The next day the hotel, which was full of guests of various nationalities, was humming with excitement. A man dressed in woman’s clothes had been arrested on the ice the previous night, and was lodged in the fortress, waiting examination. This was the first piece of gossip which came to my ears as I sat, with Jack, taking my breakfast at a small table a little apart from the others. Katy had a violent headache, and could not come down, and I was glad, as she thus escaped the scrutiny of the many eyes turned toward us as the talk flowed on in low tones, but not so low that I did not catch much of it.
The man arrested was Ivan Scholaskie, masquerading as his sister, and a noted nihilist and head of every plot which had been hatched in Russia for the last twenty years, one would suppose, to hear the remarks made in Russian, German and Italian, all of which I understood, but was glad Jack did not, especially when, in lowered tones and gestures, we were indicated as the Americans who had been with Ivan—three of them, they said, and one a young lady, who had fainted and been carried off the ice. Hurrying through my breakfast, I went to Katy, whose face was very white and whose eyes were red with weeping.
“We must do something to save him”, she said, while Jack reëchoed her words.
He was in a very defiant mood, and ready to fight the entire Russian Government, if necessary. But what could we do? I thought of M. Seguin, whose influence was great. But he had once searched for Ivan himself. There could be no help from that quarter, and I sat down by Katy, trying to soothe her, and ascertain why she was so unstrung, and whether it were possible that in her heart there had been born a feeling for Ivan different from what she had felt for Sophie. But she was noncommittal on that point.
“She never seemed quite like a woman,” she said, “and the night we were at her mother’s and the officer was looking for Ivan, something told me he was sitting by me, and I nearly fell off my chair. Then I rallied, and tried to think I was mistaken; but, when she kissed me in the dressing room, I was sure she was a man. No girl ever kissed me like that. Oh—oh!” and she burst into a paroxysm of tears, while Jack walked the room, raging like a young lion, and declaring he’d do something!
There was nothing we could do, except to see the poor mother, and this fell to me. She had heard of the arrest, and was very glad to see me.
“The girl Zaidee came here on her way home,” she said, “knowing I would be very anxious when Sophie did not come. She gave me her account; perhaps yours is different.”
I told her all I could recall, and tried to comfort her. But she shook her head sadly.
“There is no bright spot,” she said, “and I must bear it. They have wanted Ivan for a long time. He is shrewd and eloquent, and makes stirring speeches. I don’t know of anything worse. But, when once they suspect a person, there is little hope, for every act, every movement, is exaggerated. You are kind to come here, but you must not stay. I, too, am a suspect, though Heaven only knows why! When Ivan’s father was banished, he took an oath that he would do what he could to help the nihilists. He was only twenty-one—a rash boy, with his father’s love for secrecy and adventure and hate of the government. He is short for a man, with a fair, smooth face, on which he could never make a beard grow. He was in England at school two years, with his sister Sophie, and conceived the idea there of personating her, which he did to perfection, and he has often eluded the police in that guise. He has been in Paris two years, at the Bon Marché. Sophie is in Paris, too. I wanted to see him, and he wanted to see me. He is a great mother’s boy, and he came, choosing a woman’s dress partly for safety and partly because the excitement pleased him. His own hair is light and rather thin. The hair you saw was a wig, made in Paris, and so natural that it could not be detected. He is very popular, and has many friends. Some met him at the frontier, others at the station here, and they have called on him in greater crowds than I liked. I was always dreading some evil, and now it has come. If he had kept in Sophie’s clothes, the evil might have been averted, but he would go to their meetings in his own dress, and this is the result. The night you were here, and Michel Seguin came, I felt my life strings snap, for I was nearly sure he knew it was Ivan, and refrained from arresting him for your sake. He can be very stern on occasion, but is also kind. He was kind to my husband, and will be to Ivan, if he is sent to Siberia, as is probable. I shall follow him in time, and die there. When I can, I will write you, if you will leave me your address.”
I gave it to her, and asked if there was anything more I could do.