my relief, the small apartment was apparently empty. The wardrobe stood partly open, but nothing more terrible than my own gown was inside it. Then I made my way to the outer door, which gave on to the corridor, determined to make sure of locking it firmly this time. After all, it must have been a wandering guest, who had discovered his mistake at once, and retreated noiselessly!
I have seldom been more absolutely dumfounded than when I turned the handle of that door, preparatory to locking it, and found that it was securely locked already, just as I had supposed! How could the hinges have creaked then, and whose cautious footsteps had I heard?