Aladdin of London; Or, Lodestar

by Max Pemberton

Alban had never been abroad, and it would have been difficult for him to give any good account of his journey to Warsaw. The swiftly changing scenes, the new countries, the uproar and strife of cities, the glamour of the sea, put upon his ripe imagination so heavy a burden that he lived as one apart, almost as a dreamer who had forgotten how to dream. If he carried an abiding impression it was that of the miracle of travel and the wonders that travel could work. In twenty hours he had almost forgotten the existence of the England he had left. Chains of bondage fell from his willing shoulders. He felt as one released from a prison house to all the freedom of a boundless world.

And so at last he came to the beautiful city of Warsaw and his sterner task began. Here, as in London, that pleasant person Count Sergius Zamoyski reminded him how considerable was the service he could confer, not alone upon his patron but upon the friends of his evil days.

"It has all been a mistake," the Count would say with fine protestation of regret; "my Government arrested that poor old fellow Boriskoff, but it would gladly let him go. To begin with, however, we must have pledges. You know perfectly well that the man is a fanatic and will work a great mischief unless some saner head prevents it. We must find his daughter and see that she promises to hold her tongue concerning our friend at Hampstead. When that is done, we shall pack off the pair to London and they will carry a good round sum in their pockets. Herr Gessner is not the man to deal ungenerously with them—nor with you to whom he may owe so much."

He was a shrewd man of the world, this amiable diplomat, and who can wonder that so simple a youth as Alban Kennedy proved no match for him. Alban honestly believed that he would be helping both Gessner and his old friends, the Boriskoffs, should he discover little Lois' whereabouts and take her back to London. A very natural longing to see her once more added to the excitements of the journey. He would not have been willing to confess this interest, but it prompted him secretly so that he was often reminding himself of the old days when Lois had been his daily companion and their mutual confidences had been their mutual pleasure. Just as a knight-errant of the old time might set out to seek his mistress, so did Alban go to Warsaw determined to succeed. He would find Lois in this whirling wonderland of delight, and, finding her, would return triumphant to their home.

Now, they arrived in Warsaw upon the Thursday evening after the memorable interview at Hampstead; and driving through the crowded streets of that pleasant city, by its squares, its gardens, and its famous Palaces, they descended at last at the door of the Hôtel de France; and there they heard the fateful news which the city itself had discussed all day and would discuss far into the night.

General Trubenoff, the new Dictator, had been shot dead at the gate of the Arsenal that very afternoon, men said, and the Revolutionaries were already armed and abroad. What would happen in the next few hours, heaven and the Deputy Governor alone could tell. Were this not sufficiently significant, the aspect of the great Square itself was menacing enough to awe the imagination even of the least impressionable of travellers. Excited crowds passed and repassed; Cossacks were riding by at the gallop—even the reports of distant rifle shots were to be heard and, from time to time, the screams and curses of those upon whose faces and shoulders the soldiers' whips fell so pitilessly.

In the great hall of the hotel itself pandemonium reigned. Afraid of the streets and of their homes, the wives and daughters of many officials fled hither as to a haven of refuge which would never be suspected. They crowded the passages, the staircases, the reception-rooms. They besieged the officers for news of that which befell without. Their terrified faces remained a striking tribute to the ferocity of their enemies and the reality of the peril.

Let it be said in justice that this majestic spectacle of tragedy found Alban Kennedy well prepared to understand its meaning. Had he told the truth he would have said that the mob orators of Union Street had prepared him for such a state of things as he now beheld. The Cossacks, were they not the Cossacks whom old Paul had called "the enemies of the human race?" The gilt-belarded generals, had he not seen them cast upon the screen in England and there heard their names with curses? Just as they had told him would be the case, so now he had stumbled upon autocracy face to face with its ancient enemy, the people. He saw the brutal Cossacks with their puny horses and their terrible whips parading beneath his balcony and treating all the poor folk with that insolence for which they are famous. He beheld the huddled crowds lifting white faces to the sky and cowering before the relentless lash. Not a whit had the patriot exiles in London exaggerated these things or misrepresented them. Men, and women too, were struck down, their faces ripped by the thongs, their shoulders lacerated before his very eyes. And all this, as he vaguely understood, that freedom might be denied to this nation and justice withheld from her citizens. Truly had he travelled far since he left England a few short days ago.

Sergius Zamoyski had engaged a handsome suite of rooms upon the first floor of the magnificent modern hotel which looks down upon the Aleja Avenue, and to these they went at once upon their arrival. It was something at least to escape from the excited throngs below and to stand apart, alike from the rabble and the soldiers. Nor was the advantage of their situation to be despised; for they had but to step out upon the veranda before their sitting-rooms to command the whole prospect of the avenue, and there, at their will, to be observers of the conflict. To Sergius Zamoyski, familiar with such scenes, Warsaw offered no surprises whatever. To Alban it remained a city of whirlwind, and of human strife and suffering beyond all imagination terrible. He would have been content to remain out there upon that high balcony until the last trooper had ridden from the street and the last bitter cry been raised. The Count's invitation to dinner seemed grotesque in its reversion to commonplace affairs.

"All this is an every-day affair here now," that young man remarked with amazing nonchalance; "since the workmen began to shoot the patrols, the city has had no peace. I see that it interests you very much. You will find it less amusing when you have been in Russia for a month or two. Now let us dress and dine while we can. Those vultures down below will not leave a bone of the carcass if we don't take care."