And to the Czar of All the Russias was granted the happiness—at the moment when every arm was turned against him, when the altar itself at which he prayed was undermined, when a whole vast empire was about to crumble to pieces about him—that for the last time, by the rays of the rising sun, with the life-giving warmth of the day-star bathing his brow, he could yield up his soul to Him who gave it with the words "Ah, le beau jour!"—the happiness of having tender hands to close his eyes, and to cross his arms upon his breast.
Then the sick wife's strength broke down entirely, and she sank swooning to the ground. The two physicians, hastening to her, lifted her, and carried her to her apartment. The third man, who had been witness to the dying scene, hastened back to the study to send off the despatch to the Czarina-mother announcing the death of the Czar, giving the messenger instructions to make all speed in order to overtake the courier of the previous night, and, if possible, precede him. After which his next care was to send off a letter to the Grand Duke Constantine, in Warsaw.
At that moment Jakuskin had entered.
Diebitsch hastened on with his writing, his mood that of Russian cynical humor. "What is the Czar doing?" "Sleeping." "Dare I wake him?" "Wake him if you like!"
Or had there been something in Jakuskin's face which betrayed his plans, and was that why the adjutant's utterances had been framed so sarcastically?
The conspirator advanced into the room. At that moment no one else was there. The Czar was alone. Jakuskin saw him whom he had been seeking lying before him—silent, motionless, with eyes closed, his arms folded on his breast.
A mighty man—invulnerable—dead. Jakuskin dared not draw nearer. Before the dead Czar he trembled.
He rushed staggering back into the adjacent room, holding the despatch still in his hand.
"The Czar—" he stammered.