The chamber was one that had no exit save the door by which they had entered. As in the other apartment every window had been walled up. A plain camp bed in the middle showed that the place had been used as a sleeping-chamber. The rest of the furniture was of the simplest kind, quite in keeping with the bed.
“You are treading,” said the Duchess, solemnly, “where, after to-morrow, the foot of man will never tread again.”
“Then this is——?”
“The death-chamber of the Czar Paul.”
Then did Wilfrid remember that it is a usage in the Russian Court on the death of a Czar to wall in the windows and to seal the doors of his private apartments, a process which, if repeatedly carried on, must in course of time expel the living Czar from the palace of his ancestors.
“To-morrow will be too late,” had been Alexis’ argument for inducing Wilfrid to accompany him. A true remark, if applied to the seeing of this chamber, but wherein lay the necessity for his seeing it?
“Yes, Paul died here,” said the Duchess. “But why do I say ‘died?’ That is not the word. Died! They do well to shut the light from this room! Let there be perpetual darkness; it will be a fitting symbol of—of the work done here. If these walls could speak!”
She was silent for a moment, and then turning to Wilfrid with eyes that spoke of an inward horror, she said,
“Do you know how Paul died?”
“Your words lead me to suspect the official account that he died of apoplexy?”